White Heat

White Heat

Saturday · Southgate House

Anyone else think that this whole "Rock is back" thing is rather amusing? Kind of like when Nirvana went Top 10 in 1991 and the media reacted as if there hadn't been a Rock & Roll group in the universe since REO Speedwagon's "Keep On Loving You" topped the charts.

Thankfully, there are always going to be renegades of Rock like San Antonio's White Heat, who put together an amazing album (see: WH's 2002 self-titled debut on Spunos Sounds), load up the Ford Explorer and show the righteous live-music lovers of America what they already know: Rock & Roll is (or at least can be) as blistering and vital as it has ever been. With the wrung-gut vocals and a boisterous blitzkrieg bop, White Heat turn up the gas on their debut, then turn around and light up a smoke just to keep it interesting. The electric throttle of White Heat's sound is reminiscent of buds ... And You Will Know Us By The Trail Dead in its intensity, but the band is steeped in archetypal Rock & Roll motifs and is possessed with its own distinct zeal. White Heat blazes through their album's 11 tracks as if their life depended on it. When Branca sings, "I've got something to say," on "Pour Out and Descend," you get the feeling you should pay attention. The swarm that Branca and Matt Fleming's guitar interplay and the rhythm section's piercing jabs create on tracks like "Send Me Away" and "Cat and Mouse" is slanted enough to put the band above your average swagger-happy Trash Rock band. But however graceful their strut, it's still is as fierce as anyone's.

The band has the abandon of early Stooges or even Punk-days Replacements, but White Heat never lets the danger and unruliness corrode the songs' maximum impact potential. They're smarter than they want you to think. The album climaxes with "The Messenger," which begs the question "What would AC/DC sound like if Fugazi's Guy Picciotto replaced Bon Scott?" The answer? Just fantastic, thank you very much. They're playing with area greats Shesus (currently awaiting the March release of their debut for New York City label, Narnack) and Chalk, as well as Toledo's Stylex. (Mike Breen)

Cody Chesnutt & The Roots

Saturday · Bogart's

The Roots

God bless The Roots, not only for their organic, live-band take on Hip Hop, but also for their relentless touring regimen. Given their reliability for stopping in town at least once a year, you might be considering sitting this one out. If their great new disc, Phrenology, isn't enough to get your ass through the door, one of the guys warming up the stage should definitely clinch the deal.

Cody ChesnuTT's music hearkens back to a time when people listened to The Beatles and Cream right alongside Otis Redding and Sly and the Family Stone. ChesnuTT takes that concept even further on his critically-acclaimed though hard-to-find (more on that later) debut album The Headphone Masterpiece, a two-disc set which heeds no boundaries and is laid out as an uncensored, intimate "musical diary." Hip Hop, Indie Rock, BritPop, Prince-ly Sex Funk and '60s Soul music all find a common ground on Masterpiece, and it's delivered with a raunchiness and honesty that is often enthralling. Recorded entirely in his bedroom on lo-fi equipment, ChesnuTT doesn't always hit pay dirt -- an outside editor would have helped maximize the results -- and it's hard sometimes not to cringe at the misogyny and self-indulgence. At the same time, that's part of the record's "all-or-nothing" appeal.

The story leading up to the album is folklore in the making. Hollywood Records dropped ChesnuTT's band and, feeling the burn of major label politicking, he retreated to his room and let his life pour forth in audio form. Rumor is he's been offered a mint from the huge labels to release material but, learning his lesson, The Headphone Masterpiece was put out on a relative's small indie. Try to find it online and you're looking at a lengthy shipping wait (even at the source, codychesnutt.com, which also features several song files), but look for a wider release in April. In the meantime, don't miss a chance to see this unique multi-instrumentalist/poet/songsmith do his thing in concert. (MB)

Dangerville

Friday · Top Cat's

Dangerville

A bassist who looks like Bettie Page and climbs all over her stand-up like she's trying to take down a Grizzly. A drummer named after infamous American martyr/villain Lee Harvey Oswald. A singer/guit-box strummer enigmatically named "Danger." And a record label called "Music For Serial Killers." Kitsch lovers are salivating even before they crack the seal of Necessary Evil, the latest release from Michigan's Dangerville. But it's Rockabilly fans that'll go gaga over the sounds inside.

Necessary Evil is a remarkably enjoyable album of powerful Rockabilly that doesn't take itself too terribly seriously. Not that the band -- bassist Delilah DeWylde, drummer Lee Harvey Biltwell and the aforementioned Mr. Danger -- doesn't exude a genuine love for the music's tradition and have a seriously tight grasp on the chops. They just aren't overly precious about it. A growing regional fave, they've got the Rockabilly color book but can't be bothered with always staying in the lines.

The CD's live feel (warts and all here, baby) is the perfect setting for the band's sly, gritty approach. Danger's burly vocals (part Pentecostal preacher, part auto mechanic) balance the expected hiccups and Elvis' "humph" with a deep, resonating bellow, while his volatile guitar playing rotates between jagged strum and prickly lead. Biltwell's manic beats always manage to have claws, even when they are of the basic train-shuffle variety, while DeWylde's punctual bass lines are the winding hills Dangerville's Coup DeVille burns through. Some nice sinewy slide guitar on "Can't Wait" and Doyle's star turn singing the torch ballad "Sinner's Parade" keep you guessing, but the band rarely treads on one Rockabilly stereotype too long. (MB)

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