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A Wing and a Prayer: Southern Culture on the Skids played it greasy Friday night.

Wray Gunners

I was pleased to see Friday night that Southern Culture on the Skids didn't let the fact that the Rev. Horton Heat would be taking the Catalyst stage only moments later stop them from coating it in chicken grease and enough wing, breast and thigh carnage to turn Foghorn Leghorn white as a sheet. Especially since I heard they didn't partake at the previous night's show--Thursday party people, you are bummed.

I'm starting to wonder, though, if poultry may soon be surpassing music and bad taste as the Skids' primary export. Not only did they bring the eight-piece box, and sing the "Eight Piece Box," they even opened the show with Link Wray's "Run Chicken Run," which despite being an instrumental has yet another chicken reference hidden in it, when the chords on the chorus turn the lead guitar into chicken squawk and the whole song starts to sound like a henhouse. Nonetheless, I was pleased to hear somebody nesting with my favorite Wray song, which is usually overlooked in favor of his more famous anthems "Rumble" and "Jack the Ripper." Oh wait, Southern Culture actually covered the latter, too--closed with it, in fact. Geez, I knew this band--like all discriminating white trash--were into links, but I didn't know they were so crazy for Link. That was even a Link Wray T-shirt bassist Mary Huff had underneath her overalls. What do you mean, what was I doing staring at what was underneath her overalls? What are you now, My Girlfriend?

Steve Palopoli

Rumors of Tiffany

A longtime Tiffany fan summed up the '80s superstar's performance at the Boardwalk last Friday as succinctly as it gets: she sucked because she didn't suck. Which of course is to say that despite the fact that she is a real live person with feelings, failings and all the other f-words that make us human, a whole lotta people only wanted to see a living relic of the '80s up there on the stage, complete with crimped hair and legwarmers, and completely devoid of any trace of irony or self-awareness. Face it, all you '80s kids, all you really wanted was your own little New Wave version of the Cave Train with a better-than-animatronic Tiffany singing you the musical trash from your youth and ... well, what else are cave trains good for anyway?

Upcoming

The problem with describing Mumbo Gumbo is that I can't make up clever food-based metaphors like "the ever-bubbling festive stew that is Mumbo Gumbo," because their press release totally beat me to the punch. Oooh, wait! Punch ... Mumbo Gumbo is like the Kool-Aid Man crashing through your wall, except instead of showing up with a load of punch and a shit-eating grin, he brings happy-dappy, swing-yer partner rhumb, Tex-Mex and zydeco tunes with a poppy Americana folk-rock bent! Oh, and he's got a woman on each arm, and they sing lively duets that pack plenty of--wait for it--punch! I win! I win! (And you can too at Moe's this Friday.)

Also on the way: live drum 'n' bass with Siamese at Moe's Alley on July 24; Venezuelan Jazz trio The Snake Trio at Cayuga Vault on July 25; Shane Dwight Band at Moe's Alley on July 26; Box Set Duo plus the sweet, sentimental folk rock of Christine Ledoux at Henfling's on July 30.

Mike Connor

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From the July 23-30, 2003 issue of Metro Santa Cruz.

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