Concert Review
Wayne Hancock
at Molly Malone’s in Los Angeles, CA
March 18, 2005
How do you get a bunch of greasy, shitbag Southern California rockabilly nerds excited? You start your set off with “Folsom Prison Blues” and be the best goddam country singer under 50 in the world. Provided there isn’t some Micronesian crooner burning up the backroad bars of Palikir that I’ve never heard of, I think it’s safe to give Wayne Hancock that title. Hancock plays what he calls “juke joint swing”. It’s maybe a touch jumpier than standard country, but it’s the real fucking deal. Rockabilly nerds that collect and trade hubcaps and dress like the 12-year-old abandoned boy’s idea of “macho”, on the other hand, I don’t quite understand. One Fonzi in a purple cowboy shirt asked me to put out my cigarette because it gave him a sour tummy. Now, to be honest, all those dudes could kick shit out of me, and I was wearing my high school uniform sweater, so I’ll stop complaining.
Wayne Hancock’s been touring like a madman since he released his first album in ’95. His songs are mostly about ladies and roads and getting drunk. From his reputation, I figured he’d be half asleep, too stoned to put on much of a show, but he was lucid and animated as a badger up there. Maybe it was speed, though he seemed too friendly to be a speed head. It’s always pleasing to see a musician enter the stage through the audience. It makes the whole thing more personable.
And, as Hancock walked past in his signature Jimmy Buffet-at-a-labor-camp get-up, guitar at his side, I noted his lack of height (compared to what I’d imagined). That, and his jovialness. He seems like a happy motherfucker. He got up on stage, asked us if we like beer (we said, yeah) and dove into a nearly 3-hour set of some of the best original country songs you’re likely to hear by someone that’s not a battered old alcoholic. Hancock’s twang-assed whine of a voice is consoling in its lack of pretension. He’s straightforward—just like we like our singer/songwriters. He’s a showman in the old laidback fashion that lets you know it’s natural. Now if we could just get Mike Ness to cover some of Hancock’s songs and turn them into (saucy) adult-contemporary, maybe he’d get a shot at the bigtime and be knee deep in Polka-dotted, oil can tail.
