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from RIP magazine, November 1994 (Fresh Blood)
[Loving a band is one thing, but I knew I was really onto something good when I was inspired to write a paragraph like the one that opens up my "Fresh Blood" article on Tenderloin. When I first stumbled onto these guys, Brian Forsythe and I were just starting to see each other, and he loved the band too. Tenderloin went through several lineup changes before breaking up, and Brian and I both agree that the one mentioned in the story was the best. Although Ernie still plays around his reluctantly adopted home of Tampa, Florida, he mainly works in the restaurant business. Bummer. Why is it that so many great bands fall by the wayside?]
Forget about that overblown Flintstones movie that was all the rage last summer. Ernie Locke, frontman for Midwestern outfit Tenderloin, is truly Fred in the flesh. Hulking, sweaty, uncouth and untamed, his primal partying presence commands attention. A manic form of punk blues — earthy in its needs and tongue-in-cheek in its outlook — forms the band's bedrock. In this all-too-modern world of rehash-copycats and P.C. posturers, Tenderloin's alcohol-and-adrenaline-drenched honky tonk roots are a primordial delight.
Let It Leak, the quartet's debut album for Warner Brothers-distributed label Qwest, packs a hefty wallop. "Kitchen Floor" is an out-of-control, blues-besotted paean to the bottle. "Daddy Was a Clydesdale" is a hip-grinding sex-machine of a tune. Tenderloin has a groove that won't stop, even when they whip things into a frenzy, as they do with "Supernatural Bologna" — a song that defies any logical explanation. In fact, the whole record is a raunch-soaked study of the absurd. It grabs you, swings you around 'til you're dizzy and throws you back into the fray, while you giddily wonder what exactly just happened.
But isn't the Midwest supposed to be the haven for normalcy, home of the Silent Majority? Tenderloin isn't the only band of weirdos from this neck of the woods, either — there's a whole belt of crackpots, from Oklahoma's Flaming Lips to Rockford, Illinois' Cheap Trick. What gives?
"I really don't understand that, either," Ernie amiably shrugs. "In the Midwest, it seems like there's just a little bit more crazy in-bredness and people are left alone more."
Lawrence, Kansas is the home for three-fourths of Tenderloin. Guitarist Gray Ginther, his bassist brother, Brock, and drummer Guy Stephens found themselves without a gig when their band, the Homestead Grays, broke up. Ernie, who's from nearby Kansas City, Missouri, had just left the punk group Sin City Disciples and the four of them decided to get together and do something completely different from their previous projects. And boy, was it ever different.
Hugo Burnham, Qwest's A&R man, caught a Tenderloin show in St. Louis during a festival. His jaw just about hit the sticky floor of the joint when he caught sight of Ernie's shirtless, sweat-drenched form blowing harp like there was no tomorrow. But instead of being disgusted (Ernie claims some people actually are), he signed them to his label.
A Tenderloin gig is always a good time, and often involves a dose of trouble. "I think what's really funny is when a guy's dancing next to a girl and he's trying to impress her, right?" Ernie wickedly chuckles. "And we're playing and she's right up front — I'll take off my shirt and she starts rubbing my belly and shit. That repulses people so much! Some guys want to beat me up at the end of the night. It's like, 'What did I do? Your girlfriend came up and stuck her finger in my belly button. I didn't do nothin'!' We're just trying to enjoy ourselves."
Let It Leak is assuredly a party on a platter, but for the full effect, nothing beats their live show. Explains Ernie: "A lot of people I know who I've given the CD to, they're like, 'This is pretty good music.' But they come see us live and then it's like bam! Got 'em! That's the whole idea about the Tenderloin tank. We like to attack. Get 'em live and make 'em afraid."
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