Reverend Horton Heat Concert Review

Reverend Horton Heat, Lunachicks, Reacharound

The Palace in San Francisco, September 9, 1996
By Todd From February issue of Flipside (#105)

Ever notice that the head of a standup bass looks like a pompadour? Pissy as I parked the Four Cylinders of Fury (Ford Courier) five blocks away from the Palace, my mood didn't improve as the outside security goon told me I couldn't bring in my chain wallet as I watched a guy -- who wasn't limping -- walk by with a cane. I could either throw out my wallet or walk back to my car. I was sent back a secoind time by another expressionless goon -- just doing his job -- due to my retractable keys. Fear of strangulation. Another guy passed with a cane in the arms of a woman with a 4", pearl-headed stick pin in her hair. Third time I was chastised for totiong a camera. I said to Romgar: "Grog got pass. Me work for magazine." Apparently he didn't fully believe or understand me and held my arm as I waited for my pass as I stood in line. Like a first date it was. His meat hooking my forearm, staring straight ahead. No ear nibbles. My photo pass was with my tickets. "Don't let it happen again." he said cryptically as he let me go. Inside, I saw Reacharound's last three songs. Not bad but the Reacharound's last three songs. Not bad but the fumes of my bad mood muddued my analyitic skills like gasoline on cheesecake: tastes bad no matter how it's sliced. I settled down and enjoyed the tattoo plentiful and breast-proud crowd.

The evening started in earnest with a cartoon hybrid of Josie and the Pussy Cats getting hit by a dump truck: the Lunachicks. Trashy, sexy, powerful. Aurally, I can understand the excitement of Dino, GG Alin's drummer. He would spontaneously masturbate at the mere mention of these ladies. Whereas Dino pulls the pud, I clapped, hooted, and hollered. I liked it best when the three of them sang together for a fuller, more intimidating sound and was culled by the instrumental "Donut."

The Reverend Horton Heat makes me feel good. I feel like I'm in a cartoon, like Quickdraw McGraw: everything becomes soft and easy; all the bullets hit their targets. The Rev, needs more compliments as much as Bill Gates needs another buck fifty. My only peice of advice for those who haven't seen them live and ar so-so with their on-the-rack output: see them in the flesh. Although the albums are excellent (haven't yet heard Martini Time), and stand on their own, I don't think any producer has yet caught the essence of the Rev. and spread it on the shiny discs without a little loss in the translation. You see, I don't know how Jimbo, Scott, and the Rev. can wear pants. let alone walk. Their nut sakcs are huge. And live... well.. live is where it all hangs out. See the. If you're dissappointed, go hiome and listen to your Tiffany and Bush records, pussy, because you've got no soul, you're a robot, worse than a goon bouncer.

Graciously sent by, transcribed by 'thew'Matt Wetzler (