In the late ‘70s my father subscribed to Arizona magazine. To the juvenile eye it was a publication devoid of literary excitement or cultural interest: lush panoramas of Arizona desert; images of ordinary America indulging in typical American cultural past times. Arizona always seemed nice, but never enough to warrant serious attention.
Curt and Cris Kirkwood were teenagers in Arizona in the ‘70s. Their mother lived life to the full – later on, reflecting on Cris’ spiral into addiction and crime, Curt suggested Cris was cut from the same errant familial cloth. Like so many regional areas, what Arizona lacked in the way of adolescent excitement it made up for with a colourful narcotic scene (in Jerry Stahl’s cathartic autobiography, Permanent Midnight, Stahl finds himself flipping burgers at a McDonald’s in Arizona, as part of his rehabilitation program – within weeks, Stahl is back on the needle, with some coke on the side).
It’s 20 years since the Kirkwood brothers visited Australia with The Meat Puppets. Tanned and well-built, Curt Kirkwood has aged well. In contrast, looking like an emaciated Willem Dafoe, Cris has the weathered features of a man who’s gone 12 rounds in the narcotic boxing ring and been counted out a few times. Curt’s son Elmo is a younger, heavier and tattooed version of his father; when you see father and son dueling guitar licks later in the set, you can discern a telepathic connection. On drums Shandon Sahm – son of Doug (Sir Douglas Quintet) – bears a passing resemblance to Jim Osterberg of The Iguanas.
Curt is the natural leader of the band: he’s got the loose, comfortable on stage demeanour of a man born for rock’n’roll. He does shit with his guitar that defies accurate description; freakish solos, percussive synthesiser-like sonic explorations, rambling rustic melodies. Cris’ bass riffs ramble and swagger; Elmo gets plenty of time in the proverbial stage sun to show off his many and varied talents.
The music itself is mesmerising. There are various allegorical reference points, most of which involve drugs: chemical country, peyote rockabilly, speeding Allman Brothers. The Meat Puppets can turn a song on a ten-cent piece – or, as the Americans would say, a dime – and wandering journeys through the desert bleed into frenetic bar room dances which morph into psychedelic freak outs and back onto the porch. It’s less a collection of songs and more of a performance; you can close your eyes and you’re out there, walking, searching, feeling for something spiritual.
The cover of Sloop John B is amusing, and sweet; perennial favourite Lake of Fire transposes The Gun Club into a field of cacti, and we’re away again. There’s a break – maybe enough for a couple of cigarettes – and The Meat Puppets are back. This time it’s a trip further back in time: Freddy Fender’s Wasted Days and Wasted Nights and Doc Watson’s Tennessee Stud. Eventually the house lights and sound come on, and the show is over. A phenomenal musical experience.
BY PATRICK EMERY
Loved: The Meat Puppets.
Hated: That the show had to finish.
Drank: Fat Yak.
