Asskickers

This particular evening was prefaced by a rather bold statement on behalf of Synthesis heavy-hitter Max Sidman.
"Summer just isn't summer until I see the Asskickers on the patio of LaSalle's and The Imps at a backyard party." A pretty heavy proclamation, indeed.
As I stood in the outside enclosure of LaSalle's, beckoned by those reverberating words, I couldn't help but try and dissect the complications contained therein. How exactly does this show signify the onset of summer?
From 7:00 PM till about 9:00 PM, I bore witness to a set of shit-kicking, scorching country punk 'n' roll, attempting to pin down the meaning of summer. Was the season contained in beautiful girls sweating in short skirts? Was it a mere measure of temperature? Or, was it a declaration purely seated in the state of mind?
For the uninitiated, the Asskickers are a five-piece band comprised of stalwart members of the local Chico music scene. Their songs are rooted in the traditions of country, a musical genre that unfortunately still suffers the pervading stench of the early '90s, Garth Brooks pop-rock infestation. Yet the Asskickers' direction takes the dusty path of old school country, well represented by the likes of Johnny Cash and Hank Williams Sr. In addition to the heartbreak and whisky-fueled contempt of country, the Asskickers infuse the energy of old school punk rock, a la the Ramones. Add to this the pure unadulterated rock 'n' roll stigma of classic, blues-based rock bands like AC/DC, and the Asskickers come to life in a frenzy of well played guitar riffage and beer-addled, tongue-in-cheek lyrical humor. Pop cultural topics including (but not limited to) cocaine, booze, aliens, telemarketing and sexual depravity highlight the band's songs, giving them a flash of the now amidst the aura of yesteryear.
In so many words, the Asskickers tore it up. Playing to the crowd's request, favorites such as "Cocaine Keeps Me Regular" and "Home on the Range" punctuated a set of beautifully performed tunes. And needless to say, the crowd ate it up. Though their songs' lyrical brilliance provided the attention-grabbing barbed hooks, lead guitarist Scott Pressman stole the show with his classic, perfect solos and unassuming, yet essentially subdued stage demeanor.
The show was an excellent excursion into a Chicoan early evening, but Max Sidman's words still lingered in my ears. The night was not hot, the girls were still clad in blue jeans, as opposed to flowing skirts, and summer still seemed weeks away. I even went as far as asking the Asskickers' frontman Bob Howard if he felt like it was summer yet. The answer was a decided "not really." Perhaps it's a matter of seeing The Imps in an inebriated backyard party. As well, the absence of muggy weather may have something to do with it. Regardless, although the night didn't quite encompass the official kick-off of summer, it sure as hell wasn't one to miss. If you did, 'sorry 'bout yo' luck.'

- Maurice S. Teilmann
- Photo by Alyssa Starkey

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