26 February 2007

Revival



There are moments when you forget how to feel. Life becomes mundane. Conversation tastes gray. Then you go see a guy, on a stage, wearing a black leather jacket, unkempt hair. He's playing a guitar, singing, stomping his feet. Violently. And before you can say Steve Stevers, a torrential kaleidoscope of audible color baptizes your wicked soul and sets you merry-fucking free.

East Nashville's Grandfather of Rock awoke the crowd at Mercy Lounge Sunday night with a barrage of amplified acoustic guitar, electronic footpad drum triggers, a tambourine, and a boom box blaring hefty Wu Tang beats between songs. Chet Weise has been intimidating hipster indie suckers and bringing the ruckus for many years now. Do some homework you lazy bastards:

1. Quadrajets
myspace allmusic

2. Immortal Lee County Killers
myspace allmusic













Play till you bleed. Play it from the depths of your soul. Play on Playa.

An all star cast was on hand to see "the Cheetah" do his deed. Mark "Porkchop" Holder, Dean Jackson, and Mike Raber to name a few. If you don't know who they are, you need to. Ask your mother. (Dean is not online yet, he's been working on putting together a much anticipated album. As soon as I know more so will you. He's played a few tracks for me at his home studio. Very impressive. David Gray. Except 100 times better than David Gray.)

Mark comes to East Nashville by way of Chattanooga, TN and The Black Diamond Heavies. He's gone solo and is making some amazing roots blues music. BDH is still rocking minus Mark (but we're all hoping for a reunion show at 3 Crow Bar.)

Mike Raber's reputation should precede him. However, if you're a commie bastard and don't know who he is then go to Springwater on a Saturday night where he'll serve you a nice warm glass of shut the hell up. He's been booking bands and tending bar there for the last 3 years. Some might also know him as the lead singer of now defunct On Command, Nashville's last real hardcore band. Rumor is there's a reunion show in late March. Fuck yeah.

Now go flee like roaches running from light. Foolish arthropods.

*photos courtesy Keenan Popwell

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