the Mother Hips & Ten Pound Brown

One reason I respect the Mother Hips: Their road experience has given them the strength to perform well even when their reception is just lukewarm. As the Hips took the stage Wednesday at the Brick Works, singer / guitarist Tim Bluhm remarked bemusedly, "It looks like Duluth, Minnesota out here tonight, or Memphis, Tennessee, or Buffalo, New York." And indeed the crowd was hardly the kind of turnout the band usually gets in Chico.

Ever up for a challenge, the Hips delivered a solid set of 29 songs culled mostly from their four albums, but including a couple of Neil Young tunes and the seemingly requisite Merle Haggard tribute ("Mama Tried," "Working Man" and, more recently, "The Fugitive").

Another reason I respect the Mother Hips: They have enough material that some decent songs actually get cycled through, and then sit on the shelf for a while before they dust them off for a run on the playlist. Such a song is "Smoke," which they played both Wednesday and the last time they were in town. Its giddy transcendence features a tilting reel implying impending catastrophe similar to the opening riff of "Tehachapi Bloodline" from Part Timer Goes Full. Another number the Hips have played a lot in their past few visits to Chico is the frustrating "3rd Floor Story," a song whose loping rhythm eggs on its tale of the exasperation of being dicked around by a record label. (For those not in the know, the Hips had laid down a deal with American after their first release, but were booted from the label when it almost folded.) "3^rd Floor" makes you want to slowly grind your hips in a figure eight as you lick the sweat from your own brow and your tongue caresses the horns sprouting from your pate.

Other highlights of the Hips' show were "Kansas City Southbound," a wistful, countrified rock song, and one of my favorites, "Song in a Can"—though John Hofer didn't seem to be giving the cow bell its usual licking on that one. "Song in a Can" is one of those ingratiating songs that Tim Bluhm seems to have a knack for, whose sheer So Cal golden boy charm almost never fails to reach the crowd.

The Hips finished off their set with the opulent, hymn-like "Picture of Him," a song about sheep and pastures that reminds me of the poppy fields in The Wizard of Oz.

Ten Pound Brown opened things up, broadcasting their brand of Seattle-influenced sound. I only caught their last few songs, and those had me thinking of Eddie Vedder and Pearl Jam and the sonic explosion of the early 1990's in the Pacific Northwest. I really dug their taste in Led Zeppelin covers, though (they topped off their set with "Hot Dog"), but I found myself in agreement with the guy next to me, a Chico transplant to Seattle, who wished for "a little more forward lean" in TPB's set.

I'm sure the Hips knew they were in Chico, CA, by the end of the night. Jimmy Faye had hopped on stage to sing "Whiskey River" with them, many local yokels were kicking it out in the street after the show, and the unmistakable first chill of fall was riding the clear night air, chasing the herbal smoke up to heaven.

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