Fort Worth Weekly // February 7-13, 2024

February 7-13, 2024 FREE fwweekly.com

Yes, LABELS With a new album on the way, this young yet fully formed punk trio demands your ears now.

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FEATURE Only a select few will survive rampant cultural consolidation — and it ain’t you and me.

BY PAT R I C K H I G G I N S

EATS & DRINKS Western chic thrives at the Bowie House hotel bar on the bricks.

BY CHRISTINA BERGER

STUFF Taylor’s squad or Gavin’s homeboys — who you got?

BY ANTHONY MARIANI

STAGE This Séance fails awesomely at Amphibian Stage.

BY EDWARD BROWN

PRICES VALID 2/7/24

THROUGH 2/14/24

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AVAILABLE FOR CURBSIDE PICKUP & DELIVERY VALENTINE’S DAY MEALS FOR TWO STARTING AT $39.99 FEBRUARY 13-14, OR IN-STORE FEBRUARY 12-14.

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Volum e 1 9

N umber 42

Febr uar y 7-1 3, 2024

INSIDE

STAFF Anthony Mariani, Editor Lee Newquist, Publisher Bob Niehoff, General Manager Ryan Burger, Art Director Jim Erickson, Circulation Director Emmy Smith, Proofreader Michael Newquist, Regional Sales Director

Counterrevolutionaries

Jennifer Bovee, Marketing Director Stacey Hammons, Senior Account Executive

The chasm between the cultural haves and have-nots is almost as big as the socioeconomic one.

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‘Moral Law’ Rules

LABELS’ third and ultimately killer-est LP arrives later this month.

By Steve Steward

Cover photo by Levi Anderson

CONTRIBUTORS Christina Berger, Edward Brown, E.R. Bills, Jason Brimmer, Buck D. Elliott, Juan R. Govea, Patrick Higgins, Laurie James, Kristian Lin, Cody

Deconstructing Harry

Neathery, Wyatt Newquist, Steve Steward, Teri

Does the world’s greatest escape artist ever crash Amphibian Stage?

By Edward Brown

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Webster, Ken Wheatcroft-Pardue, Elaine Wilder, Cole Williams

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EDITORIAL

BOARD

Laurie James, Anthony Mariani, Emmy Smith, Steve Steward

4 Feature 8 Stage 10 Party Time Section

Night & Day. . . . . . . . . . 11 Superbowl Stuff. . . . . . 12 ATE DAY8 a Week . . . . 13 Big Ticket Saturday. . . 15

16 Eats & Drinks 18 Music 19 Classifieds

Backpage . . . . . . 20

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Clintastic, Brand Ambassador

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The Bowie House bar goes heavy on the haute-Western theme and the creative cocktails.

Wyatt Newquist, Digital Coordinator

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Hotel Cowtown

By Christina Berger

Tony Diaz, Account Executive

Cour tesy Evan Woods

By Patrick Higgins

Julie Strehl, Account Executive

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Smells Like Corporate Spirit In a limitless swamp of “content” and political fatigue, media empires scrape the sky, limiting choice and neutering creativity.

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H I G G I N S

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P A T R I C K

Sometime in early October 1991, my best friend Jason and I sat perched on the padded vinyl bumper that bordered the edges of his twin-sized waterbed. He’d just gotten a Super Nintendo Entertainment System for his birthday a few weeks prior, and he was demonstrating the console’s state-of-the-art gaming technology. It was stratospherically superior to the embarrassment that was the plain ol’ regular NES that unworthy peasants like me were forced to make do with.

He underlined the point by mercilessly beating me round after humiliating round in the futuristic racing game F-Zero. After about an hour’s worth of thrashing, when the enviable novelty of the console had worn well off, I proposed we watch a little TV in lieu of subjecting myself to further dominance.

I couldn’t tell you what random music video was concluding as he flipped the input selector on the back of his 12-inch all-in-one and the warming electromagnetic rays of MTV filled the room and my eager retinas.

I also don’t recall what products were being hawked during the commercial break that immediately followed, but I can vividly recall the exact position of my body as I lay prone on the waterbed. My legs dangled over the vinyl bumper and my upper body slowly rose and fell with the little wave caused by Jason returning to sit after grabbing us each a soda from the kitchen when our favorite cable channel returned to its programming with an enticing graphic teasing “World Premiere Video” spinning across the screen.

I sat up just in time for the chiming of the now-iconic opening chords, followed by thundering drum fills oddly synched with the image of black-clad cheerleaders’ pompom’d gyrations and a song that suddenly exploded, and then my brain exploded, and I was never the same again.

Not only did “Smells Like Teen Spirit” instantly reshape the music I listened to then — marking a sudden and decided shift from a passive consumption of the standard, generic chart-toppers of the day toward a specifically narrow and clearly defined pursuit of the anti-mainstream — it also reshaped who I was as a person. My identity became that music. It initiated a rapid

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B Y

Netflix no longer asks us if we’re still watching because they know that we are.

transformation in me from the sensitive, nerdy nobody I was in elementary school to the sensitive, nerdy punk-rock nobody I, to some degree, still am today. Just about everything I enjoy — from the bands I love to the films I watch and the books I read — somehow all extend like a great interlacing web from that moment. It was an awakening in me. It was my own cultural Big Bang.

This vignette is not unique to me by any stretch. All across America, unexceptional youths sitting on waterbeds, or bean bags, or shag-carpeted floors, had their brains rewired at the same exact moment in late ’91, and it resulted in a seismic cultural shift at the time which really can’t be quantified.

The wave of counterculture that followed the release of Nirvana’s major-label debut affected nearly every facet of young life, from the clothes we wore to the subject matter of movies and TV shows and even to the political sensibilities of the time. The cultural reverberations helped elect an unknown 46-year-old Democrat from Arkansas who played the sax to the highest office in the land.

There is a lineage of these sorts of cultural temblors. Youth perpetually turn away from the establishment of their forbears and seek new modes of expressing their own ideas. I’m sure the impact of the Beatles’ first appearance on Ed Sullivan was similar for my parents’ generation. The Sex Pistols sent another shockwave 10 years after that.

We could say that a smaller wave crested just another decade after my own cultural epiphany with the sudden out-of-nowhere appearance of The Strokes. Heralded as the next-gen saviors of rock ’n’ roll, their

too-cool, acerbic New York nonchalance was thrust upon an unassuming Bush-era America and sent legions of high schoolers into Guitar Centers to buy gear to start their own bands. Going back further, how many Stratocasters do you suppose were sold after the release of Buddy Holly’s “That’ll Be the Day”? Or leather-adorned flattop acoustics when Elvis had his own debut on Sullivan?

How many aspiring trumpeters took up arms after hearing the transfixing bell-tone runs of Louis Armstrong?

Indeed, music is only one vehicle for these countercultural revolutions. There are countless other movements, intentional or otherwise, represented by all the humanities. Jack Kerouac and the Beats were at the vanguard of written expression at one time. Duchamp, Dalí, and the Dadaists challenged the very essence of what could be called “art.” Jean-Luc Godard pushed celluloid with the French New Wave. Each of these waves, either big or small, contributed to the greater pantheon of human artistic expression and in their way progressed that pantheon into new areas where it had not previously existed. The aim of creative endeavors is the new, the different, the strange.

I belabor all this glorification and grandiosity upon past cultural eruptions led by young people for one reason. As I look at the current cultural landscape through the eyes of a middle-aged father, I project the future my kids will come of age in, and I feel deeply saddened at the very real prospect that they may not experience moments like these. Surely individuals will have their own private sudden and inner world-changing revelations, but the chances of one on the titanic, ubiquitous scale of previous, similar sea changes? I fear not. Nirvana could not happen in 2024.

Record labels no longer seek new and exciting sounds. Corporate consolidation has seized nearly every avenue of the cultural milieu and has assigned monetary value (or lack thereof) to every form of human expression. It has developed a risk aversion that churns out homogenous, safe, and, most importantly, predictably financially lucrative “products.” No imprint now would spend millions of dollars to show the world a sound they’d never heard of before. That money is earmarked for giving us more of the same. Forever and ever.

The same narrow corporate focus purveys every avenue of artistic expression, from filmmaking to literature. The visual arts were replaced by graphic design long ago.

No postindustrial creative landscape has ever been in more desperate need of a countercultural overhaul than right now, yet it seems that in no other time has it been more difficult to enact one.

“ ‘Remember when?’ is the lowest form of conversation.” — Tony Soprano I can already sense the backlash, partly because you cannot put any opinion into text and put it out into the world without some sort of negative response, yet I can already feel the charges of “good ol’ days syndrome.”

That accusation is probably fair. As each generation gets older, it becomes harder for them to relate to the subsequent one. Every aging group will at some point feel like “it was better back in our day.”

I happen to feel that way because it’s true. My generation rode the crest of one continued on page 5

C o u r t e s y N i r v a n a / Yo u Tu b e

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wave in a long, unbroken chain of countercultural resets. Since the beginning of modernization, as soon as cultural society began to stagnate, some reversal came along to jar it from its complacency and move creative expression forward.

This self-satisfaction, however, does not make me an old man screaming at clouds, bemoaning “kids these days.” It isn’t that I don’t relate to Gen-Z’s/Alpha’s culture.

It’s that I don’t see a culture present among them to be able to relate to or not. Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t because I think the current generation is inherently uncreative or any less driven. It is because I believe they are coming of age in an era in which the entrenched system is so effectively rigged against them and is so designed to crush any innovation and novelty into irrelevancy that they are unable to develop one.

Sickeningly, my generation, the one that straddles Gen X and elder Millennials, has joined forces with the evil Boomer corporate interests and cemented itself into the driver’s seat of the cultural zeitgeist. A generation born of its own disaffected cultural revolution is now almost sociopathic in its bend toward nostalgia and sameness at the expense of artistic progress. An age of individuals who prided themselves on eschewing the mainstream have now become the mainstream, and they have no tolerance for the type of overhaul they themselves benefited from in their formative years.

The tried and true, the rehashed, repackaged, “reimagined,” and re-released are now choking out the groundbreaking, the original, and, most importantly, the challenging with such efficiency that most of us aren’t even unaware of it. In the eyes of the big business interests bent on commodifying the arts, kowtowing to the lowest common denominator has not only become the predominant strategy. It’s the only strategy.

There is evidence of this in every

aspect of human creativity. One of the most glaring surrounds the current state of live music. The closures of several local venues in recent weeks has been a topic of steady consideration here and (of course) online.

Despite the optimism of some in the local scene that these types of closures tend to be cyclical and are bound to improve at some point, the problem is not limited to Fort Worth. Recent years have seen the shutterings of dozens of music-focused businesses across the country — and outside of it — for the last several years. Australia’s Happy Mag recently chronicled its own country boarding up more than 1,300 independent venues in the last couple of years alone.

How do these closures square with the fact that live music set a record $25 billion in ticket sales last year? Easy. Established touring acts have taken every cent of wouldbe concertgoer’s live entertainment budgets.

Instead of seeing someone new, we are reliving our youth with nostalgia acts. Last year, I spent hundreds of dollars on shows by the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs, Modest Mouse, Unwound, Dinosaur Jr., Blonde Redhead, the Flaming Lips, and The National. Every one of those bands I began listening to at least 20 years ago. These account for just mid-tier “independent” acts. The price point and the market share of big live entertainment only increases when you consider true mainstream acts like T-Swift, the Rolling Stones, Beyoncé, and Foo Fighters (each also with careers spanning at least two decades). Ask me — a supposed member of the scene who plays in several local bands — how many local up-and-comers I caught this past year in clubs, and I will double over and fall to my knees in guilt and shame.

It doesn’t stop there. Commercial radio has never been a super-reliable gauge of the health of the counterculture, but the recent consolidation of stations has driven the format’s already unbearable redundancy into hyperdrive. Pre-programmed Jack™ FM stations are present in every market to administer your daily dose of “White Wedding” and “In the Air Tonight.” Pop continued on page 6

Thursday, February 15 5–8 p.m. | FREE Enjoy an exclusive evening with free food and tunes for college and graduate students.

Listen to music in the galleries, make some art, and get inspired by the Carter’s collection!

PLAN YOUR NIGHT

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Nirvana could not happen in 2024.

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stations offer no more variety. Even the list of top-played tracks on the slowly dying format of scare-quoted “modern” rock reads like it came straight out of 1994. Of the 10 most-played songs on modern rock stations today, seven are from Seattle’s Big Four (Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, and Alice in Chains) alone. The rest belong to AC/DC and Metallica. In this context, the term “modern” is losing its meaning nearly as much as it does in its application to midcentury furniture design.

Surely, streaming services with their endless options and personal control are a way to escape the incessant rotation of the same two dozen songs on your local frequencies. Not so fast. Data shows that by far the most money paid out by providers like Spotify and Amazon Music (i.e., the most streams played) goes straight to the big record labels. The bulk of that dough comes from pre-set playlist engagement — these are often playlists curated by those same major labels featuring the same decades-old, tried-and-true artists from said labels’ own rosters. The labels push the playlists, the provider monetizes the engagement and then further pushes the playlist, and the cash windfall between the two keeps the whole cycle going.

Magazines were once a compass for discovering new music. Corporate consolidation has devoured most of these, too.

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Cour tesy Wikimedia Commons

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Pre-programmed Jack™ FM stations are present in every market to administer your daily dose of “White Wedding” and “In the Air Tonight.”

Following the lead of mega corps purchasing independent print outlets like Rolling Stone and SPIN decades ago, the country’s most popular online music rag was recently bought by Condé Nast. The global multimedia conglomerate decided to fold Pitchfork under the most obvious parent company for a once underground-music tastemaker: the men’s fashion mag GQ. Condé Nast also has an extensive business relationship with Universal Music Group, the largest record label in the world with more than 15 “independent” imprints under its umbrella.

Now, if you look at Pitchfork, nearly three of every five articles are about one of their “150 Best Albums of the 1990s.” Coincidence?

You know better.

It’s not just the music industry that’s been on a counterculture-killing nostalgia trip. Taken a look at what’s playing in your hometown multiplex at any point in the

last five years? Somehow theater marquees still read like it’s pre-Y2K, too. Sequels, reboots, and franchises dominate showtimes.

Superhero movies go head-to-head with the latest installments of action properties like The Fast and Furious and Mission Impossible or a fifth (!) Indiana Jones. This fall even sees the release of a new Beetlejuice, a follow-up to a film originally released 36 years ago.

Couple this with the Transformers and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles franchises that will seemingly never go away, and Gen X has gone absolutely mad with nostalgia.

But we’re fortunate enough to live in the golden age of prestige television, right?

Kind of. There seems to be no end to new quality drama and/or comedy series. Shows pop up out of nowhere and overnight become a dominant topic of conversation.

Streaming services are in a constant content war, attempting to steal viewer eyeballs

from rivals via big-budget, highly produced serials, and consumers flock to suck it all in greedily. Is this because all these buzzy shows are good? Sure, a lot of the time. But are they good for us? The thing is, prestige TV is so great mostly because most of us worker bees would much rather stay home after eight hours of breaking rocks with our bare hands and passively consume culture than do anything that requires any effort of any degree like, I dunno, getting dressed, leaving the house with our weary debit cards in tow, driving in traffic, and attending a local concert. Streaming and podcasts have become so popular in part because we have suffered through a pandemic and now seven running years of antidemocratic bullshit, and we are tired, and our bandwidth is utterly tapped. I’m surprised any of us ever leave the house at all.

Netflix, Hulu, Max, and other services know this and happily capitalize on it. They are now diverting resources once allocated to novel theatrical releases to home-based long-form content designed specifically to achieve maximum numbness among viewers and offer endless bingeable engagement.

After a few hours, Netflix used to ask us if we were still watching. They don’t bother to now because they know that we are.

Again, consolidation and its impact aren’t limited to just the popular artistic disciplines. The literary world has also become just as homogenized. Over the past couple of decades, there has been a steady fall in the number of publishing houses, continued on page 7

Buried beneath all my gnashing of teeth at the consolidation of corporate media’s control of the arts is the impact of the internet.

The world wide web is supposed to be the great equalizer, democratizing the ability of artists to get their work in front of eyes or into ears with an ease that circumvents monied corporate gatekeepers, yet that idealistic vision of the accessibility of the online world has sadly been replaced by a cruel and ironic reality in which artists might actually have even less of a chance of being noticed than ever.

Algorithms reject the new and inspiring in favor of the same and the repetitive, prioritizing lasting engagement over lasting impression. There is an ever-increasing social media-driven monetization of “likes” and “follows” that bastardizes creative expression and motivates “creators” to focus on short, bite-sized, surface-level “content” to capture even a few seconds of attention from scrollers. Rewards are given for a temporary and ever-revolving virality rather than a true artistic expression with real emotional connection.

The internet has connected us closer to one another than we have ever been, but the feeling is often that we are somehow further away from current and future “friends” than at any preceding time. Absent is the collective experience so essential for the beauty (or horror) of the arts to truly sink in. Who knows if that anarchist high school gym video would have impacted me in quite the same way if Jason wasn’t sitting beside me, mouth agape, wearing the same, awed “What the fuck is this?!” expression on his face. If you’ve ever watched a band soundcheck, you know the difference between how impactful the music they’re playing is to an

empty room versus how it hits played to a packed house just hours later. The collective “oooh”s and “aaaah”s are necessary for the spectacularness of the fireworks display.

That artists have unprecedented potential for reach is a good thing. The price is that everyone has the same reach. This again incentivizes artists to resort to humiliating social media marketing tricks to stand out.

It’s art created for garnering attention rather than connection. I fear that the next potential Nirvana, or Public Enemy, or David Foster Wallace, will disappear among the vast onslaught of guitar-wielding influencers and nonstop viral online content generation, lost like a single raindrop in the Atlantic.

The stagnation of artistic output, whether by the hands of corporate interests or the anonymity of an increasingly online world, is at an all-time high. How can there be such an overwhelming multitude of creative media with so little of it seemingly creative? There may have never been an era riper for a countercultural overthrow of the mainstream than now, but the forces we’ve mentioned have become nearly impenetrable and exist on a scale previous generations did not have to contend with — or could never have imagined. Goliath has grown to such size as to be impervious to David’s sling. The progression and growth of the societal artistic spirit that is so essential to what makes us human is being slowly replaced with a numbness and a banality that are starving off that essential spirit within us as individuals. When art no longer moves us, we are no longer moved to create art.

For my kids’ sake, I truly hope that I’m wrong. It is my sincerest wish that we are simply in a quiet moment before the next countercultural revolution, that the next generation is as aware of the creative stagnation as this old man yelling at clouds.

My favorite Minutemen song is “History Lesson Part 2.” It’s the pioneering California trio’s ode to how punk rock — like it did for me — changed their lives. The opening line is “Our band could be your life.” The line was borrowed by famed music journalist Michael Azerrad as the title for his book about the American underground music of the late 1980s and early ’90s, which featured many bands that were my life at one point or another. I truly wonder what new band could be forming right now, unknown to bitter and jaded Gen-Xers, that could be the life of my kids’ generation. I have to hope that there is one. History tells me that, against the odds, there will be. And I will not understand it, because it is not meant for me. It is meant for the opposite of me. And I will rejoice in its rejection of me. l

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especially independent ones, and those that remain have moved away from thought-provoking literary fiction toward shocking, crime-based modern-day pulp and celebrity biography. The number of legitimate competing houses has fallen from about 15 to 20 in 1990 to just five today — four, if the merger between Penguin Random House and Simon & Schuster can ever make it past the antitrust policies of the DOJ. The house that would like to see that merger finalized, Penguin Random House, which is currently the largest of the remaining publishers, accounts for 40% of the literary market. That means that two of every five books sold line the pockets of the publishing behemoth’s shareholders. If Penguin Random House ever gets its way and can swallow S&S, that figure would jump to six of every 10 books sold. It’s no wonder that James Patterson has been able to slap his byline on more than 200 books ghostwritten by people whose names you’ll never know and that the aisles of Target Super Stores groan with the hottest corporate-backed crime dramas by Colleen Hoover and Taylor Jenkins Reid instead of more substantive works by the likes of Chris Bachelder and Nell Zink.

Every aging group will at some point feel like “it was better back in our day.”

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STAGE

Amphibian Stage’s darkly humorous Instructions for a Séance may be the perfect escape from modern-day angst.

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E D W A R D

Katie Bender (second from left) frequently breaks the fourth wall by chatting up audience members during Instructions for a Séance.

B R O W N

The set of Instructions for a Séance looks like an escape room, with seemingly random objects everywhere, and that is indeed part of the appeal of Amphibian Stage’s current production. In Katie Bender’s 70-minute play, theatergoers are invited to participate in an unfolding attempt to conjure the spirit of Harry Houdini. They’re seated in Bender’s living room as the playwright playing herself describes her avid interest in the life and death of the famed HungarianAmerican escape artist.

Stage right near the back wall sits a large wooden box that Bender says was made to the exact specifications of one of the magician’s famous escape props as a means of enticing his spirit to make an appearance — Bender said that ghosts are drawn to familiar environments. From the start, our host broke the fourth wall, chatting us up as she built suspense over the looming paranormal encounter. (Fair warning: If you snag one of the front tables, you will become part of the play.)

Bender clearly has a knack for comedic writing and delivery. Her quips during the

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Disappearing Acts

first half elicited steady chuckles, like when she drew similarities between herself and Charles Bukowski.

“He’s probably a terrible role model,” she said. “I could never drink that much and write, but maybe I’m not committed enough — like, to drinking.”

The biggest laughs came around the midpoint, when the playwright/lead actor, after setting the scene for what was supposed to be a spectacular dialing into the afterworld, failed to compel Houdini’s spirit to so much as ring a bell as a sign of his presence. Deflated, Bender moaned and pressed her body against a black-and-white portrait of the magician before climbing up and lying on top of the large escapeable box in abject defeat.

Bender’s character is as witty as she is self-effacing, and the playwright used each moment of failure to great comedic effect, like when she mimicked Houdini’s voice with an alternating New York City and Boston accent that even she admitted was likely far from what the native Hungarian sounded like.

Instructions for a Séance Thru Sun at Amphibian Stage, 120 S Main St, FW. $17-42. 817- 923-3012.

Bender’s lines meandered from thoughts on her personal, often unfulfilled life to Houdini and her research into séances, nearly every word united by the theme of escape, which often led to poignant moments like when she confided her own dreads about the ennui that characterizes capitalist America and the specter of the looming election, in which a criminally indicted sexual predator could once again win the presidency.

Watching a play about escaping reality may seem potentially reductive — audiences often attend the theater to escape reality, after all — but Bender’s exploration of the theme takes enough detours to keep the material from becoming morally didactic.

The play indeed works as well as it does because of her acting, which requires her to assume several characters in addition to her

own manic persona. One scene where she is possessed by a spirit leaves her reciting entranced lines rapidly. Another effective theatrical device is her use of the stage, which she covers several times over the course of an hour. She effortlessly draws the audience into her world, sometimes by walking up and down the center aisle of the stage and addressing lines to individual theatergoers.

During the first half, the play seesaws between Bender’s diatribes and efforts to pull off a successful séance, but the action picks up in the second half, where possessions, uncanny events, and even a disappearing act kick up the tension before settling down again.

Part dark comedy, part thriller, Instructions for a Séance takes abrupt turns that lead the audience into thinking the action is going in one direction even as the master illusionist (in this case, the playwright) has other plans in mind. Even though Houdini didn’t appear, the world’s greatest escape artist may well have enjoyed this homage to the art of misdirection and illusion. l

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B O V E E

Welcome to the Valentine’s edition of Night & Day. Today thru Wed, Feb 14, there are many ideas to consider. Here are some choices for every day of the week.

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Since Tina left Ike right here in North Texas, it’s Wednesday apropos that we get a stop on the tour of TINA: The Tina Turner Musical. The life story of the

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In honor of Galentine’s Day, gather up the ladies and hit the Make & Take Thursday Workshop at Board & Brush (4620 Bryant Irvin Rd, Ste 524, Fort Worth, 817-953-0933) 6pm-7pm. Choose from various projects and colors to create a unique gift or a new piece for your home.

Drinks, snacks, and vendors are included.

Registration is $20 at BoardandBrush.com/ FortWorth.

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Friday night doesn’t seem to be as love-oriented as Saturday, but I was still Friday able to find a couple of interesting choices. For starters, if things

Eric Eaton brings Valentine’s Eve Magic for Adults to Hyena’s Comedy Night Club Tue, Feb 13.

aren’t going well for you and your better/ worse half, there’s always the free marriage conference hosted by Crossroads Church.

For info on Love on Cloud Nine Simulcast Fri-Sat, visit Facebook.com/CrossroadsTX. As for fun Friday events, artisans will turn hot glass into art at a Glass Blowing Demonstration at the February Open Studio Night at SiNaCa Studios (1013 W Magnolia Av, Fort Worth, 817-899-0024) 6pm-9pm. Attending is free, but you must reserve a spot on Eventbrite.com.

Or you could attend the Love of Yoga & Chocolate at Urban Yoga (1706 8th Av, Fort Worth, 817-908-3569) 6pm-9pm for $60 per person at WellnessLiving.com and enjoy a chocolate tasting and some downward dog and cobra and half-bow and … just do it!

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With the actual holiday falling on a Wednesday, this Saturday is when the most Saturday Valentine-related festivities are happening. There are so many that we’re putting them in their own separate, notheart-shaped box, because nothing says “I love you!” properly than when you’re saying it shoulder-to-shoulder in a crowd.

Cour tesy MGM Studios

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The Princess Bride screens at Arlington Music Hall Mon, Feb 12.

Cowtown Coliseum (121 E Exchange Av, Fort Worth, 817-625-1025) invites you Sunday to bring your love to the Mexico en la Sangre (Mexico in Our Blood) fiesta. This celebration captures the art of charreria (Mexican rodeo), caballos bailadores (dressage or dancing horses), folklorico, and live music. Festivities begin with a special parade at 11:30am, followed by a show at 2pm. Tickets are $35 at CowtownColiseum.com.

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When I asked my husband if we could go to tonight’s 7pm screening of The Princess Monday Bride at Arlington Music Hall (224 N Center St, Arlington, 817-2264400) as part of the Winter Movie Series, he

simply said, “As you wish.” If you know, you know. After all, we used the wedding vows from this movie for our own. How could he refuse? Love. Twue love. Tickets are $5 on Eventbrite.com.

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Back in town with his adults-only act, Eric Eaton brings Valentine’s Tuesday Eve Magic for Adults to Hyena’s Comedy Night Club (425 Commerce St, Fort Worth, 817-877-5233) 8pm. (Eaton’s name may be familiar. He was on the TV show Masters of Illusion.) Tickets start at $25 at Prekindle.com.

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Today is the day. I have two final suggestions for those Wednesday in love and one for those saying “nope.” Take a walk, enjoy the blooms, and have a picnic 8am5pm today or any day at the Fort Worth Botanic Garden (3220 Botanic Garden Blvd, 817-463-4160). The garden’s on-site restaurant, Rock Springs Cafe, has baskets starting at $25 per couple. Order yours at least 24 hours in advance by emailing RockSpringsCatering@gmail.com. Garden admission is $12 per person.

Next, the UTA Planetarium (700 Planetarium Pl, Arlington, 817-272-1183) presents its annual Romancing the Stars event in which you spend an evening beneath giant, mostly dead balls of flaming gas lightyears away 6pm-8pm Fri-Sat or today.

Tickets are $40 at UTA.edu/planetarium and include a pre-show reception with appetizers in the atrium at 5pm. A cash bar is available.

If you said “nope,” this last one’s for you. Fort Brewery (2737 Tillar St, Fort Worth, 817-923-8000) hosts its inaugural Anti-Valentine’s Day Bash 6pm-9pm.

Enjoy $5 beer and seltzers, half-price glasses of wine, and “broken heart” pizzas while burning memories of your ex in the Fort Fire Pit.

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“Queen of Rock” set to a soundtrack of her favorite hits runs today thru Sun at Bass Performance Hall (555 Commerce St, Fort Worth, 817-212-4280). The show is recommended for ages 14 and up. Tickets start at $82.50 at BassHall.com/Tina.

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What’s Love Got to Do With It? Everything!

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Ari Groover stars in TINA: The Tina Turner Musical at Bass Hall thru Sunday.

Cour tesy Magic of Eric Eaton

NIGHT&DAY

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Luckomotives

Both Super Bowl teams are annoying, but when they win, maybe we all do.

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A N T H O N Y

M A R I A N I

Let’s go, Chiefs! I loathe them, but I loathe whiny conservatives even more, and based mostly on a bunch of noise outside the locker rooms, apparently a win for Kansas City is a win for empathetic, vaccinated, Bud Light-drinking, billionaire-popstar-loving non-assholes everywhere. Being super-petty is a choice I’ll never pass on.

There’s another, perhaps even more ridiculous reason I’m rooting for this smug, lucky team I despise. They’re not the San Francisco 49ers.

The Petty Express of which I am Chief Engineer Supreme and King Baby Emeritus winds from the Bay Area through the Heartland to the place of my birth and my aimless, crappy youth and also the location of my favorite sports franchise, the perennially terrible, dreadful, painful-to-watch Pittsburgh Steelers, who are in possession of only one more Lombardi Trophy than San Fran. For me and all my fellow Stillers lovers, a Niner victory on Sunday would be outrageous, egregious, and preposterous because unlike the fallen-off-a-cliff New England Patriots, who have also won the big game six times, this 49ers group is talented, deep, and young enough to win six more championships over the next six seasons, sending my whole pathetic identity that I’ve built up over the decades crashing down.

You have to understand. Some of us GenXers are driven by shame. As kids, we were never good enough for our parents, who were always (unintentionally or not) choosing work over us, or for the teachers and coaches raining down blows on us every day, and now the smallest knock against us or our social avatars, like our favorite sports teams, renders us small. And when you feel small, you feel powerless, and when you feel powerless, you may lash out. I’ve never punched a hole in a wall or smashed a flatscreen after a major sportsball loss, but I am 100% simpatico with all those who have and am choosing which bandwagon to jump on accordingly.

Another excuse for voting against the Niners is that they’re almost — almost — as lucky as the Chiefs. I watch a lot of football, college and pro, and I’m not even talking about all the calls and no-calls that go San Fran’s and KC’s ways, and there’s a ton of

Anthony Mariani

STUFF

A taste of home will help this Super Bowl go down nicely.

them. I mean other teams’ defenses mysteriously breaking down at crucial moments, allowing jerks in red to run all over the field like maniacs busting out of prison — either streaking down sidelines unmolested for yards and yards or catching passes over the middle without any defenders even in the same ZIP code. Ever see the beginning of The Sound of Music? When Julie Andrews frolics in an open field by herself without a single soul for miles around, singing, “The hiiiillllls are aliiiive …!”? That’s basically Travis Kelce and Deebo Samuel at least twice a game every game, standing all by themselves on patches of grass stretching to the horizon as ultimately a delightful football spirals right toward their numbers. How does this keep happening? A comparison: With the exception of the occasional close-your-eyes-and-heave-it bomb, my Steelers can’t complete a pass longer than five yards in the air, and when they do, it’s like all 11 players from the other side, their spouses, their children, and their children’s friends are contesting the ball. Fans of real teams like the 49ers and the Chiefs — and the Cowboys and the Bills and the Ravens and the Dolphins and, basically, the whole rest of the league except maybe the Panthers and Cardinals — have no idea how good they have it. None. Am I full of crap? Even if it’s in the teens, take the over on any Steeler game next season — I dare you. You will be poorer.

It’s a terrific shame because there’s nothing like good football, and as annoying as both Super Bowl LVIII teams are, they’re both decent defensively and creative on O, which should make for a pleasant evening of passive entertainment. Maybe it’s the Steeler diehard in me, but seeing a QB like Patrick Mahomes or Brock Purdy line up in the shotgun on first down and throw a dart to make it second and short like both have done a few times this playoff season is … well, I’d fork over my measly but precious paycheck every two weeks until OTAs to see Pittsburgh do that once next season. Just once. It happens 20 times a game when you watch the Niners or the Chiefs, or even the Cowboys or the Bills. I mean, you see it in DIII ball. If I didn’t want to puke every time I came across some other teams’ colors, especially that soporific silver and blue yinz love so much, I’d switch allegiances right now.

You could say “good football” means “lots of points and big plays,” and I’m not going to pretend that that’s not what I’m interested in.

Don’t get me wrong. I love defense — I played

edge in high school and college. I love when the Steelers’ defense is suffocating. (Sorry.

“Was” suffocating. We rarely get off the field on third down anymore.) As an observer whose interests this Sunday are not civic but borderline spiritual, I do not want to see stuffed sweeps into the boundary or ridiculous lateral passes that never go anywhere. I’ve sat through enough AFC North-ball over the years. For the love of the Rodgers & Hammerstein, please spare me any more of that dumb, slow, grinding, unwatchable bullsh. Please give me diving catches and 30-second scrambles and the occasional explosive run. Other than a rare pick-six or scoop-and-score, I’m tuning in Sunday to witness two quality quarterbacks, maybe the two best on the planet, lead their sides to the end zone repeatedly. Gluttony. I’m in it to gorge on multiple TD Griddys and pigskin.

And grilled corned beef. I’ll be digging into some of that, too, with melted provolone, vinegar slaw, fries, fresh tomato, and a fried egg between two slices of Italian bread.

Almost as tasty as the real Primanti’s sandwiches back in the ’Burgh! We make ’em at home every Super Bowl.

And home is where I’ll be watching.

As the last mainstream football action for a while, the Super Bowl always makes for great family time, as loosely as the term can be defined with me absent-mindedly knocking back N/A beers and watching ruefully while bitter-texting with my friends and with my wife watching and putzing and my 12-year-old sitting in the same room with us but iPadding. He’s more of a baseball and hoops guy, anyway, probably because of us, his mom and dad. We’ve seen what too many bonks on the head have done to me.

We don’t want our baby boy going through that nonsense, too.

For a prediction, just look back at the past couple of games. I see both teams starting slow, like a few winners have done recently, before erupting in the second half.

It will be close, but I think the Niners pull away 34-23. They have too many offensive weapons, and as fantastic as Mahomes is, his skillset and improv techniques can be neutralized. Purdy is just getting started, and he’s a stone-cold killer.

To know why I’m all Chiefs Kingdom despite my prediction and the -2.5 line, we need to pile onto the Petty Express and ride that bad boy to its final stop, Fakebookland, where I know three “friends” on either side of the Super Bowl LVIII divide. One is Shane.

Shane, you’re a great dude, but you’re also the sorest winner I’ve ever met. Advantage: Chiefs. And Ken, while you’ve been a KC fan long before Paddy Mahomes came along and have suffered through decades of downright pitiful “football” (including steady dosages of the Schottenheimer R2P2: run twice, pass, punt), you’re also not exactly gracious when your a-hole team wins. Advantage: San Fran.

Lastly, there’s Kevin. Kevy-Kev, I don’t think I’d really mind your Niners finally claiming that sixth Lombardi because you’re a swell guy and, as far as I know, you don’t gloat when your squad is on top, but I’m still a little miffed that you started your new indie-rock band Hotel Satellite without playing your first show in my backyard at a godly hour on a weekend, so, sorry. Total advantage: Chiefs.

(But don’t take that spread.) l

It’s Party Time, Y’all!

price plus a complimentary 2-liter of soda 11am-2am Fri-Sun. 4.) Oscar’s Pub (6323 Camp Bowie Blvd, Ste 125, Fort Worth, 817-732-3833) will host a Super Bowl party 2pm Sun with ribs prepared by Chris Pritchard. There is no cover, so save your door money for football squares.

With the Super Bowl on Sunday, you may need to beg off work Monday to able to enjoy Fat Tuesday on, well, Tuesday. Try to convince your boss that National Football Hangover Day (a real thing) is an actual federal holiday.

Now that your recovery time is planned, here are some ideas for before and after.

3.) It’s a party all weekend at Dough Bro’s Italian Kitchen (1601 Airport Fwy, Bedford, 817-438-8026). In celebration of National Pizza Day on Friday and the big game on Sunday — the single largest pizza delivery day of the year — order a large specialty pizza and receive an additional pie at half

Cour tesy DJ Sof t Cherr y

DJ Soft Cherry will spin T-Swift tunes at the Super Bowl Party: Taylor’s Version at Gustos Sunday.

7.) Now thru Tuesday, Razzoo’s Cajun Cafe is celebrating Mardi Gras at all its North Texas locations with an all-day happy hour. Drink specials include $5 frozen cocktails, $5 wine, $2/$4 domestic draft beers, and $3/$5 on all other drafts. Food specials include $7 Fire Mouth Wings or Cajun Fondue and $5 snacks like Canal Street Shrimp, boudin balls, shrimp and grits, Rat Toes, and more. For info on the location nearest you, visit Razzoos.com/Locations.

8.) Being a non-drinker, I can take it or leave it when it comes to booze during Super Bowl Sunday, Fat Tuesday, or Crap-TuesdayIs-Deadline Day. For those trying to live a sober life, this weekend will be one big trigger. As the inner webs are always accurate, I took to Google for some tips. Here are the top seven for your consideration: Know your triggers; eat and stay hydrated; bring a sober buddy with you; set a limit; hold a nonalcoholic drink in your hand; have an exit plan; and host a sober party of your own. You’ve got this!

By Jennifer Bovee

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6.) It’s time for the annual Mardi Gras on Morton celebration at Bar 2909 (2909 Morton St, Fort Worth, 817-332-2909) 6:30pm-11pm Tue. There will be beads, live music, and Hurricane specials along with all-you-can-eat crawfish. As of press time, the cost of the event is still unclear. Keep an eye on the event page at Facebook.com/ BAR2909 for updates.

2.) While Brix Barbecue (1012 S Main St, Fort Worth, 817-386-4694) is closed for a private event on Sunday evening, party packages can be picked up for the game by 3pm Sun if ordered by noon Fri at BrixBarbecue.com. Options include whole briskets, whole racks of ribs, smoked or fried wings, and Wagyu burnt ends.

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1.) DJ Soft Cherry, 2023 Weekly Music Awards winner for best DJ, will spin tunes at the Super Bowl Party: Taylor’s Version at Gustos Burger Bar (1229 7th Av, Fort Worth, 682-250-6926) 4pm Sun. Admission is free.

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5.) The Trinity River Bears, a local LGBTQIA+ social organization focused on cuddly, bearded men, will celebrate Mardi Gras on game day with a Gumbo & Jambalaya Cook-Off at Club Reflection (604 S Jennings Av, Fort Worth, 817-870-8867) 4pm-6pm Sun. Groups or individuals can enter the contest for free. Setup time is 3:30pm. Awards will be given for best taste, crowd favorite, and most original. There will be Hurricane specials and complimentary food samples.

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Valentine's Ideas Six for Saturday E L A I N E

W I L D E R

With Valentine’s Day falling on a Wednesday this year, the Saturday prior is primetime. (This weekend — yikes!) For ideas on dinner reservations, check out last week’s ATE DAY8 column in the Calendar drop-down on FWWeekly.com. For other ideas beyond a simple dinner, here are six more things happening Sat, Feb 10, for your consideration.

Cour tesy Canva

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1.) The Woman’s Club of Fort Worth (1316 Pennsylvania Av, 817-335-3525) is this year’s venue for the Sixth Annual Bleeding Hearts Ball, with proceeds benefiting a nonprofit dedicated to training service animals. There will be a costume contest and a midnight waltz, along with food and drinks.

Tickets for The Dark Kiss: A Regency Era Vampire Ball, as it’s called this year, start at $20 on Eventbrite.com. Doors open at 6pm.

The Dark Kiss: A Regency Era Vampire Ball will raise money to train service dogs.

2.) How about taking your main squeeze boot scootin’? The Stagecoach Ballroom (2516 E Belknap St, Fort Worth, 817-8312261) invites you to a Valentine’s Dance featuring Jamie Richards 7pm-1am. His new album, The Real Deal, promises everything from ballads to bar songs that fans of ’90s country will love. Tickets are $20 at StagecoachBallroom.com.

3.) If you’d like Jesus to take the wheel, the Cowboy Church of Tarrant County (1685

4.) Seeking a special dinner? Make your meal more meaningful by raising funds for a worthy cause. The Seventh Annual Taste the Love Valentine’s Dinner & Fundraiser is at Taste Community Restaurant (1200 S Main St, Fort Worth, 817-759-9045) at 6pm.

All sales benefit the Taste Project’s mission of feeding, educating, and serving the community. This five-course meal is BYOB and features burrata cheese paired with figs and prosciutto; cauliflower steak salad (grilled cauliflower with sultana agrodolce and ricotta salata); lobster ravioli; osso bucco (braised beef shanks with polenta, mushrooms, and herbs); and chocolate almond cake with Amarena cherries. Tickets are $300 per couple on Eventbrite.com.

5.) Local artists and other creatives will sell gift items at the Galentine’s Pop-Up Shop at WineHaus (1628 Park Pl Ave, Fort Worth, 817-887-9101) 4-7pm. Vendors include Bug-n-Bloom, Elegant Arrangements, Handmade Hello Card Co., link x Lou, Stitchy Woman Embroidery, Stumpy & Lily Crochet, Texas Bath Works Candles, and more.

6.) Meat Fight, the event “fighting MS with the best BBQ in DFW,” has a Valentine’s deal for you. What started as a backyard competition among friends is now a nonprofit that

Cour tesy Meat Fight

Lacy Dr, Fort Worth, 817-716-9940) also has a Valentine’s Dance 6pm-8pm. Kids are also welcome at this night of music, fun, and snacks. There is no cost to attend.

Pick up a Meat Fight Valentine’s Box and join the fight against MS.

has raised over $2 million for the National MS Society. If you’d like to join the fight and grab a great gift for that someone special in your life, order a Meat Fight Valentine’s Box for $145 via Prekindle.com and pick it up at Community Beer Company (3110 Commonwealth Dr, Dallas, 214-751-7921) 2pm-5pm. The box will include snack-sized portions of “meats, sweets, and treats from Dallas businesses.” It feeds two (or more) people. l

GIOVANNI’S I TA L I A N K I T C H E N

5733 crowley rd • fort worth tx 76134

817.551.3713 | GIOVANNISFW.COM

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Opening at 4pm on Valentine’s Day

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Complimentary roses on wednesday the 14 th

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Come see Mamma and Pappa for Valentine’s Day

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EATS & drinks

Bar at Bowie House, 3700 Camp Bowie Blvd, FW. 855-683-4092. 11am-11pm Sun-Thu, 11am-midnight Fri-Sat. B Y

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B E R G E R

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An impeccably dressed, silver-haired septuagenarian delicately sliced into her juicy, pink steak at the bar next to me as I attempted to lock eyes with any of the busy bartenders — a futile game of chicken that involved me bobbing about bug-eyed while the staff pretended I was invisible.

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Christina Berger

Follow the red brick road to the swanky Western watering hole at the new Bowie House hotel.

Rosa Summers

All Hat, Cattle

Wrangle a few pals willing to bend an elbow with you, and you’re sure to have a hoot and a holler.

As a thirtysomething Funkytown local, there are few places here where I’ve ever sincerely felt out of place: the Fort Worth Stock Show & Rodeo (I’m not a cowgirl by any stretch), most clubs on West 7th (I’m too old for that shit), occasionally my own skin, and now I can add Bowie House to that list.

It became obvious almost immediately that I’m not the target clientele for the recently opened Auberge Resorts Collection hotel on Camp Bowie Boulevard. The upscale-Western Bowie House features gorgeous modern artwork, forest-green velvet

wallpaper, longhorn skulls as wall decor, Native American figurines and artifacts in display cases, trendy cowhide and leather furniture, and a glass-walled boutique hat shop that would make a country chap I know weak in the knees.

Despite the bougie-ness of the place and the damage it inflicted on my bank account, I can’t deny that the appetizers and cocktails were incredible. This high-class establishment is the kind of intimate place where you might take a date you want to impress, where you can confidently splurge and trust

The whole group agreed that the Knotty Mane, a concoction of cold brew, Spanish Licor 43, and orange, was the superior spirit of the night.

that the vittles will deliver. Would we call that “all hat and some cattle”?

Surprisingly for a Tuesday, the bar was bustling. A lot of the customers sported getups fit for the rodeo and likely stopped by the nearby watering hole just down the red brick road before moseyin’ on over to the main attractions at Dickies Arena. The throng also meant space was limited and service was a bit slow.

Incidentally, I spend the majority of my workweek about a block away from continued on page 17

Eats & Drinks

The garlic aioli was so delicious that the classic ketchup was never even touched.

with a trip to the rodeo. Though I missed out on mutton bustin’, I more than made up for that with a gut-bustin’ good time — with good folk and hella-good hootch, to boot.

Wrangle a few pals willing to bend an elbow with you, and you’re sure to have a hoot and a holler. Cheers, y’all. l Bar at Bowie House Ramblin’ Mr. Crosby .................................. $22 Better the Devil You Know ......................... $16 Come Hell or High Water ........................... $15 Knotty Mane ............................................... $13 Damn Fine Ranch Water ........................... $12 Hummingbird layer cake ........................... $18 Lil Smokies ................................................. $14 House fries ................................................. $9

FRI 2/9 FIGHTING WORDS BOXING, MMA AND MUAY THAI WED 2/14 VALENTINE’S DAY WITH VANDELL ANDREW & ROMANA DE MENEGES SAT 3/30 PALE PRO WRESTLING SAT 4/27 CARVIN JONES SPECIAL 35TH ANNIVERSARY SHOW

RIDGLE A ROOM SAT 3/9

CLASS ACT COMEDY TOUR

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FARLA VAE AND ALG SAT 2/17 ALL STAR WEEKEND 2024 SNEAKER BALL SUN 2/18 FORT WORTH MUSIC ACADEMY WINTER SHOW KIDZROCK SAT 2/24 SORRY, NO REFUND UH OH JIMINY & MORE! SUN 2/9

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Ranch Water of tequila blanco was served in a Topo Chico bottle for added flair, while the Ramblin’ Mr. Crosby was a gussied-up version of a Pimm’s Cup with crème de pamplemousse (French for “grapefruit”) and an optional Champagne float. The Champagne cut the slight bitterness of the hootch and, in my opinion, improved the overall taste.

The whole group agreed that the Knotty Mane, a concoction of cold brew, Spanish Licor 43, and orange, was the superior spirit of the night. That’s going on my list to experiment with at home.

To straighten our impending staggers, the gals and I indulged in warm, fluffy house fries dipped in a hat-tippin’ garlic aioli. They were followed by Lil Smokies, jalapeño-cheddar-Wagyu sausages with delectably oily chimichurri sauce. If Bowie House does one thing well (aside from the booze), it’s their finger-lickin’ sauces. My only qualm with the apps was the small portion sizes. I thought everything was bigger in Texas?

For something sweet to go with the savory, we chose the Hummingbird layer cake and chocolate pecan pie from a magical (perhaps even metaphorical) “pie cart.” The former was a kind of carrot cake but with pineapple instead and served à la mode with housemade pineapple sorbet. The latter featured a rich, dark chocolate mousse filling. Both wowed.

Unlike many of my fellow Bowie House patrons, I neglected to pair the experience

FO R T WO R T H W E E K LY

To straighten impending staggers, the gals indulged in warm, fluffy house fries dipped in a hat-tippin’ garlic aioli and jalapeñocheddar-Wagyu sausages with a delectable chimichurri sauce.

Christina Berger

The hotel features gorgeous modern artwork, forest-green velvet wallpaper, longhorn skulls as wall décor, cowhide furniture, and more for a classy Western feel.

Christina Berger

Bowie House, which is valet parking only, so my trauma-bonded co-workers and I meandered over on foot (our horses were tied up) for happy hour. After a full lap around the expansive interior, we set up in the only open nook near the back wall. The four of us squatted beneath a massive mural of a lively city scene created entirely out of packing tape while server after server whooshed by us without a glance.

What could have put a real damper on the evening was quickly forgotten when the munchies and mixed drinks finally emerged.

Surrounded by a crowd of old-money cowpokes and an overly busy yet cordial staff, my more casually dressed crew drooled over almost everything we ordered.

If Fort Worth is “where the West begins,” then Bowie House is “where the West gets lit.” Between myself and my guests, we nearly covered the signature cocktail page of the menu. By the second drink, I was feelin’ it in my cheeks.

The expertly crafted Come Hell or High Water featured TX Bourbon, 10-year Laphroaig malt scotch whisky, maple syrup, vermouth, lemon, rhubarb, and egg foam.

Presented in a proper whisky glass, this tipple was strong, smoky, and subtly sweet.

Comparatively, the spicy Better the Devil You Know with reposado tequila, Cointreau, passion fruit, orange, and chile syrup gave such an initial kick that it elicited a cough or two. The smooth Damn Fine

Christina Berger

continued from page 16

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Yes, LABELS

With a new album on the way, this young yet fully formed punk trio demands your ears now.

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S T E V E

S T E W A R D

The week before last Halloween, a guy I know came up to me and said, “Dude.

LABELS. Did you see them?”

He was talking about the local psyche-punk band that had played The Boiled Owl Tavern during Arts Goggle the previous weekend.

It was the third or fourth time I’d talked with someone about them, and every conversation was a variation of “Holy shit, they totally blew me away!”

The new fans I chatted with compared them to Nirvana and Thee Oh Sees, describing the local group in terms of what the fans imagined it would have been like seeing those legendary bands when they were relatively new.

On February 23, LABELS will release Moral Law, their third album, which is surprising to hear about regarding a band that has been playing shows for only about a year. That LABELS seem so fully formed is because they’ve been practicing relentlessly since getting together in 2019. Comparing them to a couple of seminal punk bands — because that’s essentially what the sounds of Nirvana and Thee Oh Sees are rooted in — might sound hyperbolic, but when you look up LABELS and give listen to a couple of their tracks, you find that this is a band that takes pieces of related genre hallmarks, from garage-rock to psychedelic and punk, and electrifies these sonic limbs and hearts into a new species, like if Dr. Frankenstein built Robocop out of a pile of pawn shop amplifiers, detachable-face cassette decks, and dusty, knock-off sunglasses.

Composed of Braden Burgan on guitar and vocals, twin brother Taylor Burgan on drums, and friend Deven Johnson singing lead, LABELS formed during the guys’ senior year at L.D. Bell High School in Hurst.

“We were really into basketball in junior high and high school up ’til, like, 11th grade,” Braden said at a coffeeshop recently with his bandmates. “We were like, ‘We’re for real going to the NBA.’ ” “And then we figured out, no, we’re not,” Taylor said.

Levi Anderson

MUSIC LABELS: “The new album is way harder, a whole lot of hard-rock, punk stuff.”

The Burgans’ dad, Scott Burgan, had played in local bands — Hillary Smile and Rosemary were a couple of them — and the drummer of one of those groups had left some of his gear lying around the house.

“He just left his drums in our shed,” Braden said, “and we were like, ‘OK, we’re done with basketball.’ [Dad] was like, ‘Oh, you wanna see my guitar?’ The cymbals were super-rusty, super dry-sounding. It was one cymbal, a snare, and a kick. But it worked.”

The brothers learned to play guitar and drums on their own, and they started writing their own songs while they were figuring out their instruments.

“We played the same kind of music back then as we do now,” Braden said.

But he was too nervous to sing, so the brothers recruited Johnson, a mutual friend since 10th grade.

“It was so cringey at first because I had, like, a British accent,” Johnson said. “I guess I thought it was easier to make stuff up in a British accent.”

At the time, the trio was heavily into a British punk duo now known as Soft Play.

“I liked the way [the singer’s voice] sounds,” Johnson said.

The band learned how to work Logic Pro the same way they learned to play instruments — “by just doing it,” Braden said — and recorded an album in 2021, though it is no longer available on any streaming services.

“Since we started making songs right when we started playing, we weren’t good,” Braden said. “The songs weren’t bad, but we weren’t ready to play them live at a show, so we took [the album] down, because it wasn’t the best sounding. We didn’t know what we were doing. We just wanted something out.”

The three might not have been totally stoked with their first effort, but a year later, with better gear and more confidence in both their playing and recording chops, LABELS self-produced their second album. Braden described the 10-song Brain Fragments as “slower, kind of more ‘songwriting,’ I guess.”

Brain Fragments does indeed hover around mellower tempos, but it establishes a few aesthetic ideas that I’d argue give LABELS their signature sound, a sort of giddy psychedelia constantly truncated with compression, giving what might be a hazy guitar journey considerable amounts of hip-shake. It makes me think of a long, plastic bag full of weed smoke that is for

some reason crimped in regular intervals — “Dream Forever” is a good example of this, but the rest of Brain Fragments offers the listener plenty of other vivid mindscapes to go with slinky, fuzzy guitar riffage.

Of the new album Moral Law, LABELS have increased both the speed and the complexity of their riffs.

“The new album is way harder,” Braden said, “a whole lot of hard-rock, punk stuff.”

The LP leans heavily into the garage rock/psychedelia made popular in the earlyto-mid 2000s by artists like Jay Reatard, Ty Segal, and Thee Oh Sees, but it also drifts into a sort of mid-tempo, effects-heavy, sludge metal-esque guitar-pop reminiscent of Dinosaur Jr. Johnson’s vocal delivery, often deadpan, reminds me of the Hold Steady’s Craig Finn — if Finn were 21 and had grown up listening to late-’90s Family Values-era hitmakers like System of a Down and Eminem. Though his voice and phrasing might suggest otherwise, Johnson really loves rap.

“I might write lyrics that sound like a rap in my head, but I change the flow, so they fit more in a punk song,” Johnson said. “I love Sublime. There’s a song on the new album called ‘Time Spent’ that I had a kind of reggae vibe in my head when I sang it,” adding that Sublime frontman Bradley Nowell is one of his biggest inspirations.

“That’s funny, because it’s one of our heavier songs,” Taylor said.

Moral Laws, as a whole, isn’t a stoner-metal album at all, but it is definitely heavy and has a similar effect on the brain.

The album’s first single, called “3D” and released on January 23, sounds to me like if Jacuzzi wrote a Paranoid-era Sabbath song made for a Jim Henson show about a digital afterlife. Another song, “The Feeling,” reminds me of the conversations you have with yourself during Hour 3 of a decently intense mushroom trip. Then there’s “I Just Want to Be Human,” which builds on a majestic, disorienting guitar phrase reminiscent of a Pearl Earl song, then hurls you into the cosmos like the way that same trip might spin you into a state of galloping overstimulation.

And what, if anything, is LABELS’ music about? While some of the songs carry a current of melancholic ennui, mostly they’re just full of good vibes.

“We’re nice people,” Braden said. “We just want to promote the positive, y’know?” l

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