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Honky Tonk Heaven: Hootenanny, Oak Canyon Ranch, SoCal
by Summer Burkes

“Dilettante” column originally published on 7.5.1997 in the SF Bay Guardian. Re-intro 4.6.2018 here.

I TOOK MY first road trip down south last weekend. No, it wasn’t to see all the cellphone-toting plastic surgery victims, the speed-addled surfers, or the place where River Phoenix died (although all three happened to fall in my path…. Okay, okay, I went to the Viper Room. So sue me.) I went down to Armageddon Land because El-Lay was hosting the swinginest, greasiest rock festival of the summer — Hootenanny.

we’re talkin’ 20-year-old film camera photos scanned straight from collage, people

The brainchild of promoter group 98 Posse, Hootenanny was designed as a yearly homage to the burgeoning swing/rockabilly scene in Cali. This one-day outdoor festival with three stages, ultra-hep vendors, and an amazing car show takes place at the stunning Oak Canyon Ranch outside of Irvine. Now in its third year, beautifully organized, and well-attended, the event shows no sign of slowing down.

Directions to the gig were hard to come by, but my friend and I finally made good by tracking a pack of pompadours in an old Corvair down a long, winding, desert road. We reached the dusty parking lot, walked almost a mile down a narrow footpath past a picturesque lake and rock quarry, and thanked God that we were so undevoted to the ‘scene’ that we were free to wear the poly-cotton materials of our own era. No fishnets and velvet cigarette pants for us, no sir.

these ladies were achieving some perfection that we would *never*

Outdoor music festivals are almost as good for people-watching as a Monster Truck Rally. All sorts of freaks showed up for the Hootenanny, but my two favorite factions to watch were the Old People and the Sharks, Jets, and Pink Ladies. The Old People, obviously there to see Chuck Berry and not really aware of what an eyeful they were in for, sat bored in the shade with their kids and Danielle Steel books for most of the day. The Sharks, Jets, and Pink Ladies, an endless source of fascination for me, were seen mostly loitering around their custom cars, looking for all the world like carbon copies of their grandparents. Hep.

The first band we saw, Tenderloin, had the psycho-roadhouse rock thing down pat. The drummer used to play with the Rev (that’s Reverend Horton Heat to the uninitiated), and his influences are obvious. The enormously fat and half-naked lead singer screamed loudly, pogo-ed with abandon, showed more ass-crack than a house full of plumbers, and wailed on a distorted harmonica with the kind of punk rock enthusiasm that would send Blues Traveler home crying to Mommy. Talk about starting off on the right foot.

Big Bad Voodoo Daddy then took the main stage in the blazing sun. This 10-or-so piece band, made famous by the movie Swingers, was proficient without being outstanding. All the Cab Calloway cliches for the ultra-hip swing set didn’t impress. I mean, of course all the bands at Hootenanny were ripping off somebody, but when a swing band doesn’t have a single trademark, gimmick, or distinguishing feature, they might as well be playing a wedding.

why were none of these cars tall enough to lie under, it was so hot

Speaking of a distinguishing feature…Russell Scott and his Red Hots don’t sound like a 3-piece, even though they are, and his scratchy voice doesn’t seem like it would mesh, even though it does. Scott’s standup bass and Peter Criss-like vocals made for some of the best authentic rockabilly of the day. We then stayed by the shaded side-stages to see Hot Rod Lincoln, the Paladins, and James Intveld deliver more of the same retro-only fare. The Paladins rocked my town like the Stray Cats–what energy!–but I wouldn’t recognize the other two bands if they came up and smacked me in the face. For me, four hours of rockabilly has the same effect as a droning techno song–no matter how good it sounds, once the satiation point is reached, dreams of opening fire on a crowded McDonald’s are never far behind.

As if the gods could sense that the crowd was starting to have too much fun, the biggest let-down of the day arrived, armed only with an acoustic guitar, a harmonica propped on his chest, and a collection of songs designed to torture even the most seasoned folkie. The supposedly legendary rockabilly star Steve Earle wheezed his way through a tortuously long set, provoking me to dub him Country Steve and the Fish. Except that there weren’t even any Fish to relieve us of the tedium. The disappointment was palpable. Don’t eat the brown acid!

As if to add insult to injury, the second Steve Earle finished, the Rugburns appeared–prompting crowd murmurings along the lines of, “how the hell did they get on the bill?” This frat band for the ironically challenged covered such classics as ‘Little Red Corvette’ without a smirk or a hint of ennui. How dare they!

no, YOU got bored with the music and flirted with handsome dudes at hootenanny who like to work on cars. YOU did that.

Ahhhh…the Supersuckers. Their honky-tonk punkabilly sent a wave of relief over the throng. Our happiness was slightly marred by the somewhat violent moshpit instigated by the SoCal Dude Set (no shirt, wallet chain, pants cut below knees, Vans with socks inexplicably pulled up like a German tourist). After tearing through some of their country punk classics, the Supersuckers invited Steve Earle onstage (argh!) to guest-star the whole ordeal into classic rock nowheresville. Boys, next time don’t get so close to your roots. It’s like Alex Chilton and Teenage Fanclub all over again.

Top Jimmy and then Robert Gordon were the next old-fart-abilly bands to darken the stage, each winning accolades from the Sharks and Jets in the crowd for the prize of Most Elvis-esque. Maybe because it was late in the day and my friend and I were tired, cranky, buzzed, and sunburned, but we really started to tire of the endless I-IV-V-I chord progressions and white trash cliches (lonesome train, my gal is red hot, etc.) that make rockabilly ‘authentic’. What was quaint and nostalgic at 1:00 turned to grating and uninventive by 6:00. I love rockabilly, I was raised on it, but I also love psychobilly, punkabilly, voodoobilly …anything that’s a re-working of the original perfect mesh between Celtic and African, country and blues. I don’t want to look like a Pink Lady, and I don’t want to pretend I don’t live now. I like living in an era where women can actually get onstage and rock out. I have no interest in being stuck in a time warp–I want to see where rockabilly is going as well as where it’s been.

sometimes graphics themselves can be like a time capsule picture

By the time Chuck Berry comes onstage (the only black person I saw all day, no lie), my friend and I were ready to leave. He’s great. In a lot of ways, he’s the father of this music. But all his progeny were already here, playing his songs before him. Sadly, and through no fault of his own, he seemed redundant. But he’s still got it–at 71 years old I’m just hoping I can stand upright — and this champ rocked, rolled, and blew all his proteges out of the water.

Next time, let the legend go first and then everyone else can take their poetic place in his shadow. This was the only planning glitch at Hootenanny this year; where they fell short on variety, they shone in keeping history alive. Yeah, I’m going next year.

Chuck Berry! Cross seeing that musical god off the bucket list

This is the first piece in my “twenty years ago this week” project; this post’s intro here

Oh and ten years after this article, in July 2007, the SFBG’s next nightlife columnist Marke B was up to some magical drinking

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