Last Night
Last Night, Roky Erickson Was a Window
Last night, I saw Roky Erickson at Neumos. "Rock and roll" applies to an arc of time that started defying gravity with Dylan's 1966 shows and overdriven acts like the Troggs and continues to die at the hands of Jack White (although now there are mid-arc bastardizations like country rock and indie rock we can nod out to).
Roky Erickson sits upon the top of that arc like it's his throne. His band, the 13th Floor Elevators, were the epitome of mid 60s psych garage rock, the ones who took the clangy blues of Berry and dragged it through the mud. His lesser-known late '70s and early '80s straight-rock, horror movie inspired albums, completely shirking fashion in all its forms (and created when he was in the helpless throes of (possibly LSD-induced) schizophrenia), make '90s revivalists like Nirvana and Pearl Jam sound like the awkward missteps of rock history. He is the real king of rock and roll.
These days, he seems more artifact than artist (although, his new album with Okkervil River looks pretty good). Decades into a sad battle with mental illness, Erickson looks frightened of the audience, and looks at his guitar player after literally every lyric he sings. It would be sad to watch, but it's not because his band is fucking hot, and despite everything, Erickson still screeches like a rabid teenager (everyone knows Erickson dropped out of his Austin high school in 1963 because he wouldn't cut his hair).
Erickson's entire set list was the blood and bones of rock, perfect in form without being generic (leave that for AC/DC). "Cold Night for Alligators" rocked. "Night of the Vampire" rocked.
"Two headed dog, two headed dog. I've been walking in the Kremlin with a two-headed dog," Erickson sang. It was loud and when Erickson managed a smile it felt like a hard-worn weary thrasher was sharing a few decades of rock wisdom. It was kinda like seeing a good museum, glimpsing the impact great old things had when they were new and weird. Roky Erickson was a window into rock and roll when rock and roll was vital and peaking on simple harmonies, creep-out lyrics, and blasting guitar, no need for bastardizations or derivatives.
Roky Erickson sits upon the top of that arc like it's his throne. His band, the 13th Floor Elevators, were the epitome of mid 60s psych garage rock, the ones who took the clangy blues of Berry and dragged it through the mud. His lesser-known late '70s and early '80s straight-rock, horror movie inspired albums, completely shirking fashion in all its forms (and created when he was in the helpless throes of (possibly LSD-induced) schizophrenia), make '90s revivalists like Nirvana and Pearl Jam sound like the awkward missteps of rock history. He is the real king of rock and roll.
These days, he seems more artifact than artist (although, his new album with Okkervil River looks pretty good). Decades into a sad battle with mental illness, Erickson looks frightened of the audience, and looks at his guitar player after literally every lyric he sings. It would be sad to watch, but it's not because his band is fucking hot, and despite everything, Erickson still screeches like a rabid teenager (everyone knows Erickson dropped out of his Austin high school in 1963 because he wouldn't cut his hair).
Erickson's entire set list was the blood and bones of rock, perfect in form without being generic (leave that for AC/DC). "Cold Night for Alligators" rocked. "Night of the Vampire" rocked.
"Two headed dog, two headed dog. I've been walking in the Kremlin with a two-headed dog," Erickson sang. It was loud and when Erickson managed a smile it felt like a hard-worn weary thrasher was sharing a few decades of rock wisdom. It was kinda like seeing a good museum, glimpsing the impact great old things had when they were new and weird. Roky Erickson was a window into rock and roll when rock and roll was vital and peaking on simple harmonies, creep-out lyrics, and blasting guitar, no need for bastardizations or derivatives.
