ZZ Top @ Warfield 11/4/007

[Drunk Monk]

The boys still got it. Gone was the major stage show with massive props - not quite Pink Floyd level puppetry, but impressive none-the-less. Stripped down to some minor projections on the speakers, a light array behind them, a major smoke machine and some glow in the dark drums, ZZ remains one of the great classic power trios in the business. They're still enjoying their work, dancing, prancing, hamming it up, and still laying down those classic fat licks with a thunderous roar. It's skidding, screaming cycles, meth still warm from the crank case, hard liquor, cheap beer, sawdust on the floor, kentucky-fried finger lickin', neon reflected off aeriated chrome and cheap sunglasses, offers from a powder-filled zip-lock, cracked black leather, hell's angels with their own prime table, hip-grinding head-rocking music. It was a night where the Warfield staff stopped to listen and nod approvingly, a seldom seen sight amongst the Market-hardened, 100's-of-shows-a-year crew. The crowd was captivated from the first note to the last - not a soul in the hallways - and satisfied with a short, extremely tight set (8:15-9:45!) When the boys busted out the ol' fuzzy guitars for legs, the crowd was launched into a finale that might have rivaled Sturgis.

ZZ Top. Long may they ride.