The Hochimen's "Le Poulet et Tabac"

When I was writing about music for the local alt-weekly, it was frequently my experience that I'd hear a band that was solid and entertaining, but as I was leaving the club, I'd have no memory of any of the specific songs they played. This was never a problem with the Hochimen, the band led by bassist-vocalist-songwriter (and much more) Reggie Rueffer, whose tunes stick in my head even when I haven't heard them in awhile. (This isn't a slam on anyone, just acknowledgement that mastery of a style or genre is a different skillset than songcraft.)

The Hochimen's debut CD, Totenlieder, documented Reggie's spiritual desperation via the soaring arc of melodies that took some surprising twists and turns, which his reedy tenor made easy on the ear, in striking contrast to the lyrics they carried, which while always finely wrought, often carried a sting in the tail. While this might be considered swimming against the tide in the age of the non-singer, when harmonic movement has been all but banished from popular song, in my house, we consider Totenlieder a classic, and its follow up, Tierra del Gato, might be even better. (This week, it's "Brush With Religion" and "Do It Clean" that are stuck in my head. Next week, it'll be something else.)

Now, after just, um, 16 years, there's a new Hochimen disc, Le Poulet et Tabac, so called, Reggie says, because "Le Bier et Salad didn't ring." Release date remains TBD, but will be digital, and in anticipation, Reggie and his accomplices Ed McMahon (guitar) and Pete Young (drums) will be venturing onto the evening stage at Dan's Silverleaf in Denton on April 7, a Thursday. "One gig every six years," Reggie quips, and an opportunity for folks now pushing 50 who remember him from Mildred (a Dallas Observer "best album" winner in '92) and Spot (big regional hit with "Moon June Spoon" a couple of years later) to experience again the feeling of air from speaker cones and drum heads moving their clothes around.

About the new album: Even listening through crappy phone speakers, one still couldn't miss the brilliant clarity of the recording -- produced at various locations by Joey Lomas, mastered by Dave McNair. As always, McMahon's experimental edge and Young's propulsive clattter (a jazz cat's unironic take on rock -- like Keith Moon with intellect) provide a remarkably full sound for three pieces, but their instrumental prowess always serves the songs, albeit in ways their author might not have anticipated. "I love Ed," says Reggie, "but he always does something I'm not sure about. Then I reconcile and grow to love it. You gotta let players play. I'm not an autocrat."

Reggie calls "My Son" -- the lament of a man finding himself in middle age without progeny -- "the saddest song I've ever written." It's grown folks' rockaroll: music that acknowledges the possibility of loss and regret. And make no mistake: whether by accident or design, this is the hardest rockin' outing yet from these guys. Brother Chad Rueffer's second guitar is absent from the lineup this time around, but Ed lays down crunchy rhythm parts to keep the forward motion going. 

As befits music made in the pandemic time, there's a creeping sense of dread in songs like "Belly Eye," which sketches a chaotic universe, over which Ed paints ethereal textures worthy of Andy Summers. "Rosebud" works off snarling guitar chords and a four-on-the-floor beat that puts one in mind of AC/DC, although those Aussies never dreamed up a melody or lyrics like these. "Hairless Baby Body" is almost an answer song to "My Son," concerned as it is with a child being born into "the evening of the Earth," with tremolo guitar and a clinking percussion track to make the uncertain future sound enticing. 

The album's scariest moment, though, comes with "Jasper," the deathbed confession of an unrepentant killer, who sounds like a cousin of the abortion clinic shooter from Totenlieder's "60-40." Thankfully, Reggie chooses to end things with the hopeful valedictory of "Our Times Coming," which in a just Universe would be the last song on a hit soundtrack and earn Reggie enough coin to keep him writing songs to get stuck in my head for another 16 years.