The Reverend Horton Heat, at the Ogden Theatre on Friday, proved a riveting if well-worn presence to the gathered faithful. Photos by .
I have to be honest. I signed on to review the Reverend Horton Heat show on Friday night at the mostly to check out boys.
Rockabilly dudes were one of my original loves (only second to the skater boys who used to hang out behind the mall when I was in high school), and I thought it would be fun to go to a Reverend show again and reminisce about a time when I had blunt-cut Bettie Page bangs and one could still smoke in bars. But like me, the greasers had aged, and the boy, or should I say, gentlemen-watching, was minimal. Very minimal.
The lack of dudes took a backseat to the Reverend, who was just as good, if not better than I remembered. A long, dramatic period of darkness preceded the entrance of Jim “Reverend Horton” Heath and his rhythm section as they opened the show with one of their many intensely twitterpating instrumentals.
Drummer Paul Simmons’ machine gun beats came through with a sickening force in “Revival,” as upright bassist Jimbo Wallace ran the show from in front of the kit, flipping his hand from the strings to the back side of the neck of his mammoth instrument. The Reverend stoically delivered songs like “Bales of Cocaine,” holding court front and center, nose and lips pressed firmly into the curvature of his vintage Shure 55 microphone.
“Martini Time” and “Big Little Baby” were the perfect build-up to the evening’s climax, the hysteria-inducing “Psychobilly Freakout.” The Reverend flipped his thick and woody custom-made Gretsch guitar around and played the body with his non-dominant hand, holding the instrument low at his hips like a Tommy gun. Riding out “Psychobilly Freakout,” Heath set his guitar against a leather-bound board behind him on the floor, getting down on his knees to worship the instrument, voodoo fingers tickling the air.
The stage went dark once again and a muffled, antiqued radio broadcast played in the distance. The lights rose to reveal the Reverend missing his red-orange blazer, readying himself and the audience for an instrumental Chet Atkins cover before launching into a lecture on the myth of Saguaro cacti existing in Texas. (Contrary to popular belief, the plants with prickly appendages depicted by artists in typical scenes of the state’s landscape are actually found in Arizona.) The sore subject came to light in the aptly titled “Ain’t No Saguaros in Texas,” which led into yet another instrumental piece.
Every light in the place lit up the stage for “Baddest of the Bad,” the devoted crowd screaming and stomping as Wallace unclenched his bass from the grip of his thighs, laying the boat of an instrument on its side. He then climbed on top of its hulking frame and rode the upright like a surfboard as we watched in awe.
The Reverend Horton Heat put on a phenomenal show, his tricks unchanged but still fresh and impressive. His standard stock of hyper-dirty ditties about women and booze were welcome in the Ogden Theatre/church, and each beer-gripping pompadour looked as giddy as I was to see the Reverend revive his psychobilly pursuit once again.
Like the bumper sticker used to read on the back of my Volkswagen Bus: “I was a sinner until I saw the Reverend Horton Heat.”
Bree Davies plays bass in , writes about her obsessions with Iggy Pop and Lil’ Wayne in and repeatedly fakes her own death at . She is also a self-proclaimed addict.
is a Denver photographer and a regular contributor to Reverb.
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