“That word does not exist in any language.”

–Talking Heads

“There is nothing quite as absurd as a rock concert. In terms of pop culture, it’s recordings, not live performances, that leave a stamp on history. Video is slowly changing this scenario, arguably for the worse, but the value of the rock concert performance remains intact—it’s nothing more than a marketing tool, and art rarely springs from marketing tools.” So writes Erick Lefcowitz in Calendar magazine, March 1986.

I enjoyed seeing Mojo Nixon last night, but I felt that his act, which is very entertaining, kind of got in the way of his genius. The excitement of his first number, “Twilight’s Last Gleaming”, which he sang/shouted with no mic, strumming an unplugged electric guitar, one leg twitching out madly and slamming the floor to establish the beat, a surprised audience around him holding our breaths to try to hear the inspired funny brilliant lyrical imagery, admiring his sheer nerve and the places he was getting to with it—that excitement diminished for me as Mojo revealed himself as clever showman, audience laughing dancing and shouting along through “I Hate Banks”, “You’re Gonna Eat Those Words”, “Mushroom Maniac” and so forth. It was much fun, but when he climbed onstage after “Gleaming” and said, “that’s all you’re gonna get of the ‘sensitive’ Mojo tonight,” he was telling the truth. I wouldn’t say this about just anybody, but I’d like to see Mojo (and washboard accompanist Skid Roper) in front of a hopelessly indifferent or hostile crowd. I suspect they can be incandescent when they’re ignored.

The Beat Farmers are another jackpot in the dice throw of my rock ‘n’ roll adventure. They blew me away. What a versatile, flexible, powerful medium rock ‘n’ roll is! Same old set-up: four guys, playing lead, rhythm, bass guitar and drums; everybody sings except the bass player. The rhythm guitarist, who looks like a leader—dark glasses and a wry, self-assured attitude—trades songs with the lead guitarist, whose personality makes less of an impression at first (something subtle about the guy, though; he grows on you). Bass-player looks weird, of course: introverted/extroverted, skinhead, muscle shirt, tattoos. Looks like he knows something. Half a dozen songs into the set, the big soft-faced, leather-cowboy-hatted drummer waltzes to a stage front mic to become the unexpected star of the show, waving his full beer bottle wildly (he also tosses it up in the air, spinning, and catches it or not), as he sings raunchy funny charming stuff like “California Kid” and “Happy Boy” (for one number he went out and sat on the dance floor with a long mic cord and got the audience to sit down around him—just before that people were shouting for Country Dick! and I thought it was a song, but it turns out to be his stage name) in a tough teddy bear guy of a voice that reminds of W.C. Fields doing John Wayne and Willie Nelson but could only belong to the dirty–mouthed drummer of the Beat Farmers. Pure crowd-pleaser, but in this case it is a straight-ahead vehicle for the guy’s talent, and wisely he never does more than one or two numbers at a time. The rest of the band are magnificently cool playing back-up to ever be upstaged (one or the other guitarist sits in at drums).

But there’s plenty more here than his gorgeously lovable surprise hunk of showmanship. The songs are all good. It has to do with how they play together. Lots of acts I see lately I say, well, I’d probably have liked ‘em a lot more if I’d been more familiar with their records. Never heard a note of the Farmers before, and couldn’t pick up most the lyrics or anything, but it didn’t matter—the band works with my and their familiarity with the last 50 years of American music, rock country blues swing soul whatever you call it. Their music is heavily country-flavored, unquestionably rock, not hardcore punk in any sense but quite fluent with the aesthetic concepts thereof, comfortably drawing on the universal set of roots that underlies Beatles Elvis Springsteen Ramones Waylon Otis Replacements Los Lobos Motown and you name it. I wouldn’t want to be the one to try to trace or identify the musical influences and specific threads, this is where I revert to idiot, like if you ask me what a chord is. But the Beat Farmers had already dazzled me with four or five tight, understated performances in a row, almost segued into each other (start of their second set), making reference through our shared musical language to a flood of feelings they know I know we have in common, when suddenly they played a song I’d heard before, “There She Goes Again”, from the Velvet Underground’s first album. Country rock? Velvet Underground? It sounded part and parcel with all their other stuff, and it was a superb (again, understated) rendition. Later they grinned and did Neil Young’s “Powderfinger.” This is a band after (and connected to) my own heart, and I’d go see them anytime.

Dissolve/reveal. Now it’s Monday. I’m listening to the Stones’ new single, “Harlem Shuffle.” I’ve seen two more shows since catching the Beat Farmers and Mojo Nixon Thursday night: Lone Justice at the Stone in San Francisco Saturday, and Black Flag (same club, very different audience) Sunday. I have a new star in my universe. Her name is Maria McKee.

When I heard Lone Justice’s album I was very impressed, especially with the lead singer, who has a great voice and a lot of presence. I liked the songs, and was knocked out by the energy of the hard rock numbers (“East of Eden”, “Ways to Be Wicked”, “Wait Till We Get Home”). Even the more overtly country numbers appealed to me. So I was excited to discover, practically the first day I was listening to the album, that Lone Justice would be performing locally the following weekend. (Me being lucky again.)