Change is good. It is the root of development and evolution. For many artists, it's almost a given that what you're playing now will almost certainly not be what you're playing next year. In fact, part of the thrill of following music is wondering what will happen next, who will be the instigator of the next big thing, and watching your favorites adapt to the times. Sometimes, artists change because they're in a rut of turning out the same old thing, perhaps losing their grip on relevance (think U2). The marketing-centric ones (Madonna) change before they have a chance to fall into a rut. Other times, artists change because they're genuinely interested in moving on to new things, presumably for the sake of art (like Beck or perhaps Radiohead). Yeah, change is everywhere, and it's good.

On the other hand, change is terrible:

"The shadow of his early work will follow him forever."

"The Sparks also use the old 'between albums EP' cliché to indulge in a little experimentation at their fans' expense."

"...Maladroit is definitely not a return to the sound of the band's mid-90s artistic peak."

All of these quotes are taken from recent Pitchfork reviews, and illustrate that changing your sound guarantees absolutely nothing. In these cases, it was viewed critically, though it could have been a lot worse (think of the mass throttling unleashed with any new John Lydon project-- Jesus, that I have to use the term 'project' for Lydon's stuff says it all). The problem these acts run into is that deviation from their once-successful formula has gotten them panned, and since they're still at least partially relevant to young listeners, resting on their laurels is practically a sin.

And that brings me to the Reverend Horton Heat. James C. "Horton" Heath is in a real mess. Thing is, having a fairly sizable fan base who expects new product every couple of years is one thing, but what does he do when his band excels in a style of music which has remained essentially unchanged in 50 years? Sure, the Reverend's rockabilly stomp runs on a slightly higher octane than Carl Perkins', but rockabilly stomp it is, and there's only so many newfangled devices he can work into the show and still have it be good old rock 'n' roll. Don't believe me? Which album do you think all true-blue Heat fans hate the most? Hint: Al Jourgensen does not play rockabilly.

So, where does that leave the band? From the sound of it, it leaves them (and me) with Lucky 7, and 14 very (very) slight variations on the devil's music. Very. On top of that, I'm not even sure Reverend Horton Heat needs to release a whole lot of new material at this point. They must make most of their living by touring, and none of this stuff sounds as good on a CD as it does live anyway. Of course, to stop releasing new stuff is even more a sign of an artist bled dry than refusing to change. So on with the show.

The opener, "Loco Gringos Like a Party," is a heavy, swinging blues shuffle that, for all intents and purposes, has probably written itself. Down to the detail of "eating the worm," group-shouted backup vocals and the part where Heath "brings it down" for the solo, every part of this song is constructed to lather up a crowd in concert. It would also work pretty well in a beer commercial. In fact, here's a short list of tunes from this album which you can probably guess the sound of merely by reading their titles: "Like a Rocket" (up-tempo rockabilly, more beer ad cred than the opener-- it was even chosen as the anthem for the 2002 Daytona 500), "Duel at the Two O'Clock Bell" (moody surf-cowboy instrumental), "Ain't Gonna Happen" (thrashy rockabilly, Henry Rollins is loving every minute of both the music and the title), "Suicide Doors" (more up-tempo rockabilly, about a car), and the goofy "Sermon on the Jimbo." That last one is a spoken word intro to the closing track wherein Heath reveals the temptations ("playing with the poodle") and saving graces ("the clear waters of his above-ground pool") of his bassist Jimbo.

It's not all that grimly predictable, though. "Galaxy 500" is a cartoonish lament on an ex-wife, and Heath's only request to her is to keep his car. Musically, it's more punked-out roots-rock, but the band works in a few new chord progressions, and even better, actual volume and mood changes. All in the same song! "The Tiny Voice of Reason" is a neat acoustic cowboy ballad with a tender heart. Most impressive is the deft bluegrass-style instrumental, "Show Pony," featuring Heath's considerable guitar-picking talents, and his rhythm section at their energetic best.

The good stuff aside, if hard whiskey, hard women and aboveground pools aren't your thing-- and I would imagine not-- it's tough to recommend Lucky 7. I can still see how most of it would work live (mostly remembering the incredible show they put on when I saw them years ago in Dallas), so the spirit's probably there. Nothing much has changed for these guys in ten years, and if that doesn't bother you, you've got a friend in the Reverend.

-Dominique Leone, July 29th, 2002