Jeff McCord on the month’s new releases
Clifford Antone (1949-2006)
The legendary Austin club owner, who died May 23, helped launch many a Texas musician, from Stevie Ray Vaughan to Charlie Sexton. ZZ Top’s Billy Gibbons remembers the larger-than-life music impresario.
One evening, at the club’s third location, on Guadalupe, Buddy Guy had just finished a set, and I happened to be in Clifford’s office. Buddy Guy came in to collect his paycheck. Clifford was in his famous dark suit, white shirt with the collar open, and he was counting out a stack of $100 bills. Buddy Guy said, “Clifford, I gotta go. We gotta make another show.” Clifford smiled, gestured to a chair, and said, “Sit down. We’ll get to it in a moment.” And he kept thumbing through this stack of hundreds. And Buddy Guy kinda glanced at me, and he glanced around the room, and once again he prompted Clifford to get on with it: “Let me have my money!” And Clifford just kept thumbing through this stack of cash. Buddy Guy started kinda chuckling. He leaned over and gave me the elbow and said, “Looka there, Clifford thinks he’s a gangster.” Clifford looks up and he says, “Yeah, I guess that’s part of my image. Here’s your money. It was a great show. You’re welcome back anytime.”
AS TOLD TO JOHN MORTHLAND
For more Clifford Antone stories, go to texasmonthly.com/cliffordantone.
Los Lonely Boys
Or/Epic
The multiplatinum success of their debut made San Angelo’s LOS LONELY BOYS one of Texas’s biggest musical exports. Small wonder. The Garza brothers—Henry, Ringo, and JoJo—oozed charisma and played a melodic, amped-up brand of rock and roll. There are a few embellishments sprinkled about—keyboards, percussion, Willie Nelson—but the formula remains unaltered for their follow-up, SACRED (Or/Epic). Sibling harmonies lock in, and Henry’s guitar histrionics rival favorite state son Stevie Ray Vaughan’s. Their music, particularly when it pulls in Latin influences, blisters. Yet they have absolutely nothing new to say. Sure, there’s plenty to admire: Melodies sparkle, and “Oye Mamacita” and “I Never Met a Woman” are as good as anything they’ve done. But the blueprints seem worn. Clichés are bandied about like trophies. “I don’t care what you say, I’m gonna do it my way,” the Garzas sing, as if for the first time. Elsewhere, they “smell the roses” and, living up to their moniker, proclaim themselves “lost and lonely” at least twice (not including the song “My Loneliness”). As for the “I ain’t got much” line, it’s a bit late for that one, isn’t it?
Carrie Rodriguez
Back Porch
Here’s a surprise. Austin’s CARRIE RODRIGUEZ, who never set out to be a singer, has crafted a charming, almost meditative solo debut. Rodriguez initially studied classical violin at Oberlin and Berklee and on occasion sat in with her songwriter dad (David Rodriguez). Then New Yorker Chip Taylor (best known for penning the impossibly disparate hits “Wild Thing” and “Angel of the Morning”) invited Rodriguez to back him, soon coaxing her to sing and even collaborate. Their early work suffered from Taylor’s lackluster tunes, but their most recent album, 2005’s Red Dog Tracks, featuring string luminary Bill Frisell, was a quantum leap up. Frisell is back forSEVEN ANGELS ON A BICYCLE (Back Porch), but instead of the aw-shucks demeanor of her previous work with Taylor, Rodriguez opts for a more soulful approach. The songs, all originals, show unexpected depth and are smartly and simply told. Rodriguez puts on the up-tempos (“50’s French Movie,” “I Don’t Wanna Play House Anymore”) with sass and a smirk, while on the slower numbers (the title track, “Waterbound,” “Big Kiss”), she channels a Texas version of Sandy Denny that draws you in deep.
Scott H. Biram
Bloodshot Records
Is Scott H. Biram for real? His death-rattle blues crash around like a cat trapped in a squirrel cage; this self-proclaimed “dirty old one-man band” has made enough ruckus to send more than one listener fleeing toward the exit. Rough and ornery, the Austin singer, with his drooping mustache and ever-present gimme cap, does all he can to cultivate a kind of crazed menace, the sort of guy you don’t get in line next to at Wal-Mart. After a near-fatal head-on encounter with a speeding truck, Biram actually took to the stage in multiple casts and with an IV hanging from his arm. His 2005 live album spit out Captain Beefheart–ish blues like raw meat through a fan. One would hesitate to say he’s mellowed since, but (Bloodshot) does feature some accompaniment (all Biram) and even a choir (you guessed it). Okay, so he’s antisocial, but he does take a stab at real arrangements, and a few songs, such as “Lost Case of Being Found” and “Only Jesus,” do resonate. Biram won’t bring you down low to move you, à la Charley Patton, but he’s not quite a Mojo Nixon goofball either. Scary as it seems, this guy might actually be serious.
