Headliner plays music with soul

REVIEW

In my last column, which undoubtedly you read, I inexplicably declared my dislike for country music as a whole (excluding Willie Nelson, and as an afterthought, Johnny Cash), and explained how such a nice young lady as Ke$ha is able to control the top of Billboard’s charts with her single “Tik Tok.”

I received some fan mail after the paper came out, which, in no less than 5,000 words, explained to me that I am an ass and had no clue what I am talking about, period. Seriously. Not just about country, but about all music.

She’s right.

I am no musical historian and don’t spend hours seeking out the newest underground sensation. I can’t.

What I do know is what I like, and if it’s good enough for me, well dammit, it’s good enough for you.

With that said, I saw a life-changing show Saturday night.

Miracles happened at the Continental Club on South Congress Avenue in Austin. The opening band, The Relatives, was literally a group of brothers, cousins, fathers, sons and an uncle. You know the kind of uncle you call your “uncle” even though there is no actual blood relation; but since he’s been such a big part of your life, you have no qualms about the authenticity of the title or its true meaning, ‘cause you like the guy.

You know the end of the movie “Jay and Silent Bob?” “It’s the mother------- TIME!” That describes these guys, only they all wore matching suits, sang songs with a gospelish, religious undertone and ranged in age from probably 23 to 65ish. And they were not in “Purple Rain.” Oh yeah, and they rocked.

The headlining band is one I’ve been turned on to only in the past few months. They are a mixture of Otis Redding, James Brown and everything good involving a small-horn section. Weddings. Football games. Mariachi bands. Speedy Gonzales cartoons.

Not only were these guys really tight, a strange thing for a band that really has some raw sounds, but also more importantly, they had the time of their lives.

One of the few things I like about Coldplay—if you take away all the cheesy flown-in synthesizers, adorable British accents and bashful humility of Chris Martin—is those guys still have a blast on stage, and it reciprocates.

Black Joe Lewis and The Honeybears takes Chris Martin’s fun level through the roof. The energy in the small-capacity club almost tore it to shambles. In fact, while the audience was screaming for an encore, I believe the foundation shifted.

Based out of Austin, Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears has had the best-selling record at Waterloo for several months in a row. Their vinyl comes with an MP3 download and an album cover worthy of framing.

DO NOT STEAL THIS ALBUM!

Steal from the no-talent hacks making millions off writing the same song again and again and again. Nickleback, Fallout Boy or The Fray perhaps?

Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears deserve your money, your ears and your soul, because they’ve drained all of theirs and put it into this album, “Tell ‘Em What Your Name Is.” Give it a listen.