How unlucky am I? I was walking down the street the other day when a black cat crossed my path. The black cat said, “Shit! Bad luck!”
Now Kid Congo Powers, on the other hand, is a lucky guy. He’s spent virtually his entire life at the Epicenter of Cool, from his teen years as a Glam Kid dancing to “All the Young Dudes” at Rodney Bingenheimer’s storied English Disco to co-founding The Gun Club with Jeffrey Lee Pierce to playing with the likes of The Cramps and The Bad Seeds. That’s quite the curriculum vitae, and a much-abbreviated version at that, so I suppose in Powers’ case its talent, not luck, at work.
The stories Powers—whose current gig is as front man of Kid Congo and The Pink Monkey Birds—could tell! He could write a book! Here’s one about sepulchral Hollywood Sleaze King Kim Fowley. Seems Fowley showed up at a party where Kid and company were tripping. Nobody at the party liked Fowley—they considered him a stabbing pain in the cock at the best of times—so they all grabbed kitchen knives and waved them out the door, uttering mock-homicidal Manson Family type threats. Fowley decided he’d be safer going elsewhere.
Since relocating to Washington, D.C., Powers has engaged in all manner of extracurricular activities, because he’s a seemingly tireless character and bops around in his hip 50’s biker’s cap and cool ‘stache that’s every bit as tireless as he is. I’ve never met a more energized mustache. Anyway, when Powers isn’t touring or recording in Harveyville, Kansas he’s DJing here and there and everywhere, but I’m not the dancing type so my favorite fun Powers’ side activity is the occasional Kid Congo Powers Hour, wherein le Kid de la Congo leads a supergroup of stellar musicians in a set of skanky-great garage obscurities, sixties scunge-rock classics, and Gun Club and Cramps tunes.
The cast of musicians is ever-changing, and this time around the King Congo Power Hour included (naturally) Powers on guitar and vocals, Powers’ Pink Monkey Birds band mate Mark Cisneros on guitar, James Canty of Nation of Ulysses and Make-Up fame on drums, Arthur Noll of red hot Dischord act Alarms & Controls on bass, and Baby Alcatraz (aka Alyssa Bell) on keyboards, harmonica, tambourine, and maracas.
It’s tons of fun watching professional musicians let their hair down and just have fun for a change, playing songs they love for a lark rather than out of careerist concerns, which often make them tense to the point where they jump off stage and whack me with their guitars. I’ve been bonged on the noggin with guitars by everybody from Lemmy Kilmister to Leonard Cohen (who packs a pretty good wallop for an old dude), and I’ll never forget the time Joni Mitchell slapped me twice across the face—once to each cheek—with a macrobiotic sandwich. I don’t know what was in that sandwich, but it really hurt. I told you I was unlucky.
Anyway, The Kid Congo Powers Hour transpired on Monday April 14 at Comet Ping Pong, and unlucky sap that I am I almost missed it. I was walking to Comet when a guy tried the oldest grift in the book: “Hey, you got a twenty for two tens?” I told him to fuck off, at which point he called me a redneck. I replied, “No, you’re the redneck!” Which demonstrates what a lightning wit I am, as the guy was African American. But it worked because he came at me, and I shouted, “For those about to rock, I abuse you!” It wasn’t much of a fight—more like two flustered girly men flapping hands, trying to brush wasps off each others’ tummies—but by the time we both surrendered, out of breath, and I staggered into Comet Ping Pong, Kid Congo and band were just tuning up.
Is there anything I hate worse than watching a band tune up? Yes, watching Metallica play. But I stuck it out and I’m glad, because what a show! Fantastique! Gargantuan Sounds and Golden Oldies! Seymour Stein, sign them up! They kicked things off with The Cramps’ “Garbage Man,” with its great raunchabilly riff. Powers played a mesmerizing distorted solo and put a lot of leer in his voice as he sang, “Don’t you understand, I’m the garbage man!” While the rhythm section nailed the damn thing to the floor. The Count Five’s garage classic “Psychotic Reaction” was a real crowd electrifier and highlighted some smashing harmonica work by Bell. Noll and Canty were in perfect lockstep, and the band practically blew their amps on the song’s frenetic psychotic breakdowns. Screw Neil Diamond’s Beautiful Noise; this was the real thing, and it was Bell’s harmonica honk that stole the song.
The Gun Club’s “Sex Beat” was as frantic as always, with Powers—who is a primo vocalist with impeccable phrasing and a natural knack for dynamics—hamming it up with some big echo. And thanks to his mighty pipes this “Sex Beat” was every bit as good as the original. Oh, and Bell played some happening maracas! As for the very late 50s’ sounding “Jukebox Babe,” Powers and Company did a better version (in my opinion) than the Alan Vega, Alex Chilton, and Ben Vaughn take on the song. One long shakin’ groove with opening handclaps, “Jukebox Babe” slowly got louder and LOUDER as Baby Alcatraz kicked in with some great harmonica. She’s better than that Zimmerman fella ever was, I tells ya.
Next up was my personal fave and yours, One Way Streets’ 1966 bizarre acid anthem/cautionary tale, “We All Love Peanut Butter.” Powers turned it into a crowd sing-along, with spouse Ryan Hill holding up a sign reading, “We All Love Peanut Butter” to assist the memory-challenged members of the audience. “Peanut Butter” has a very sweet and lovely melody, and Powers was obviously having big fun singing its hilarious lyrics, such as, “Take a feather and fly it from a roof/Maybe do a swan dive from a roof,” and “Take your beat-off hand and fly off in a rage/Take your beat-off hand and seal it in a cage.” Why this song didn’t become bigger than “Crimson and Clover,” I’ll never know. Meanwhile Cisneros delivered on some groovy guitar solos, and Bell played one very happy tambourine. A brilliant song, wonderful execution—made me want to do a swan dive from a roof!
The Cramps’ “I Can’t Find My Mind” featured one big and very ominous guitar riff, over which Powers really camped it up on vocals, while Bell contributed some simple but effective keyboard riffs. This was one reverb-laden tune, and my personal highlight was the tangled little squiggles Cisneros played on his axe. The Psychedelic Furs’ “We Love You” was up next, and one humdinger of freak-out it was, with Cisneros skronking out on the saxophone while Bell played some really cool keyboards. Meanwhile Powers shouted, “Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!” and in general was in great voice—Kid Dynamite bowlin’ ‘em over! But the song’s high point was Cisneros’ amazing sax solo, which would have even had my persnickety and elitist jazzophile little brother shouting, “Blow! Blow!” like he was cheering Bird on at some long-disappeared jazz joint in 1951 on a rainy hubcap-shine night on NYC’s 52nd Street.
The Cramps’ “I’m Cramped” was a super-cool almost-instrumental (sole lyrics: “I’m cramped”) featuring lots of big drum pummel by Canty, one great bass by Noll, and more mighty sax honk by Cisneros. Meanwhile Powers spewed razor-sharp shards on his guitar before the song ended in a magnificent caterwaul, Powers spazzing on axe while Cisneros contributed some crazy bebop blurt.
The band’s cover of the fantastic Thee Midniters’ instrumental “Whittier Blvd.” was de-fucking-initive, with Powers saying, “Let’s take a trip down Whittier Boulevard” before Cisneros opened on lead guitar. Bell played a magical droning electric piano while Powers played a great feedback solo hunched over his amplifier, and the song sped along like a chopped Chicano miracle wagon, blowing through red lights on a hot August night in LA in 1965. As for Canty, he was a marvel of nature on the skins, while Noll kept time by bopping his head and played one rock steady bass.
The band called it quits, but the audience screamed for more, so Powers threw in The Cramps’ great, lewd “Goo Goo Muck,” about a teenage “headhunter looking for some head.” Powers talked the first verses then went wild, singing, “You better duck/When I show up/The goo goo muck.” Meanwhile Bell beat on a tambourine and Powers played a far-freakin’-out guitar solo that blew my poor mind. Powers has a primitive and raw guitar style uniquely his own—not only does he play like he never took a lesson; he plays like he never heard a guitar played before. He’s a self-taught genius, and feral is the word I’m looking for.
With that everybody looked for their winter coats, then remembered it was spring and wept out of sheer relief. Ubiquitous scenester Ian Svenonius was there, his hair as hairy as ever, and he tried to grift me outside Comet Ping Pong. But I was in such a great mood—fantastic music will do that for you—I wasn’t even offended. Besides, I’m pretty sure even Ian, who is a lover not a fighter, could take me. Or if he couldn’t, his hair could. What can I say to sum up? Fabulous show, talented musicians—I think the band’s ready for Ed Sullivan. And I guess I’m pretty lucky after all. Cuz I was there and you weren’t.
