Thanks all you folks who came out on Saturday. I don’t know about you guys but that was a hell of a lot of fun for us. Rudz has really upped its game since the last time we played. Primarily the two video screens capturing what’s happening on stage is pretty neat; Rudz even stores these performances on a hard drive. I wonder if the video for our performance just shows a lot of fog. We played well, the crowd was swell, and it was nice to play a more mixed set than what we’ve been playing over the last year. (We seemed to have eschewed the less heavy stuff in 2012 in the wake of Bag of Hammers but perhaps this may suggest a more mixed offering in 2013. We’ll see.)
Poor Pilate played a great set which I almost missed. Charlie was getting over a cold so (because his leaving early would mean one less car) I had to race to the studio with Charlie and drop off all the AV equipment, heads, and guitars yet do it fast enough so as to get back in time to see Poor Pilate. It was crazy but I did it and caught the last three songs and the rush was worth it. I hadn’t seen them since the summer and the new material is solid. I just hope they record it soon.
The night though belonged to The Escatones and they delivered what was likely one of the most entertaining, bizarre, and wasted sets of psych-tinged surf rock I’d seen in a while. It started out pretty normal (well, normal for The Escatones that is) and…
…looking something like this.
That, of course, led to this…
…which led to this…
…which then led to this…
…which finally led to this…
Yeah, that happened! It’s a Galveston thing (cf. Clockpole). But a picture of a chubby, pasty, deadlocked, nude guitarist and his hairy nude bassist sidekick doesn’t quite complete the picture. No sir! If you got within 5 feet of them, you would be graced by a certain air about them. Imagine the outdoorsy smell of a sweaty homeless guy bathed in the herbal aroma of month-old bongwater with a hint of abandoned motel bathroom mildew. It is said that this is the smell of a band that tours and that in Paris they sell it by the ounce for a king’s ransom. Rock and Roll!!!!! Rock and Fucking Roll, Brother!
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