Ears still ringing from seeing Southern Culture on the Skids last night. Wonderful band, especially if you’re into rockabilly and surf guitar. They sound like Creedence Clearwater wanted to sound but couldn’t because they were from the Bay Area. The 10,000 Dick Dale surf licks made the picture complete.
Continental Club is one of those wonderful dive bars where you expect to find wonderful bands blowing the doors off. Opening act was Los Fantastiks, a gritty, bluesy combo that sounded a bit like ZZ Top might’ve before they got popular and impossible. Mike described it as AC/DC meets Rev. Horton Heat. Amazingly good band; we were concerned they might upstage the Skids. Didn’t happen, which made for an booty-shakin’ night o’ goodness. (Earth to God: why do they let people smoke in Texas bars? I’ll never get the smell out).
It’s funny, all the guys who told me they wanted to go, didn’t, but Linda, my boss, had her heart set on seeing a band, so I went over to her table after last night’s banquet to see if she was still interested. When I mentioned Southern Culture, this tall guy named Mike (well, I hope it was Mike, that’s how I remember it) sitting by her just says, “No way, they’re in town?” He, too, was game. His enthusiasm was catching; we brought along a couple more folks and had a high time. Mike’s unforgettable line of the evening: “I can’t get drunk below 7,000 feet.”
After it was over we were standing outside waiting for our cab, and I declared to my posse: we are the coolest copy editors in America at this precise moment. If you can prove your Friday night was cooler, I’d love to hear an account of it.
We piled five people into the cab for the ride back to the hotel. Now we’re much closer friends.
Now I have to think about copy editing again. I usually never do that on Saturdays, so it’ll be a challenge.
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