Fitz Bands Rock the Cecils Jukebox...and are Really Really Really Good

Fitzgerald’s, and the bands that play there, are the butt end of many a joke about the state of music in our city. Yet there it is; the keystone of a much larger and better-attended rock and roll scene than that which might be called the loose assortment of acts defined in the tag cloud in the column to your right. Yet, as indie snobs, when reading that a gaggle of said acts will be spending an evening covering as oh-no-he-did-nt acts as Fugazi, Rage Against the Machine, the Pixies and other staples from the jukebox at Cecils, it could be understood how one might absolutely throw down $10 for an evening pre-judged as “awesomely bad.”

Got that one wrong.

From the moment we arrived, close to the end of Mourge City’s downstairs set as The Cult, it was pretty clear that an evening spent in cap-lock LOL wasn’t going to be so because it was bad, but because it was actually pretty good. As they launched into a set ending (duh) version of Fire Woman, it finally occurred to me that these guys weren’t dressed like a bunch of dingleberries: they were dressed as The Cult (ok, I should have been clued in two songs earlier by the drummer’s hilarious wig). Holy crap, I remember this video; the singer isn’t just singing like Ian Astbury, he’s performing like him too. That extra umph of shtick, not just playing their songs but actually being the band, was a theme that was executed pretty much perfectly for the entire night, piling on the fun.

Oh, and these bands all played really really well too.

Heading up the stairs, which more memories of high school being coming back with each step up those bizarrely familiar stairs, there were moments to spare before Full Release launched into a pretty much spot on stomp through the highlights of Rage Against the Machine’s self titled debut. And, again, it ruled (though they cheated as they are actually a full time cover band). It started to sink in at this point that the silly appeal of the music played by the like S.A.R.S., Big Brown Truck, lizfits and Sports, cover bands that we know and love, translates just as easily in the 90s as it does the 80s; Bombtrack is just as fun, and terrible, after all, as Holiday Road.

Back downstairs for The Contingency’s set as Fugazi (another thing oft forgotten about Fitz – they stagger their shows so you can see pretty much every band play every song and don’t have to stand around picking your nose while backlines are being changed out). Covering a band as deadly serious and revered as the cornerstone of Dischord Records is risky business. But The Contingency did it, and did it well. They’ve been on our list of acts to check out for a while now, and with this performance they moved quite a bit closer to the front of the line.

Back upstairs, Hell City Kings, Turbonegro. No surprise here, a band fronted by the commandant of the local Turbojungend nailed it, look and sound alike. As the jugend poured on the beer, front man Christian (in a wig, no less), poured on the Norwegian. It’s fun to see guys who look tough as the coffin nail geek out so freely. Well done.

Ok, now its time to blow minds: The Smoke Eaters as The Pixies. We’ve never heard or even heard of this band; they didn’t look familiar from the grocery store, the bar or the borough (that includes their broken-thumb friend that they signed on for Kim Deal duty). Who have no clue who these people are or what their story is, but if there solidly curated and fancifully executed performance as the Pixies is any indication, this could be the best band in Houston you’ve never heard of. We cannot emphasize the point strong enough: this band floored us.

Even Lonestar Pornstar surprised us a bit with the raw earnestness with which they tackled the Red Hot Chili Peppers catalog. And while we would never ever ever advocate listenership any band fronted by a white guy sporting both ‘Soldier’ and ‘Fueled by Hate’ tattoos, they way he thanked Fitz for asking them to be the Chili Peppers for the evening was, awe, kinda sweet. Oh rad, GIVEITAWAYNOW!

And so then there we were, outside the center of a very different scene in the very same city; one that books bands whose publicity photos alone send eyes reeling and who won’t get rid of those damn damn damn blacklights. The door guy doesn’t know what Hands Up Houston is, and he doesn’t seem to care. Just like us, he’s got his scene and he’s not terribly curious about what’s going on just over the tracks. Cheers to you man.