As promised, The Black Lips came through with some dick tricks during their set. The little mustachioed high-waisted guitarist peed into his mouth on stage and spit it back onto the gleeful audience. At least I think he did. That’s what the kids told me. I was busy getting a different drink. The pee pee gimmick was unnecessary because the band killed it from song one, thrashing about, all four of them singing at once. They all seemed to genuinely like each other, as if they were just hanging out playing pool and decided to play a set for the hell of it. Casual. I took notice of the Atlanta boys as soon as I walked into Slabtown. They didn’t look particularly different from the rest of the folks in there, but you could tell they weren’t from Portland. It was something subtle, and it showed on stage.
The Hunches had the tough task of following garage rock water sports. It didn’t seem that front man Hart was up to it at first. He spent the first song drunkenly lying on the overstuffed couch watching a New York Dolls video, moaning the lyrics while wearing a woman’s ridiculous red overcoat. He eventually joined the rest of the band onstage for one of the most hectic sets I’ve seen in years. Some shit got broken. Some sad dildos even moshed. I didn’t know people still did that. I’d rather pee in my mouth.
Guitarist Chris Gunn may be the Clint Eastwood of guitar. He’s a tall, lean, unassuming young man who has completely mastered his weapon. I actually felt sorry for his guitar, a haggard, beaten, cherry wood Gibson SG from the late ’60s. I have no clue how that thing is still in use with the backyard shed whoopins Gunn has administered to it over the past three years.
A flat-topped Calvin Johnson looked on with disinterest as The Hunches tore the place apart. He got up and moved away from the stage midway through the set. Not exactly K Records material I suppose.