The Reverend Horton Heat

It’s Martini Time (Interscope)
by Nik Rainey

I just wanna testify brethren and sistren… Yes, fellow congregants, I too was a lost soul, drowning mah sorrows in synth-pop, a-writin’ Cure lyrics in all mah notebooks, livin’ a life of dee-pravity, wearin’ black on the outside, ’cause, mah frenz, black wuz how ah wuz a-feelin’ on the inside. (Lemme hear an “oh, yeah.”) I was gazin’ at mah shoes, kickin’ ‘gainst them pricks, overindulgin’ in that there psychocandy -æI was sick but no one would touch me. All those around me would look ‘pon mah big ol’ rooster do and despair. (Lemme hear an “oh, yeah” and a Mighty Lemon Drops B-side.)

Then came the Rapture, boogie chillen. In mah bed one night I was visited by a vision. Now that wuz not so unusual – all o’ that tetracycline and NyQuil does that to a boy – æbut this particul’r night I wuz greeted by the King of Kings of Rock ‘n’ Roll hisself. Ah knew it wuz him ’cause o’ his gentle, bee-nevolent gaze, his immaculately swivelin’ hips, an’ those sideburns that musta been shaped by God’s own stylist, so perfectly even wuz their length. With a gleam in his eyes that matched the glint of the Brylcreem in his quiff (lemme hear “a little dab’ll do ya”), he pointed at me an’ said, “Son, you’ve been wastin’ your time, taintin’ your immortal soul with all that teetotalin’ and that involuntary celibacy o’ yours. Meat may be murder an’ all, but it shore tastes good in strips on top o’ peanut butter. You hear me now, son, you best repent your evil-lackin’ ways, cast aside those limited-edition colored-vinyl Sub Pop singles, get yourself down to the Temple of the Two-Drink Minimum and cleanse your soul.” Then he emptied mah medicine cabinet and was gone.

A And frenz, you’d best believe that’s whut ah did. Ah brought me down to the Temple and found mahself aglow in the Heat. That’s the Reverend Horton Heat, don’tcha know. As he stood before mah tremblin’ form, six-stringed instrument of deliverance in his hands, I coulda swore there wuz a halo surroundin’ his skull. Then ah realized it wuz jus’ one o’ them there flourescents gleamin’ off the bald spot on his head. He gazed raht into mah eyes, pointed a ring-finger at me and said unto me three words that spoke volumes and lef’ dem lying ’round on the floor afterwards t’be used as drink coasters: “It’s Martini Time!”

He ripped into his psalmabilly litany with his two apostles standin’ ‘hind him, swaggerin’ immaculately on Damascus’ median strip, lahk he was a-slappin’ me upside the head with his (s)tone tablets, ten commandments wi’ a couple o’ extras for orderin’ before midnight. (Lemme hear an “operators are standin’ bah.”) Yea, ah swear ah could see the angels adjustin’ thar chinos and slickin’ up thar wings. He preached unto the youth (“Generation Why”), pleaded for tolerance (“Interracial cowboys/ a homo kinda love” – at least ah think it wuz tolerance), and on anon anon until Pastor Pyro hailed us all with a cry o’ “That’s Showbiz” and disappeared in a puff o’ cool. It’s fair t’say that ah wuz transformed. The Heat done cauterizemated mah soul an’ ah’m a changed man. Oh, shore, ah still wear all black, but ah’m a-gonna go mahself out and get me a bolo tie an’ start washin’ mah hair in 10W40 oil. (Lemme hear a “hallelujah”!) Now put a little more vermouth in that thar baptismal font – ah’m a-divin’ in.