Ever have a sneaking suspicion you aren’t very unique? This thought haunts me from time to time, and never more so than when I walked into Hemlock Tavern for the These United States, Red Cortez show and I quickly realized everyone in the joint had gotten the same Dress Code Memo as I—worn in dark skinny jeans, flannel shirt, leather jacket hanging on a pale skinned, lithe frame; well, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right? As my concert companion and I settled in with our beers next to the best free jukebox in the great city of San Francisco, I scanned the room for my own peace of mind. Yep…my suspicions were correct: we were most definitely ALL rocking some variation of the aforementioned outfit; I should’ve known right then and there that it was going to be an intriguing night.

Hemlock Tavern is perhaps one of the best venues in the city to see live music; it courts high-quality musicians that often play much larger, much more expensive venues and there isn’t a poor viewing spot in the joint (well, at least if you’re 5’7” or taller). Plus, it’s location smack in the middle of a relatively un-gentrified part of town means you avoid the douche-baggary that often abounds in crowds that frequent the ritzier parts of town but still manages to bypass the snobbery that pervades roundly publicized hip areas such as The Mission. Interesting people, mellifluously bawdy tunes, delightfully enclosed smoking area, and trustworthily blue-ribbon beer… what else is needed in this life besides a pocket volume of Howl?

 Allen Ginsberg, you say? I threw that in there because…well…I’m currently obsessed with his early journals and he’s one of my all-time favorite poets whose verbiage, as you can see, runs rampant through my brain more often than not. And although Harley Prechtel-Cortez—lead singer for Red Cortez—quoted a stanza from Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself, I was reminded of the first few lines of Howl during the concert:

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by

Madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn

looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly

connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-

ery of night

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tr8tuhH0ie4

 These United States have taken up the mantle The Boss left behind when then 1980s ended, which isn’t to say their music is contiguous but that their energies inhabit the same salt-of-the-earth presence when performed live. The lead singer, Jesse, holds his guitar like a shotgun close to the chest, a la Johnny Cash, but owns the stage like Bruce Springsteen with his SF Giants sleeved-undershirt, torn jeans, boots that intuit the meaning of a worksite, and a bandana reaching haphazardly for the ground from his right rear pocket. In Honor Amongst Thieves, the magma hot center of mythological Americana bubbles to the surface without restraint: Little John, Samuel Clemens, romanticized criminality and saloons of ill repute. This band of merry men offers a high-energy show that would’ve knocked my socks off had I been wearing any. And I think the group of ladies who formed the Estrogen Mosh-Pit directly in front of the stage felt the same. In case you aren’t familiar with what I’m referring to, women who engage in Estrogen moshing aren’t as violent as their male counterparts who initiate and take part in traditional most pits. No, these ladies tend to be heavily intoxicated and/or looking to attract attention from the talented men onstage and they bounce around slightly demonically like they’re having a pillow fight.

Ladies, settle down. This isn’t 80s night at The Cat Club and I’m trying to watch the show. Anyways, back to the music…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R8AyREnGc0s

Red Cortez pairs Dust-Bowl era sensuality with a post-punk urgency that inspires activation, optimism, and listening with your eyes closed; they are the fleeting glimpse of glitter in the swirls of dust a 1949 Hudson kicks up after picking up a beat hitchhiker in the middle of nowhere, which is the beginning of everything. I do not swoon often for bands, but I am weak in the knees. Perhaps it’s because, as I shall mention again, Harley recited a stanza from one of my favorite poets. Or perhaps it’s because they named a song after the tragic hero (Neal Cassady) in the novel (On the Road) that changed my life when I was a 16 year old enfant terrible dreaming of a more important existence in an otherwise uninspiring suburban wasteland. Or…perhaps it’s because this band will give you one of the best damn live performances of your life. Harley is everywhere at once; cavorting with the audience, arm slung around individuals in brotherly communion (during La Barca), then on to the keyboard, which transforms into an upright grand piano from a barrio saloon under the weight of his fingertips, and back to center microphone where he is a man possessed with lyrics—Frenetic, Fantastic, Formidable. And while he let’s the music drive him as it does, Calvin J. Love provides the perfect compliment to his right: stoic and largely subdued—much like the sultry American version of Pete Doherty.

In fact, they had just taken me to musical nirvana when a rat-faced man who smelled of whiskey and angry desperation approached me to inquire what I was writing in my “diary.” Now, I shouldn’t have to tell you this, fellas, but apparently I do: it is insulting to assume a WOMAN in a BAR is scribbling Dear Diary thoughts, especially when her moleskin notebook is inscribed with a quote from Bob Dylan. It assumes all we’re capable of is un-philosophical emotional pedantry. When I informed him I was a music journalist taking notes for an article, he again asked what I was writing and attempted to take my moleskin out of my hand. Big mistake; never touch a writer’s journal and never touch a lady in a bar unless she touches you first or you’re Johnny Depp. He then asked my professional opinion on the music we were hearing, and when I praised These United States and Red Cortez he loudly Pppffftttttted as he sprayed my face with wet particles of diluted whiskey and walked away in disgust. That’s right HE walked away from ME in disgust; you didn’t see that one coming, did you?

When I rejoined my group of ladies, I had just started to regale them with what had happened when the girl sitting on a stool directly in front of us (and friends with the woman selling merch for Red Cortez) fell backwards on account of extreme drunkenness and would have hit her head if my friend hadn’t braced her fall. Well…I suppose some people come to shows in search of musical revelations, some people come in search of salvation at the bottom of one vodka tonic too many, and some people come in search of a little body heat. Whatever your reasons, it would be nice if we could act like communicable adults from time to time, or at least maintain a civilized level of courtesy. I’m just saying…

Because, overall, Red Cortez delivers everything you want from a band: passionate and precise recordings, high-energy live shows that manage to outperform their stellar recordings, and videos readily accessible on You Tube (as well as their website) that have an addictive, uncompromising aesthetic uniquely their own. Plus they offer free downloads (CLICK HERE). And now, thanks to Rat Fink and Ms. Humpty Dumpty had a few too many, I’ll have to attend another Red Cortez show to see their full set, which I’ll be able to do quite easily when they’re back in San Fran in the beginning of November with Airborne Toxic Event.

Which means “I’ll see you again, my best friend. We’ll climb down the mountain, you do it again. You know it’s not over, till you say when…”