If The Riverboat Gamblers had had the good sense to die young, they’d be famous by now. Hailing from Austin by way of Denton, the Texas Power Punk five piece are almost an institution. Their fiery garage punk has spanned nearly two decades and has spread the world over. People from countries worldwide, aliens from universe-wide, spirit entities from dimensions unknown, would all come to whatever dirty dive club The Gamblers were playing to watch the band collectively impale themselves on the sharpened stake of Rock and Roll. Raucous and unpredictable live shows have become the stuff of legend as injury and blood took center stage, sometimes overshadowing the absolute brilliance of the songs themselves. With iron clad bubble gum pop, emotionally and philosophically informed by trucker speed and free clinic waiting rooms, Riverboat Gamblers have the rare ability to combine a Cheap Trick-ian love of hooks, gang vocals that would make a good skinhead weep, and a pathos and self-lacerating wit that, if one was able to look beyond the band literally kicking the holes in a venue ceiling, was on par with any more congratulated “smart” band.
But God is fickle. The Gamblers didn’t die as advertised. Everybody wanted them to be the Johnny Thunders Party Bus or whatever cliché narrative was most desired deep in the fair-weather fan’s heart. But the Gamblers, a bunch of Misfit toys formed in the Denton house show scene, recognize no master or silly pit boss. When they were expected to stay fast, they slowed down, got real odd and sad. Now they’re expected to mature and they’re saying, “actually, no thanks.”
The new stuff is as raw and speed driven as right when they were expected to expire in the first place.
