Federale, Highway, Growler Jan. 25 at Kelly’s Olympian

[January 30th, 2008]

[FAUX WESTERN] It’s Friday night and there’s a line stretching around the corner of Southwest 4th Avenue and Washington Street. Luckily, it’s the line for the pounding dance party at the Greek Cusina—the crowd at Kelly’s Olympian, while still bustling, is slightly easier to breach.

The boy-girl duo of Growler is onstage in Kelly’s recently acquired second room. The tattooed, gravelly voiced guitar player is the group’s namesake, I’m assuming. Growler’s girl half, meanwhile, belts out an alt-country ballad with gospel twang and nervous energy to spare. I move in for a closer look at the duo and notice a handwritten sign on Mr. Growler’s guitar, “VOTE NIGGA IN 08.” The irony or pop-culture reference is lost on me. Time for a drink.

Highway is beginning to tune up upon my return. Frontman Rob Bonds introduces his accompanying electric guitarist as “Nathan Junior.” Mr. Highway looks like Bob Dylan with a pinch of John C. Reilly, though he’s younger than either. But the Dylan comparison—circa Infidels—is even more apt when he sings. Bonds is an equally gentle and wild force, strumming acoustic chords while Nathan (real name) Anderson plays the ultimate wingman with understated harmonies and electric stabs. Most of the crowd misses all this, however, choosing hollered conversation and occasional cries of “Federale!” over giving Highway a chance.

When spaghetti western outfit Federale grants the audience’s wish, the six-member band looks the part. You can’t say the band’s appearance is authentic, as the genre is entirely artificial: Gunslingers in the Old West weren’t riding into the sunset soundtracked by Ennio Morricone (the composer behind many ’60s Italian Westerns). But Federale owns it. Guitarist Carl Werner is super decked-out, sporting David Byrne’s look from True Stories, complete with the cowboy necktie and a big Texas hat to obscure his face.

With Zhang Yimou’s Hero projected over the band, guitarist Collin Hegna—his shirt open a couple of extra buttons—whistles “The Road to El Ray” through his heavily Chapsticked lips (“Gotta lube up,” he’ll announce later). Songs from the band’s new release, La Rayar, start to run together shortly thereafter, but the crowd’s focus never wanes. Men pound their fists in the air to the two-drummer beat; women scream. Somehow, amid the smoke and spilled drinks, all these disparate cultural elements come together. If 79-year-old Morricone is the genre’s god, it’s pretty clear what that makes Federale. So praise ’em!