Reverend Horton Heat

w/ Old Man Markley & Pinata Protest

El Rey Theatre, Thursday, May 29th

“So, what kind of music are you into?” He wanted to know if we were compatible, if we might be able to go to shows together and then get married and have babies.

I liked him, but I was hesitant. I’d just gotten out of a big relationship, and was trying to throw myself into my work. Plus, I pretty much knew we weren’t going to match up in that way; I listen to really weird stuff, nobody I know is into any of it.

My Pandora station list dots every era of the past hundred years, digs into the varied genres contained within them, branches into their interpretations by different cultures around the world… My tastes are a TARDIS, traveling time and space, a stream of consciousness where one random thing leads to another. It was a big mess to explain, so I just told him about my current obsessions: 1950s exotica, rockabilly, and psychobilly.

“Oh, you mean like Arthur Lyman, Wanda Jackson, and Horton Heat? That stuff’s my favorite!”

Sploosh.

Three hours later he called me excitedly, “Hey! Um, what are you doing tonight? Because I just googled to see if there were any Horton Heat shows coming up, and there’s actually one happening tonight. Like we would need to get ready and go pretty much immediately.”

I looked at the pile of work in front of me, and calculated what time I would have to wake up in the morning to finish it if I flaked tonight. 5:00am. “Yeah, let’s do this!”

Ten minutes later I was frantically sculpting my hair into pincurls, and trying to decide between hair flower or no hair flower. No hair flower, everyone will have one of those (they did). Little capris, or puffy vintage dress? Little capris, they make my butt look like a cupcake. Shit, which heels? Which lipstick? Damnit, snap decision, it’s time to go!

By the time we got there I was wound tight as a tetherball, and that was the perfect way to be. The Rev takes that pent up energy you don’t know what to do with and exorcises it like a demon.

In five seconds flat I was jumping out of my own skin and grinning ear to ear. Scott Churilla’s sticks were hitting the drums like they had a vendetta, and Jimbo Wallace worked that stand up bass like he was driving a train at top speed; my heart was beating a mile a minute. The whole room might as well have been dancing on a bed of lava for how often any pair of feet were on the ground.

This is what it’s like to see Horton Heat—to be saved by the Rev—you don’t even give a shit what you’re trying to forget or control or contain anymore; you’re here, and all you have to do is go go go. It’s like meditation, but if meditation didn’t suck.

What I’m saying is DROP EVERYTHING RIGHT NOW and get to this show! If it’s Thursday, and also around 7:30, and there are any tickets left. Otherwise, I guess you can sit back down.

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Managing Editor for Synthesis Weekly. Amy likes to make clothes, plant flowers, and chase butterflies.