Saturday, April 8, 2006

Stream-of-Consciousness Review:
DEAF and Robbie Fulks

Sometimes all that stands between a man and madness is beer and King Ranch chicken. And sometimes that ain't enough.

By Mike Orren

At 6:43 this evening, I was on the verge of calling Sam Machovech and offering him an apology for dissing his diss of the Deep Ellum Arts Festival. It's not that I came around to his point of view -- it was more that I was looking for any symbolic reference point that might release me from a hell of my own creation.

To appropriately tell the tale of the roller coaster evening I just experienced, let me allow myself a bit of hubris that I would usually eschew: Whether or not This Little Company succeeds or fails, I am its "paterfamilias," as George Clooney might say. And yet, those who were left to schedule the manning of our booth at the fest thought it was a good idea to leave me to set up and man our booth by myself for the first three hours. I'm not snotty enough to rail against such a setup, unless and until it goes SouthMouth. Don't get me wrong-- I wouldn't wish this on anyone, so give me some quarter(s for parking). Ah., life in a startup...

So, I arrived in Deep Ellum at 4:30 this afternoon, laden down with a couple spanking new TexasGigs/Pegasus News signs and trundled down to the Bud Light Big-But-Not-Big-Enough-To-Not-Have-To-Be-Here-On-A-Friday-Afternoon stage. For that was where our booth was to be. I negotiated with the festival staff and our booth was set up next to the Bacardi Rum VIP gated section

Foolishly myopic, I showed up without any means of securing our banners to the metallic tent-like implement that was to serve as our home base. I tried duct tape, but my usually unshakable faith in it was shaken. I bummed some lockable twisties from my neighbors and finally managed to hang one of our two signs.

Having won a minor victory, I decided to amble back to the car to collect our swag. I noticed along the way that it was a mite breezy. By the time I headed back, I found myself in a literal cyclone -- Elm Street (and its neighbors) were part of what them meteorologist fellers call "a mighty wind." The streets filled with sand; parking guys signs were blown into the street, and all hell generally broke loose. I trundled on, carrying four bags and a box of TG stickers, comforted only by the thought that I was not one of the several sculpting DEAF exhibitors who had their wares smashed in the street as a result of the storm.

My benign schadenfruede was shattered once I returned to TG's little home at the DEAF: The now-ridiculous winds had completely blown our metallic tent across the street and within inches of the KZPS rocka-silly van.

The only thing that kept me, at that point, from going postal were the struggles of Chant, the servicable but unremarkable Texican blues band that opened on the stage. Sure, I had my problems, but they were valiatly struggling through servicable but unremarkable Texican covers while the stage blew apart around them. Even the omni-advertisant Bud Light backdrop that fell upon their drummer in Spinal Tap style did nothing to dissuade them from servicable but unremarkable Ben Harper, Neville Brothers and SRV covers. Nor did it dissuade them from servicable but unremarkable festival patois: "Thank you Dallas!....We Love You Deep Ellum...Thanks for supporting local music!"

It should be noted at this point that the only listeners were poor slobs like me setting up booths in the wind, and one lonely servicable but unremarkable weird loner in the chairs in front of the stage.

But if Chant could persevere under such circumstances, so could I. At least I thought so.

The winds never really subsided. Fellow Giggers shifts finally came, and we listened to Confusatron in a servicable but unremarkable show of solidarity as I slugged down $5 Bud Lights.

I enjoyed Confusatron's electro-jazzy jams, but my compatriots noted that they only liked jam bands in small doses.

By 7:30 the wind had not let up, so we mutually, universally, and in my case, unilaterally agreed to call it a night and try again tomorrow-- There was no way that a banner could be hung in this wind, and our swag was all easily-blown paper.

So, with a song about to enter my heart, I trundled down to the AllGood Cafe where I met a pal who also is a big fan of Robbie Fulks. Robbie is one of three or four acts I never miss under any circumstances.

Boys Named Sue opened the show -- I hadn't yet seen them, despite falling in love with ther music while we built this site. Their set didn't disappoint, although I failed to see how they'd made finalist level for best band in the DO Music Awards. They were both less faithful and earnest than bands like Eleven Hundred Springs, despite their impeccable cover choices.

Speaking of choices, I really don't understand many of the choices that Mike Snider makes at the AllGood Cafe. On paper I should love the AllGood. And in reality, I often do. But it seems that every time I go there, I find myself or my fellow patrons in a position where we want to give Mike money and he wants to not take said lucre.

Take tonight (please!): I walk in to find all tables occupied, but a couple sixtops with only two people. Remembering the way Mike asked April and I to scootch at the Asylum Street Spankers show a couple weeks ago, I ask if there is a place we can sit. "It's crowded," he shrugs. "Looks like all the tables are full." I point out the fallow six-tops, and am finally led to a seat.

As the night progresses, I'm told that my beloved King Ranch Casserole is sold out; accused of stiffing the tab on the folks whose table we'd joined (although they were gone and we were still sitting there); twice asked to pay the cover; and roundly ignored on drink reorders. All this, while watching the typical AllGood drama of folks who just want to eat being run off for not wanting to pay the cover for a show they didn't know to expect. Don't get me wrong-- such a policy is within any restaurant owner's perview. It's just that my intolerance for inefficiency rails at seeing hungry people being turned away from empty seats.

My frustration comes from the fact that I LOVE the food and music at the AllGood. Despite my King Ranch disappointment, the Chicken Fried Steak satisfied several times over. And the guacamole served with chips and queso was to die for -- high praise considering that I don't even like guac. But, in four trips there, I never fail to leave a little agitated with the service.

And then there's the music. I walked in a huge Fulks fan and veteran of multiple shows. This one was no exception, as Robbie well mixed his greatest "hits," with new songs and well-chosen covers. His accompanying guitarist, also named Robbie (and recently of The Greencards and Joe Ely's band) made for a picking-n-grinning delight with several well-deserved nods to Buck Owens. The noodling got occasionally out of hand, but never too badly.

This is the point in the review where I would expect any of our staffers to somehow pull together all of this into a sensible thesis or analogy. I don't have that right now -- perhaps it will come later and I can work it into the comments. Suffice to say that the DEAF was hampered by weather tonight; that I had a fantabulous dinner, albeit not the one I expected; and that Robbie Fulks remains one of my primary musical heroes.

And, I'll be back tomorrow.

Friends don't let friends review on beer. And yet, here we are.

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