The Shankers

The Shankers are one of those outfits that has mystified me for a long while — ever since I first saw them play in an uptown rock bar and then later at a punk rock house party. Their music is old-time rock ‘n’ roll and so, maybe because of the upright bass, they are often lumped in with the “rockabilly” resurgence. The label doesn't do them justice, as simplicity aside, the Shankers are not so easily quantified and categorized. Hence tonight, I am on a mission to figure out just what it is that makes the Shankers so damned enjoyable. I decide to work like a distiller who reverse-engineers a perfume in order to arrive at the ingredients and proportions that make up the formula.

Take one part electric guitar — Johnny Shanker’s playing is frenetic and intense. He shakes as if the electricity flowing though the guitar to the amplifier were also flowing through his body. I suppose in a way it is because Johnny is certainly possessed by the music. He has an encyclopedic knowledge of songs that span genres and generations; in fact the entire band does. As we converse on a smoky Sunday afternoon in The Shankers’ backyard, the three members reel off songs and bands, not in any effort to impress, but because they are all just geeked to be talking about music. The band has recently acquired an album by the Dixie Cups with the classic song “Going to the Chapel” on it. Then the B-52s come up and we talk about the weirdoes that inevitably sprout from the squarest parts of the countries — the way handfuls of freaks will join together, maybe in some sort of primal instinct, to gather and protect one another — to strike out at a world of intolerant aliens. We suck down cold Tecates while we talk, and Johnny and Kerra's beautiful bright-eyed daughter Caldonia giggles and swims in a plastic wading pool.

Add one part upright bass — Kerra Shanker has been taking lessons from longtime Chico bass legend Christine LaPado. We talk about sound waves and how with bass and with music in general you can literally feel what's happening. Those sound waves that the bass creates are traveling through the air, vibrating the tiny filaments in the eardrum, but also shaking the intestines and rattling the bones. Johnny gets up and chases a loose dog out of the yard. The band tells me they have a “bucket-load” of new material, but a recent attempt at recording was thwarted when one of Kerra's bass strings snapped. Kerra explains to me that rarely happens — that upright bass strings can remain intact for years on end, even decades before they need to be changed. They raced around town looking for a spare set of strings to no avail.

“Where do you get upright bass strings?” I ask. Both Kerra and Christina reply in unison “Online.” I should have known. Everything is available online these days.

Add one part drums — Christina, aka Ms. Zombie Vixen Shanker, the newest member of the Shanker family. Christina started out as a Spanker (a side project that formed while the Shankers were auditioning drummers) but then the Spankers became the Shankers and Christina was the last drummer standing, literally (she plays standing up on a pared-down three-piece kit). Her primitive tom-driven beats fit perfectly with the Shankers’ minimalist voodoo rock ‘n’ roll sound. Christina talks about ancient Sumeria and modern mathematics and we discuss the power triangle, which is the formation in which the Shankers perform. It is a simple, potent arrangement.

The Shankers have just gotten back from a day-long Redding ordeal that featured a stint on the huge stage at the Redding Convention Center; Willie Nelson had just performed their a few nights before.



“I could still smell him,” Johnny says to me with a sly grin, but Kerra adds, “that could've been the sound man. He smelled kind of funny.”

It was the biggest stage the Shankers had ever played on and all three members agreed the entire band and all their gear could have fit on the drum riser that was offered to, but refused by Christina. Instead they performed in their traditional power triangle, playing relatively close together and leaning on the stability and support of the classic geometrical form.

Three parts vocals — all three members of the band sing, though Christina does so without the benefit of a microphone. Kerra and Johnny trade off lead vocals and they both write the band's material. This is a recent development for Kerra, whose come up with gems including “Poison,” a song about women poisoning men, and another called “I Looked” that celebrates voyeuristic taboos — old man wiener, fucked-up car accidents, watching people fucking, looking in the mirror.

“Johnny added that last one,” Kerra explains.

Though I may have diagrammed the ingredients here, it still doesn't add up to the captivating sounds that come from this outfit. I look to the bandleader for insight. Johnny comes up with a phrase that sums up a portion of his songwriting philosophy:

“Shit’s fucked up, but that's alright,” he says. It resonates like a post-modern Buddhist mantra. Repeat it over and over again while you sit in the lotus position and stare at the static on the television set. The song “She Shakes It” is about “something rad.” Simple truths. Beautifully simple truths.



Later, after Christina has gone home and Kerra is in the house with Caldonia watching Mars Attacks, Johnny and I sit together in a leaning wooden garage that serves as a makeshift lounge. We strum songs on a battered Epiphone acoustic guitar. I listen to a handful of new tunes that Johnny has just written — so new that he follows the words from a notebook — and I start to understand. He sings softly in a gentle, cracking voice; a voice filled with sensitivity and authenticity. The lyrics are wonderful, strange stories. As I follow them, in my mind that phrase maintains a steady back-beat... shits fucked up, but that's alright, shits fucked up, but that's alright, shits fucked up, but that's alright...

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