Dove Hunter January 5, 2008 Club Dada
Better Than: Watching X-Files reruns with your cat. (Trust me, I engaged in both last night.)
Although they’ve got no tangible proof of their “special talents” other than a few band T-shirts for sale in a Rubbermaid tub and a four-song unmastered demo on MySpace, the members of Dove Hunter have our attention. The Dallas band's incognito rock credentials –- which are strictly reserved for the stage -- are enough to hype the buzz about this fascinating quintet.
Perhaps the absence of $5 EPs and DoveHunterMusic.com stickers is why the post-indie-grit-and-glitter rock band is so dang good. It’s like the group has intently placed all of its little band-eggs in one fuzzed-out basket: its live performance. And the rewards are in bloom.
Last night at Club Dada, sandwiched between five meh-bands, in quite a mystical way, Dove Hunter managed to restore a little bit of my recently waning live music enthusiasm. Thank you, Dove Hunter.
Entangled in a massive, muddled nest of amplifiers, cords, sneakers, a Rhodes keyboard, a pedal steel guitar and other various stringed instruments, the three guitar players and one bass player careened through a very short set while phenom drummer Quincy Holloway, perched at stage-rear, punctuated each riff with a furious, yet elegant “boom.”
The dazed Dada crowd wooed and wiggled away like wandering sea monkeys that had just found their numen. The sonic flood of stringed instruments and phantom, sultry vocals monopolized my brain activity to the point of no return –- which is fantastic for an obsessively contemplative person like myself. My brief, melody-generated concussion at Dada last night was bizarre and beautiful. My experience was, as I remember, defined by a series of euphonious rock shanties that lulled and pushed and breathed and combusted. It was driven by the mellifluous continuity of a sound not yet heard by these bleeding ears. It was lovely. Intoxicating. Exciting and numbing.
We Believe Local Journalism is Critical to the Life of a City
Engaging with our readers is essential to the Observer's mission. Make a financial contribution or sign up for a newsletter, and help us keep telling Dallas's stories with no paywalls.
Support Our Journalism
And, then, it was over. And I long for more. More Dove Hunter. More rock-comas. Hallelujah. Praise Bejesus. -- Krissi Reeves
Critic's Notebook Personal Bias: I like black drummers.
By the Way: Since my experience seemed more like a result of rapid eye movement, rather than actual presence at a show, I plan to see Dove Hunter again at the Granada on January 21 or Double Wide on February 15.
Random Detail: It seems the guys in Dove Hunter are fond of Samsonite. I watched with lament as they packed up all their shiny, magical music equipment into teeny-tiny vintage Samsonite suitcases.