Pure Country Gold

I saw a two man band play last night at Dante's. Pure Country Gold bashed out some fast and fuzzy swamp rock with both aplomb and unrestrained vigor. The Tuesday night rock and roll kids were digging it, showing their appreciation by shaking it all about and turning themselves around; that's what it's all about. PCG's brand of blooze was some strong, heavy shit--intoxicating, to say the least. The guitarist/singer, a balding stocky guy (Don Rickles with a Les Paul), played precisely through the thick distortion with some adept pluck and strum while the drummer, a hulking bearded man who looked to be fresh off the farm with the tractor still running, flogged his pristine vintage Pearl kit with no remorse. The two had palpable chemistry and never once made eye contact with each other, so intent were they on playing their respective roles and fueling the din. I was impressed by the sheer power they exuded. The drummer flailed and kept his kit shaking for the duration of the set, filling the hole left by the lack of a bass, as the guitarist/singer riffed and shouted through each song, practically ignoring the audience between numbers. And then, before I knew it, they were done. All that remained was the ringing of a cymbal, the lingering hum of the guitar and the shuffling masses clamoring for more.