As I drunkenly slumped across the crowded parking lot, I immediately smelled it... the distinct infectious aroma of cheap, stale supermarket perfume seductively intermingling with thick lumbering layers of cigarette smoke and sweet, tantalizing wafts of perfectly fermented barley-brewed beverages. Ah, I knew it was gonna be yet another sottish night of loud'n'lively rock'n'roll decadence at Texas Blues, and I had every sincere intention of picklin' my liver, plasterin' my senses, and heapin' insurmountable abuse upon my rapidly failing eardrums. I was soon not to be disappointed in the very least.
After several beers and numerous repeated visits to the lavatory to drain my main vein, I settled into a seat reasonably close to the stage just as The Unfortunate Sons proceeded to cacophonously careen all over the fuckin' place. Although they'd been on a self-imposed six-month hiatus and this was their first public performance in all of that time, ya would've never guessed as much, 'cause they sonically tore the crowd a new asshole in mere seconds flat. These raucously obnoxious sons of misfortune chaotically blasted a sloppy, straight-ahead set of punkrock belligerence as loud, boisterous, and rowdy as a horseshoe-toss in Hell (with ear-manglin' renditions of Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On" and the Ramones' "Pet Cemetery"). An explosive killer-cool display of audial damage at its most catastrophic... welcome back, boys!
Next, Mala Vista turbulently roared across the stage and feverishly plunged headfirst into a musical maelstrom of disorder, defiance, and disruption. Pure gut-pummeling punkrock brawn! During their fiery unrelenting performance, the chairs went a-scattering to the side and a huge sweaty array of bodies jubilantly jumped front-and-center into a riproarin' tangled mass of moshing flesh. As usual, though, I sat back and thoroughly enjoyed the show from a relatively safe distance. Don't wanna spill and waste not one delicious drop of my precious brewed spirits, now do I, kiddies! Anyway, them rompin'-stompin' Vista buckeroos are always guaranteed to deliver a double-duke wallop of riot-inciting sonic fury and on this particular night, it was as spectacular of a display of brute-force punkrock savagery as ever!
And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment we've all been eagerly anticipating... the liveliest, most dangerous rock'n'roll band in the entire world: Dead Man's Choir! Hell yeh, these unruly aural rogues hands-down define rock'n'roll in every sense of the word - sonically, spiritually, and stylistically! During their balls-out, high-voltage set of sizzlin' tune-thrashers, DMC captivated, enthralled, and exhilarated the audience somethin' fierce. We were nothin' more than slobbery-lipped, glazy-eyed globs of silly-putty in their hands. They rocked, they roared, they ruled supreme like the leanest, meanest, most bad-ass motherfuckers to ever commit such unspeakable acts of aural lewdness! Snotty street-scruff vocals, trashy gutter-tramp guitar crunch, flamethrowin' livewire leads, clatter-trap subwaytrain bass rumblings, and skull-crackin' trashcan-rattlin' drum batterings. An atom bomb doesn't possess anywhere near half the energy created by Dead Man's Choir! I'm assuredly not ashamed to admit the obvious: I'm a foamin'-at-the-mouth fan of DMC. I'm a fan of theirs like I'm a fan of boobies, beer, sex, sleaze, and pure unadulterated sinful misbehavior. Thanks for thundering through Longview, fellas! Things will certainly never be the same here in this inbred region of East Texxxas...