After my last experience as a professional writer, the process had me so turned off that I vowed I never wanted to make a living by the printed word. The thought of creating a single coherent sentence in the name of putting food on my table, clothes on my rumpled body, and a roof over my messy mop made me ill.
But then I saw a close-cropped brunette lead singer in a maroon/champagne/crimson velvet dress, black fishnets and calf-high Doc Martens screaming obscenities at slights real and imagined. I saw her bandmates rotate instruments between each 2-minute rant disguised as music.
Maybe that chick is my new muse. Maybe it was just time to let it all out. I don't know.
The pixie in the dress sang lead for DIkes of Holland. I don't know if she plays for the other team or if she's of Dutch lineage; doubtful, since those people are tall. Anyway, they rocked the Fulling Station in Bozeman for about 35 minutes. In one form or another punk rock is still alive, even if it involves a keyboard and spooky sounds emanating from same. The Dikes reminded me of punk rock by Queens of the Stone Age or White Stripes (I'm fully aware they're not punk groups per se, but if they did punk it would sound like the Dikes. There.) written for the soundtrack to Scooby Doo. Good, angry, fun stuff. Maybe if Adele were into punk she'd sound like this woman.
Anyway, they warmed up for the Sheepdogs, out of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. From the lead guitarist's Montana-themed t-shirt with three-quarter sleeves to the bassist's yellow western-style shirt and low-rise jeans to the guitar duets, it was 1975 all over again. Every influence I heard in their music was from a band of that vintage — Allman Brothers Band (they had the Betts-Allman guitar interplay more than once), Lynyrd Skynyrd, Doobie Brothers, Neil Young and Crazy Horse (another plains-based Canuck outfit). Not that it's a bad thing, though; I grew up with that stuff and these guys were faithful to it.
Just that they were an odd choice to open up for Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears, a James Brown-styled Motown-esque rock band from Austin (like the Dikes). They opened with an old blues standard, "You Don't Love Me," and away we went. The horns had their synchronized moves, the bass line thumped, the guitars crackled, Joe Lewis screamed, and the drums drove the bus close to the edge but never over. I picked up a playlist after the show and it made no mention of the 10-minutes of "Louie Louie" and "Surfin' Bird," punctuated with toke breaks. They jammed, they grooved, they popped.
And they made me write, those assholes.
