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Honestly I had never even heard Nashville Pussy when I ducked into The Grand Emporium to buy my ticket. I just knew that it was going to be an event. With a $10 ticket stuffed deep in my pocket, I headed out into the snow and down the street to waste some time at Recycled Sounds. When I was homeless I used to visit every record store on the strip every day. Half my day was spent combing through the new arrivals at Streetside, Roscoe's, The Discount Den, Ozarka's, Tracks, & CD Exchange in Bloomington, and I couldn't have imagined anything I would have rather been doing – or I could have been doing it. Now, however, after a half hour I was ready to move on even if it meant sitting in a smoky bar where I was sure not to know a soul.

So I walked back through the snow to that bar, and in that smoky bar I waited for approximately 43 hours before locals Parlay opened the evening with a robust welcome which got the audience's attention. Parlay's fans are an odd mix of typical midtown burnouts pushing thirty, the local skinhead contingent, and an older crowd used to seeing Parlay in a slightly less raucous form during his weekly blues gig at this same bar. Not many bands could juggle all those fans, but Parlay do it wonderfully and they turned in a smoking set of bluesy rock with all the intensity and attitude of punk rock.

Ernie Locke is a dynamic frontman [you may remember him from Tenderloin who helped define that Kansas City sound in the early 90s and got signed to Warner Bros. for their troubles] whether he's belting out a tune, playing nasty guitar riffs or blowing one of his many harmonicas. The show had all the signs of being one of those shows where the local just blows away the national acts and I started to feel sorry for Syrup who had to follow them.

However Florida's Syrup up'd the ante by coming out in flashy bell-bottoms, cowboy hats, and 70s open shirts with monster collars. Their drummer wore a fringed shirt made from a confederate flag, and they worked hard to earn their reputation as the bastard cousins of Nashville Pussy. Each member of the front three (2 guitars & bass) were about 6'3" tall and when they began the first song with synchronized dance moves, I knew that I was in for a visual treat.

What the band sounded like is fairly moot – I'd return to see the band live but can't imagine I'd ever own or listen to a disc of theirs. Their southern rock tinged with a flash of 80s hair metal played well in the bar but when the band added synchronized high kicks, they really had the audience jumping. I felt like I should scream and reach forward to try and touch these rock gods even if musically (and that's all that supposed to matter right?) they didn't do much for me. I suppose that is what entertainment is all about and Syrup certainly put the "show" in rock show.

It's lucky I took good notes during the openers, because when headliners Nashville Pussy began their first song, they made everyone forget anyone was ever on the stage before them. Describing a monumental rock and roll experience like Nashville Pussy is impossible using only the words so please, create pictures in your mind for the following words and phrases: "fire breathing", "machismo", "sex", "loud guitars", "tattoos", "white trash" & "sweat", and then do some multiplication.

Although I am not a fan of the genre they practically own, the band convinced me early in the set that they must be respected. Their music is powerful and sleazy and everything that rock and roll was born to be and any fan of rock music (or its derivatives) has to appreciate that.

Individually, Corey Parks' bass work was powerful and decisive and her fire spitting was even more engaging. Drummer Jeremy Thompson obviously ignored any formal training he may have had and concentrated on the three basics: loud, fast & hard. Blaine Cartwright's vocals were primal grunts that tore through my body in much the way Lemmy's do, and Ruyter Suys' guitar playing alternately sizzled and smoldered as she bobbed around the stage. Her real forte seemed to be teasing the crowd of men which pressed up against the stage. As they'd reach out and get close to her exposed bra (she removed her shirt early in the set) or her ripped leather pants (Parks' jeans also sported a fortuitous rip which nearly allowed a butt cheek to escape), she'd pull away and they'd admit defeat. Several times during the night, excited fans got too close to a band member and nearly took a boot to the head from them as a gentle warning. Although security was tight at the show, it appeared that the band could take care of themselves.

I, on the other hand, didn't make it through the show so easily. A particular asshole decided he should be up front for Nashville Pussy and tried continually throughout their set to displace me from the post I had occupied for over 3 hours. When it was obvious I wasn't giving way, he began pinching, poking, punching and finally trying to block my camera shots. Although I was able to set my camera on stage several times and pop the ass in his nose (I hoped I could get it to bleed and he'd leave to go attend to it), he persisted until Parks' last fireball was blown out over the audience and the band left the audience without energy or an encore.

If this all sounds like a grand notion to you, don't bother buying a CD and putting on your headphones, this is a band you have to see live. Don't know where to find them? Just hop in your truck and drive south with a twelve pack of Miller and a nudie magazine on the passenger seat. The band will find you. If you want to find me, I'm the one with the big bruise on his back and the smile on his face.