Ian Moore Action Company Via Satellite by David Pilot
	God, Rock and Roll needed this. Grunge has come and ­Thank God Almighty-gone. Old school metal has died out. Glam is a VH1 Behind the Music joke. And these kids today, good lord, the kids fusing rap and rock? What IS that? Limp Bizkit, let's face it, that band name is one damn word too long. Rock has been in a very bad place for a long, long time. In the early 90's Van Halen poked its head up a few times and offered some good time r and r, and Aerosmith keeps churning out stuff that sounds like Pump Redux, although the videos are certainly up-to-date. I suppose in today's MTV quick-cut boy-band-a-minute new kid on the block visual-assault approach to music that's enough for most. Sure, Dylan's kid offers up some decent lyrics now and then, and radio still plays the occasional let's-kick-this-bad-world's-ass driving tune, but for the most part today rock and roll lies dormant. For the better part of the last decade, though, there have been rumblings out of Austin about this axeman named Ian Moore, a kid with Eddy's fingers and a frontman's pipes. Five discs into his career, he's taken on all comers with a live album, recorded in a club, for God's sake, and unleashed Via Satellite on ears starving for the good times again. Musicians? Check. George Reiff (Kelly Willis, Cotton Mather) on the bass and Moog pedals. Old Moore partner Bukka Allen on piano and Wurlitzer. Paul Brainard (Alejandro Escovedo) on pedal steel, trumpet and guitar. Chris Searles (James McMurtry, David Garza, Poi Dog Pondering) on drums. Ahhh, the sweet sweet sounds of a tight band playing straight ahead rock and roll on a loose Houston night, tearing through the humidity and smoke and beer and shots with music like it used to be that still sounds fresh and new. This combination in and variety of instruments hasn't been heard in rock and roll since Meat Loaf, and we're all the worse for it. It's tough to stay loose and play with abandon but still turn in a tight performance, no matter what genre you play in. The bands that do it turn out to be the great ones who are still around when the lights go down on the pretenders. Those who do it on live albums-you can probably name 'em off on five fingers. This band's on that short list. The sounds are all over the place here. Blues? Check. Old school rock? Hell yeah. Spanish guitars? What the hell, let's do that too. Hendrix? His ghost is in the house. Stevie Ray? Much of the anecdotal comparisons don't hold up, but the raw ferocity and unadorned sincerity are certainly present. B.B. King? Yup. This is the most interesting wall of sound I've heard since Queensryche and Dream Theatre. Driftin' me and the sun floatin' I watched satellites pass slowly Why do they keep on spinnin'? Flyin'? Why don't they Ever come down? That lyric fits this album. Every cut brings a new turn, something else to get lost in. Somehow in the straight-ahead power that grabs your gut and twists, the guitar chords stay crisp and clean and damn near effervescent, which is a word I never thought I'd use in a music review. Or thought would actually fit, for that matter. The vocals, so regularly lost in live album money-grabbing ventures, rise out clearly here and power the songs into your brain. This is an album you need to buy if you have ever once loved rock and roll. It rolls like a buffalo herd on crack over what has once again become virgin territory, the place where music throbs incessantly and lyrics grab your imagination and fire your blood. It's raw, it's tight, it's virile, it's right. Keep your replacement speakers ready for this one, boys. You're gonna need 'em. www.ianmoore.com You can contact David Pilot at: tailgunner-at-rockzilla.net

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