I woke up this morning not able to feel my face, as it was rocked off the previous night by a band called Cowboy Mouth. I was unfamiliar with the band before the show, except for through the magic of iTunes, which allowed me to preview their music in 30-second bits (yes, I was too cheap to actually buy the album). I really wasn't too impressed--they sounded fine, but not rock-your-face-off, oh-my-goodness-my-head-is-going-to-explode-and-I'm-going-to-like-it great, which of course is what I look for in a band. That, apparently, and a really bad band name. I'm not sure what they were going for when they picked that name out, but it makes me think more Brokeback than rocker cowboys.
But a friend of mine, whose taste in music I trust, said they play an amazing show, so off I went to the Paradise last night with low expectations. Before the show, we got a bite to eat, and my friend told me about the last time he saw Cowboy Mouth. He was dating a girl at the time and some jerk pushed her. My friend, who I always thought of as rather even-tempered, even almost Ghandi-like, punched the guy in the face in honor of his girl (well, he kind of grazed his cheek, he said. Whatever. It was still noble). Chaos ensued. The bouncers were just about to bounce him out, when one of the members of the band yelled out that they had the wrong guy, that my friend was just protecting his girl, and so the jerk was booted and my friend got to enjoy the show. I still wasn't sure I'd like their music, but I was damn sure at this point I liked the band.
They were good ole boys (and one girl) from New Orleans. The frontman/drummer was like Jack Black on about twenty cases of Red Bull. And maybe a pitcher of coffee. He beat the drums like they had just offended his momma. He had everyone in the place jumping up and down for the whole show, and when one of us slacked off a little and was kind of just bobbing back and forth, he ran up to the balcony, confronted the offender, and said he'd take the whole band back to New Orleans if he didn't see everyone hanging from that balcony when he got back to the stage. We complied.
It felt almost like I imagine a Revival to be. He kept telling us to go crazy and "let it all out." I didn't realize until about ten minutes into the show that the "all out" part was gallons of sweat. At various points, he'd tell us to come a little closer, a little closer, but I didn't want to get too close lest I get hit in the sweat cross-fire. I did, however, come close to getting hit by a drum stick--twice. He threw about three or four of them into the crowd, forgetting maybe the very high poke-your-eye-out potential that drum sticks have when flung at high speeds through the air. I'm just glad I had an alert friend with me or I'd have me a nice eye patch to go along with my rum swilling. Aargh.
I was really annoyed that my friend neglected to tell me about the "Red Spoon" song before the show, a song during which everyone gets to flick a (plastic) red spoon at the band. I usually never miss an opportunity to throw things at people.
He kind of lost me at the end when he told us about how they were going to be on Live With Regis and Kelly the next morning, and then proceeded to sing a song dedicated to Kelly Ripa. The lyrics, however, quickly redeemed them: "Kelly Ripa, if you were a lollipop, I'd lick ya/Kelly Ripa, head of a Mom, but the body of a Strippa. Yee-haw!" You just don't find poetry like that nowadays. Except, of course, on iTunes, for free (in 30-second intervals).