The squealing organ and the
reverend’s voice hypnotize
the audience into swaying,
hand-clapping drones. Then
a change in tempo, and a throaty
“Hallelujah!” drives the crowd into
a fire-and-brimstone tent revival.
Feet stomp. Souls are saved. It’s
possible someone will fall to the
ground and speak in tongues. This,
however, is because of booze. That
is, after all, the gospel of Whiskey
Dick Mountain.
“We encourage vices,” says Tim
Lannigan, the band’s bassist. “Alcohol
is the gospel we’re speaking. It’s
not a disease.”
“We are a rhythm and blues
band with biblical undertones and
sinful undercurrents,” adds Ryan
Coleman, who formed the gospel-blues-punk band with Lannigan in
2006, during a night of drinking.
Although the band’s name
is also the name of an actual
mountain in Washington state,
they don’t claim to be outdoor
enthusiasts.
“You should have heard some
of the other names I came up
with,” Coleman says.
Whiskey Dick Mountain
preaches a gospel — but this isn’t
Christian music. In fact, Coleman
says, if any listeners are confused
and bold enough to ask if they’re
a Christian band, they promise to
laugh and point at them.
The band simply likes the
sound of gospel music. And
campy church clothes. Their bible
salesmen outfits, their “Amen!”
outbursts — it’s satire.
In fact, Coleman says some of
the band’s songs are “so blasphemous.”
One song, “Baby Jesus,”
refers to oral sex acts.
“We are truly a garage band,”
Lannigan says. “That’s where we
practice and where we record.
Someone once told us our microphones
smelled like gasoline.”
The band clings to their lo-fi
music and claims they wouldn’t
sound right if they were well-rehearsed.
Tucked in a corner
of the Baby Bar, the band meets at a table shellacked with pin-up
girls. Round after round of Pabst Blue Ribbon, Miller High Life and
Olympia disappears at a dizzying pace. The band discusses the recording
of their first album, which is taking longer than expected.
Initially, they wanted to record on vintage equipment. That plan backfired; they ended up spending every penny they had on new equipment.
“The problem is,” Lannigan laughs, “we have a bad habit of playing for free, like at this bar called the Baby Bar.” (The space, conveniently enough, is co-owned by Lannigan).
Their album has been in works for more than a year and, despite the setbacks, Lannigan says the record will be done in one take, one beer at a time. Once they’ve figured out the recording process, the band says they’ll record multiple albums.
“We’re prolific enough song writers,” Coleman says, while another chimes in, “and almost good enough musicians.”
The band hopes that with an album, they can start touring; they joke that the farthest Whiskey Dick Mountain has traveled was to Hillyard, and once to the Spokane Valley.
But just past their playful banter — about not taking themselves or their music too seriously — you’ll find a band worth listening to.
Like most punk bands, their allure is buried in their live shows. The band claims to worry more about their energy than their musicianship, and it shows, in a good way.
Mounted
at the front of keyboard is a thrift-store painting of Leonardo da
Vinci’s “The Last Supper.” Behind this pulpit their organ player,
Reverend Ryan, delivers his sermons. By night’s end, the audience will
be hollering and tiptoeing on the line between good and evil. If he
succeeds, the audience is doomed.
Whiskey Dick Mountain plays with Dearly Departed and Hillstomp at Sunset Junction on Saturday, Jan. 15, at 9 pm. Tickets $5. 21 . Call 455-9193.
