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January 24, 2005
Three Strikes and you're RTX
RTX
Saturday, January 22
Doug Fir--Portland, OR
It’s twenty-minutes after the scheduled start time for RTX and the only thing keeping me sane is the hope that maybe, just maybe, lead singer Jennifer Herrema is living up to her reputation, dropping soup ladels of heroin into her arm.
The events leading up to a show can ruin a concert even more than a bad band. This is especially true when I go by myself. Saturday at the Doug Fir three things bummed me out before a note was played, then RTX stepped under the lights and made it worse.
If you missed out, Royal Trux totally nailed it in the 90s. One of the few bands that was as good as advertised, with an urban legend to back em up. The strung-out Stones vibe of the band’s 10 releases ranged from chaotic noise to rusty blues stompers all fed through a syringe full of smack. Herrema and Neil Haggerty were Generation X’s Jagger/Richards, both with a Keith-sized drug habit.
I was excited to hear that the Herrema put her wheels in motion recently as RTX. I expected she’d be a dim-light version of the original recipe, but I had to find out for myself.
STRIKE ONE:
Virtually overnight, Doug Fir devolved to a meat market. Scattered outside the log cabin, clean cut dudes, virtually all in starched white gelato salesmen shirts, scouted for chicks. Inside, the smell of perfume and hair gel was like inhaling airplane glue. Was someone taping an episode of Blind Date tonight?
STRIKE TWO:
The Fir is the most reliable venue in town, their shows usually go military precise. Half an hour after Blitzen Trapper finished their set, RTX’s roadie accomplished little more than reorganizing cables on the stage. The rock star treatment lasted another ten minutes before anyone from the band popped out to set up. And possibly another twenty before the show actually began.
SRIKE THREE:
I knew I was in for it when the guitarist set his gear up. Dressed in a medieval cloak of sorts, he tuned up a guitar Rikki Rocket would have been embarrassed to play. Glossy and spiked at odd angles, it looked like a deformed Christmas Star. But I knew what it really was: guitar you find in the back pages of Musician’s Friend-- a heavy metal guitar.
Then a stick of black metal dynamite went off on stage. This KISS reject axe turned out to be his back-up. His primary instrument was an official Dimebag Darrel, Pantera sponsored, Dean ML. The metalest guitar of them all.
A lid screwed onto my worries momentarily when Herrema, stumbling drunk and juggling a PBR, cigarette and mic, slumped onto the stage in a swirl of curse words. Junkie-thin with mayonnaise white thickets of hair, she is the woman Courtney Love always dreamed of becoming.
Finally, I think, the smack-blues siren is here and my day is saved. Unfortunately, her band started playing.
Further proving my theory that this night was a waste—Herrema apparently joined DIO. She traded in rusty switchblade blues for manicured fingernail metal riffs and seemed pleased, or drunk, with the results.
Disappointed, I left halfway through the set. Sometimes you just can’t rescue an evening, especially when someone you once respected turns to the dark forces of metal.
Drinks: two beers.
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Posted by Pat at January 24, 2005 9:47 PM
