Gypsies Now - Reviews

Rock That Still Gets Power
From Its Rural Roots

By JON PARELES, The New York Times
April 12, 1995, Wednesday, Late Edition - Final

Rock songs used to twang all the time, and every bent note was a link to rock's country-and-blues pedigree. That was decades ago, before rock absorbed Tin Pan Alley pop and British music-hall bounce, before power chords and punk and hip-hop. Now, the old twang is just an option, but it still carries connotations of down-home stability, Southern roots, sincerity and boozy good times.

Country music still uses the twang, of course, though country's current hit makers have as much in common with the 1970's country rock of the Eagles and Linda Ronstadt as they do with Hank Williams or Kitty Wells. And some rock bands use the twang, too, including the three that headlined at Tramps over the weekend: Jason and the Scorchers and the Beat Farmers on Friday night, the Jayhawks on Saturday night. For them, there's still friction between the traditionalism of country and the license of rock, and the friction makes sparks.

The boundary between country and country-rock has grown fuzzier, but it hasn't disappeared. Country depends on restraint and craftsmanship within genre limits. Rock is looser and sloppier, with more room for wild-eyed individualism and unbridled passion. The country-rockers are choosy about their borrowings, holding on to the twang and the links to rural America, but bending the musical rules and the content restrictions. Mark Olson and Gary Louris of the Jayhawks write songs about private, ambiguous uncertainties; Jason and the Scorchers juxtapose honky-tonk verities with allegories of the Southland, while the Beat Farmers knock out rowdy bar boasts with a few earnest songs on the side.

The Scorchers and the Beat Farmers share one wing of country-rock, sometimes
called cowpunk or punk abilly. They are contemporaries; Jason and the Scorchers
got started in Nashville in 1981, the Beat Farmers in San Diego in 1983, both
galvanized by the first wave of punk-rock. The Beat Farmers have played steadily
ever since; Jason and the Scorchers disbanded five years ago, then reunited to
make a new album, "A Blazing Grace" (Mammoth).

At Tramps, the Scorchers told the cowpunk story with their wardrobe. Jason Ringenberg wore a kind of frock coat with glitter and fringe -- part preacher, part Grand Ole Opry -- while the Scorchers' guitarist, Warner E. Hodges, was a hard rocker in a black T-shirt, shoulder-length hair, stubble and tattoos. Mr. Ringenberg, tall and gangly, jittered around the stage like a startled ostrich, with the voice of a wounded, surly rocker rather than a taut country croon. Mr. Hodges, between hard-rock chords and speedy, triplet-happy rockabilly runs, grinned and flung his guitar around his shoulder on its strap.

Their music used the guitar power of hard rock to supercharge three-chord twangers with a jubilant roar; the band sounds as scrappy as it did a decade ago. Mr. Ringenberg sang about "200 Proof Lovin' " and about romances that crashed and burned, but he also showed that he had held on to one thing that defines country music: a sense of sin. In "Hell's Gates," he denounced "30 years of slow decline" and insisted, "You better pray to God to watch for you." And in the band's finale, its fuel-injected version of Leon Payne's "Lost Highway," a hit for Hank Williams, he warned against following "the road of sin."

The Beat Farmers have a sense of sin, too, and they're all for it. A good part of their repertory parodies country drinking songs, beefing them up with a bigger beat and ruder lyrics while maintaining the twang. Country Dick Montana, the band's drummer, regularly stepped forward to sing -- in a Waylon Jennings-Johnny Cash baritone growl -- tunes like "Baby's Liquored Up" and "Are You Drinkin' With Me, Jesus?" At one point, he also lay on his back, put a beer bottle between his feet, and poured it into his mouth, more or less. The band's two guitarists, Jerry Raney and Joey Harris, sang less jokey material, including Neil Young's "Powderfinger," which the band turned into jaunty roadhouse rock: good-time music that once in a while recognizes a world outside the barroom.

When the Jayhawks first emerged from Minneapolis, they were singing wistful
country-rock. They're still wistful, but their music has moved from an imagined South to the California of Neil Young and the Grateful Dead, along with touches of the Band. The band's music is infused with Americana, from twangy guitar to gospel piano to Crazy Horse's steady marches. But most of the songs are about loneliness; "Couldn't you stick around for the ride?," the singers beg in "Nothing Left to Borrow." The narrators are cut off from other people, without any broader community to depend on.

Mr. Olson and Mr. Louris, on guitars, sing with two kinds of nasal insistence, softened by the harmonies of Karen Grotberg, on keyboards, and while the band is solid, few of its songs rise above their obvious sources, and few have distinctive melodies. The music survives on the good will built up by its forebears: the continuity of the twang.


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News Meet The Scorchers Learn Back to Reviews > Look		Rock That Still Gets Power From Its Rural Roots By JON PARELES, The New York Times April 12, 1995, Wednesday, Late Edition - Final Copyright 1995-2004 The New York Times Company Rock songs used to twang all the time, and every bent note was a link to rock's country-and-blues pedigree. That was decades ago, before rock absorbed Tin Pan Alley pop and British music-hall bounce, before power chords and punk and hip-hop. Now, the old twang is just an option, but it still carries connotations of down-home stability, Southern roots, sincerity and boozy good times. Country music still uses the twang, of course, though country's current hit makers have as much in common with the 1970's country rock of the Eagles and Linda Ronstadt as they do with Hank Williams or Kitty Wells. And some rock bands use the twang, too, including the three that headlined at Tramps over the weekend: Jason and the Scorchers and the Beat Farmers on Friday night, the Jayhawks on Saturday night. For them, there's still friction between the traditionalism of country and the license of rock, and the friction makes sparks. The boundary between country and country-rock has grown fuzzier, but it hasn't disappeared. Country depends on restraint and craftsmanship within genre limits. Rock is looser and sloppier, with more room for wild-eyed individualism and unbridled passion. The country-rockers are choosy about their borrowings, holding on to the twang and the links to rural America, but bending the musical rules and the content restrictions. Mark Olson and Gary Louris of the Jayhawks write songs about private, ambiguous uncertainties; Jason and the Scorchers juxtapose honky-tonk verities with allegories of the Southland, while the Beat Farmers knock out rowdy bar boasts with a few earnest songs on the side. The Scorchers and the Beat Farmers share one wing of country-rock, sometimes called cowpunk or punk abilly. They are contemporaries; Jason and the Scorchers got started in Nashville in 1981, the Beat Farmers in San Diego in 1983, both galvanized by the first wave of punk-rock. The Beat Farmers have played steadily ever since; Jason and the Scorchers disbanded five years ago, then reunited to make a new album, "A Blazing Grace" (Mammoth). At Tramps, the Scorchers told the cowpunk story with their wardrobe. Jason Ringenberg wore a kind of frock coat with glitter and fringe -- part preacher, part Grand Ole Opry -- while the Scorchers' guitarist, Warner E. Hodges, was a hard rocker in a black T-shirt, shoulder-length hair, stubble and tattoos. Mr. Ringenberg, tall and gangly, jittered around the stage like a startled ostrich, with the voice of a wounded, surly rocker rather than a taut country croon. Mr. Hodges, between hard-rock chords and speedy, triplet-happy rockabilly runs, grinned and flung his guitar around his shoulder on its strap. Their music used the guitar power of hard rock to supercharge three-chord twangers with a jubilant roar; the band sounds as scrappy as it did a decade ago. Mr. Ringenberg sang about "200 Proof Lovin' " and about romances that crashed and burned, but he also showed that he had held on to one thing that defines country music: a sense of sin. In "Hell's Gates," he denounced "30 years of slow decline" and insisted, "You better pray to God to watch for you." And in the band's finale, its fuel-injected version of Leon Payne's "Lost Highway," a hit for Hank Williams, he warned against following "the road of sin." The Beat Farmers have a sense of sin, too, and they're all for it. A good part of their repertory parodies country drinking songs, beefing them up with a bigger beat and ruder lyrics while maintaining the twang. Country Dick Montana, the band's drummer, regularly stepped forward to sing -- in a Waylon Jennings-Johnny Cash baritone growl -- tunes like "Baby's Liquored Up" and "Are You Drinkin' With Me, Jesus?" At one point, he also lay on his back, put a beer bottle between his feet, and poured it into his mouth, more or less. The band's two guitarists, Jerry Raney and Joey Harris, sang less jokey material, including Neil Young's "Powderfinger," which the band turned into jaunty roadhouse rock: good-time music that once in a while recognizes a world outside the barroom. When the Jayhawks first emerged from Minneapolis, they were singing wistful country-rock. They're still wistful, but their music has moved from an imagined South to the California of Neil Young and the Grateful Dead, along with touches of the Band. The band's music is infused with Americana, from twangy guitar to gospel piano to Crazy Horse's steady marches. But most of the songs are about loneliness; "Couldn't you stick around for the ride?," the singers beg in "Nothing Left to Borrow." The narrators are cut off from other people, without any broader community to depend on. Mr. Olson and Mr. Louris, on guitars, sing with two kinds of nasal insistence, softened by the harmonies of Karen Grotberg, on keyboards, and while the band is solid, few of its songs rise above their obvious sources, and few have distinctive melodies. The music survives on the good will built up by its forebears: the continuity of the twang. © 1995-2004 — The New York Times — All Rights Reserved

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