the Reverend Horton Heat, Royal Crown Revue & Los Straitjackets

All rise!

Like a tent revival at a hiked ticket fee with surcharges; like a sold out Punkabilly version of a Benny Hinn ministry; like a Greasers vs. the Soc’s rumble, the Reverend Horton Heat came rolling into town and gathered the masses together for one holy night of hot-damn rock ‘em sock ‘em rhythm and booze!

The righteous came out of hiding and donned their uniforms of choice: there were the biker gangs and their back-seat beauties; the pompadour wearing, mutton chop sporting rock boys and their flock; the swing kids in sharp suits and shiny shoes; the pugilist muscle heads intent to pummel once the pit is engaged and their gum-chewing side-kick mamas are staring down all the other women; the cool guys and gals just there to snap their fingers and sway to the tunes; the joe-average concert-goer; and me, the lowly rock journalist, who just wanted the scoop and a beer.

Upon arrival, we noticed that the line to get near the bar almost stretched as long as a cattle call Televagelist baptism. The herd was getting restless around the trough and the heat was mounting. The opening band, Los Straightjackets, was giving us a taste of their offering. Donning Mexican wrestling masks and white suits, the quartet delivered a set of surf-fused rock that got the crowd surfing. They look a bit like something from a distant dream, a childhood fantasy come true and with a great soundtrack. Cartoon-like, these boys wailed away in full Ventures-style glory.

The house was packed. Maritime Hall is open for several hundred people and they were all here tonight. Lots of tattoos, lots of couples making out, lots of jeans and sideburns all made me feel as if I stepped into some bizarre time-slip. The next band, Royal Crown Review, is more along the lines of a high class Vegas swing band. A full horn section, dapper lead singer, bull-fiddle and trap kit solos, these boys delivered the goods to the ones that came to twirl their partner and jitterbug amongst the crowded floor.

"Hey, any of you ladies care to dance?" The Royal Crown Review was wailing out on stage, I had to move. They didn’t budge. I stood and looked at them awaiting a response. Nothing. I cheered them with my full red plastic cup and moved on. The band was finishing up; time to check out the reason I was there in the first place.

The rowdies came out during sound check and set up for the Rev. The Hell-fire was brimming with guys in muscle shirts, fueled by hops and yeast and probably the occasional make-out session with some hot potato in a poodle skirt. I stood on the sidelines to watch the revival, and, eventually, the band took the stage.

Dressed in a gray suit with white bow-tie, the Reverend Horton Heat strummed the opening lick from his amazing album Liquor in the Front, and set this urban roadhouse ablaze with fire and brimstone from his holy tabernacle of nasty ditties and fast paced rock ‘n’ roll. Like a drag-racer skidding out on the green, the trio smoked the devoted and the house was definitely in their grip. With a fine selection from all the albums — even the newest one, Spend a Night in the Box, which is his swingiest offering and reason for the tour — The Rev. didn’t stop, leading us all down his twisted version of musical dead-man’s curve.

Highlights of the evening included The Reverend’s upright bass player, Jimbo, doing a solo on top of his axe with The Reverend underneath as if to be crushed by the two. After an hour and a half of solid punkabilly, the Reverend Horton Heat said his good-night and exited, stage left. The audience had seen the light and was prepared to go back to their lives in perfect syncopation with the rules the scene demands. I ended up hanging out for a bit talking about The Muppet Movie with some random backstage groupie waiting for The Rev to come and save her soul.

The church was closed, but the followers stuck around to try and eat of his body and drink of his blood. Whatever. It was definitely a night to remember, though. I believe!

- Mark Whittaker

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