 "Photo: Larissa Mueller, Daily Texan Staff")
I had heard a lot about this King Khan fellow. That his live shows put audiences in an abyss of sweat and soul. That he does slow jams about entering his whole body through that certain part of a woman’s body. And his Sun Ra-meets-George Clinton getup is evidently huge with the ladies. I had to see him, and Saturday night, King Khan came back to the Mohawk with his partner in crime Mark Sultan, better known as BBQ, for The King Khan and BBQ Show. While they put on a performance that was by no means short on the rockin’, I didn’t get a glimpse of the madman that I hear can get even the tightest of hipsters’ pants off with ease.
The King Khan and BBQ Show is a primitive punk duo — and by primitive, I mean they think having a separate drummer is about as superfluous as having a bassist. In these times, economy is everything, and having to feed dead weight, whose only talents are banging on stuff and scoring heroin from crust punks, will kill your merch earnings in no time. BBQ had a quaint lil’ bass drum by his feet, which he pounded as he chilled in his chair and played his (not coincidently) percussive guitar lines. He is the minimun wage version of Rahsaan Roland Kirk. King Khan let loose guitar lines that sometimes hinted at ‘50s and ‘60s rock but eventually deconstructed into free-form jangle pop. This technique doesn’t need a fancy Marshall amp and a custom-made Gibson — a Vox practice amp and a $90 guitar from a Detroit pawn shop (which Khan proudly announced to the crowd) will do. He strutted around the stage like a poor man’s Chuck Berry, and I mean this in the best way possible. King Khan also has a hell of a yell. The front of the crowd engaged in lo-fi booty shakin’ that even resulted in some odd moshing during the encore.
Even more ghetto fabulous than the group’s music was its appearance. King Khan had on a very confused wig that wanted to be an afro but with succulent Rick James braids at the same time. BBQ wore a turban seemingly made out of an old Jewish lady’s pink track suit.
This was not a classical orchestra, folks — this was rock ‘n’ roll. As such, the duo had some interesting crowd interaction.
King Khan told a crowd surfer that if he wanted to surf, he should go to a Pearl Jam show. BBQ chewed out an unruly crowd member, telling the “jock piece of shit” to go to a rugby game to release his testosterone. For most of the show, however, the band had no problems with the crowd.
All of this was certainly fun, but I was expecting more, especially from what I had heard about King Khan when he performed with the Shrines over the summer. I’ve seen GWAR spew demon sperm, watched Atsuo from Boris float through the crowd and witnessed The Flaming Lips’ Wayne Coyne and his magic bubble. King Khan and BBQ had the potential to step up their raw energy.
Perhaps I needed a few Pabsts and a pack of Newports to get in the mood. Nevertheless, it was a good use of a Saturday, and the Mohawk is a lot nicer than a lot of downtown clubs.
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