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The Reverend Horton Heat
from volume 01 issue 06 // Tony Cheslock
The Reverend Horton Heat
Words: Tony Cheslock
Photos: Michael Spadoni
When you experience the wonder of Jim Heath's buttery old fingers in action, as they calmly fly about their small flight pattern on the Reverend's nineteensixtysomething flamey-style guitar, you don't realize that you're witnessing a dying breed of entertainer; a dinosaur of a man, walking around our modern world, sort of packing 600 capacity venues all across this great land of ours. Where there were once soundtracks for car commercials, and cameo appearances on “The Drew Carrey Show,” there are now the staples of their act: a guitar with flames on it, a big ole standup bass with flames on it, a suit jacket with flames on it, and a modest five-piece drum kit, without flames on it oddly enough.
The thing about Heath read Heath is the Reverend is that he's been doing what he's been doing for a good long fucking time. Seeing him and his band is not so much an example of a group eagerly gaining ground in the ongoing land-grab-warfare-campaign of the touring live acts. Rather, a live set with the Reverend is a lot like watching your crazy uncle and his war buddies rock your basement. There is no pretension in what they do. There is only undeniable confidence, and a lot of smiles exchanged between Jimbo read, he's the guy what goes boom dicka boom dicka boom boom boom on that big ole standup bass with flames on it and Heath. I didn't notice this sort of interaction with the drummer Paul Simmons, who happens to be the ”new guy.” As it is with most groups, the ”new guy” doesn't get the sideways-smile from the singer in medias res translated “in the middle of things” for all you folks who never payed attention during Beowulf until they've been in the band at least five years, OR they engage in mortal combat on the tour bus over who had first dibs on that blonde-bombshell out of Jersey City. Such is the natural order of things, my fine, feathered fiends.
Regardless of whether or not The Reverend is breaking any new ground their last release was We Three Kings in 2005, you can trust that they will serve you with a reasonable amount of genuine, slice-of-americana-stlye entertainment. That is, as long as they play the songs you remember from when you stopped listening to this group sometime during your sophomore year of college. I can't say the “new stuff” new to me anyway is bad. It's just that it's like a slice of old pie. The pie is good, but the recipe hasn't changed for a damn.
The nice part is, when you're good and stoned off that Acapulco Gold Charles Manson was bragging about in his interview with Morton Downey Jr., The Reverend is there for you in your old CD booklet, waiting to remind you that “it's Martini Time!”, and urging you to have another slice of rhubarb pie.
Words: Tony Cheslock
Photos: Michael Spadoni
When you experience the wonder of Jim Heath's buttery old fingers in action, as they calmly fly about their small flight pattern on the Reverend's nineteensixtysomething flamey-style guitar, you don't realize that you're witnessing a dying breed of entertainer; a dinosaur of a man, walking around our modern world, sort of packing 600 capacity venues all across this great land of ours. Where there were once soundtracks for car commercials, and cameo appearances on “The Drew Carrey Show,” there are now the staples of their act: a guitar with flames on it, a big ole standup bass with flames on it, a suit jacket with flames on it, and a modest five-piece drum kit, without flames on it oddly enough.
The thing about Heath read Heath is the Reverend is that he's been doing what he's been doing for a good long fucking time. Seeing him and his band is not so much an example of a group eagerly gaining ground in the ongoing land-grab-warfare-campaign of the touring live acts. Rather, a live set with the Reverend is a lot like watching your crazy uncle and his war buddies rock your basement. There is no pretension in what they do. There is only undeniable confidence, and a lot of smiles exchanged between Jimbo read, he's the guy what goes boom dicka boom dicka boom boom boom on that big ole standup bass with flames on it and Heath. I didn't notice this sort of interaction with the drummer Paul Simmons, who happens to be the ”new guy.” As it is with most groups, the ”new guy” doesn't get the sideways-smile from the singer in medias res translated “in the middle of things” for all you folks who never payed attention during Beowulf until they've been in the band at least five years, OR they engage in mortal combat on the tour bus over who had first dibs on that blonde-bombshell out of Jersey City. Such is the natural order of things, my fine, feathered fiends.
Regardless of whether or not The Reverend is breaking any new ground their last release was We Three Kings in 2005, you can trust that they will serve you with a reasonable amount of genuine, slice-of-americana-stlye entertainment. That is, as long as they play the songs you remember from when you stopped listening to this group sometime during your sophomore year of college. I can't say the “new stuff” new to me anyway is bad. It's just that it's like a slice of old pie. The pie is good, but the recipe hasn't changed for a damn.
The nice part is, when you're good and stoned off that Acapulco Gold Charles Manson was bragging about in his interview with Morton Downey Jr., The Reverend is there for you in your old CD booklet, waiting to remind you that “it's Martini Time!”, and urging you to have another slice of rhubarb pie.
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