O.C. POP MUSIC REVIEW : A Master Monster in Words and Song

If rock ‘n’ roll ever fizzles for him, Bob Forrest of Thelonious Monster might be able to fall back on a career as a radio raconteur or a TV talk show host--assuming that radio or television ever finds a spot for a cracked, skewed, profane, slander-mongering version of Garrison Keillor or Larry King.

For now, Forrest is far too valuable as a rock singer to turn into a talking head. But fronting Thelonious Monster on Thursday night at Peppers Golden Bear, Forrest--and a packed audience--got to have it both ways: the loopy, engaging, often self-deflating humor between songs, and the impassioned singing over ferocious playing once the band struck up.

As a gabber, Forrest riffed extemporaneously and comically on his own life and times, letting the audience in on everything from band history to the current state of his digestive track.

He also vented his wrath over the Persian Gulf War (in a word, he finds George Bush’s policies evil), but he did it in a way that had more to do with the bar stool than the soapbox or the lectern. Forrest apologized repeatedly for talking politics (the audience response to his attack on the war was decidedly muted and noncommittal, with some muttering and no cheers). But Forrest’s penchant for blurting out whatever is on his mind is part of his charm.

Actually, there may be a method to his gabby madness. Veteran folkies who come into a coffeehouse with a long list of bleak ballads and dark narratives know that it’s imperative to lighten the mood between numbers. And Thelonious Monster’s songbook, as Forrest noted at one point, is not exactly full of sweetness and light: “There’s not one happy song. All of ‘em are depressing. I listen to the lyrics while I’m singing ‘em and go, ‘Wow, you are a bummed out (expletive),’ ” said the singer, whose specs and blond mane give him a passing resemblance to Warren Zevon.

(Zevon occupied much the same spot in the ‘70s Los Angeles rock scene as Forrest did during the late ‘80s: an impassioned singer-songwriter with a barbed wit, a bunch of songs about booze- and drug-fueled excess, and a reputation for indulging in same. Forrest, who is about to turn 30, talked about being an assiduous attendee at Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, having apparently decided, like Zevon did a while back, that you don’t necessarily have to live those excesses to sing about them).

Like a good folkie, Forrest knew how to talk a lot without talking too much: Gab was the spice of Thelonious Monster’s 90-minute, 20-song set, but music was the meat. After opening with the breezy Allman Brothers’ instrumental “Jessica,” the band quickly got down to Desolation Row.

Forrest was absolutely convincing and focused in song after song about people bound up in emotional trauma. His keening but controlled singing conveyed a sense of empathy to go with the anguish as he hammered the air with his fists and delivered a clenched, transported performance that called to mind the intensity of a Joe Cocker or a Janis Joplin.

Besides his own lyrics about feeling lost and discarded, Forrest worked in John Lennon’s primal screamer “Yer Blues” and turned the Rolling Stones’ “Miss You” into a corner junkie’s monologue that Mick Jagger could well admire. “Everything gonna be good like it used to,” he sang, over and over, bringing sympathy and sad irony to the role he was playing: a loser whose good times are gone for good.

Behind Forrest, the playing hit just the right balance between roughness and control, tenderness and grit. Guitarists Zander Schloss, Dix Denney and Mike Martt put out a sound that deliberately lurched and sputtered, in keeping with the desperate tone of the songs, but never reeled into sloppiness.

Along with drummer Pete Weiss and Martyne, the band’s young, blissfully happy-looking new bassist, the guitarists were able to churn up howling sound on numbers like the blues chestnut “See That My Grave Is Kept Clean,” or to play it soft and wistful on “So What If I Did?” and “Look to the West.” The latter swirled into stormy psychedelia as Forrest called for stage smoke and lights. It was a fine moment that would have been elevated even further had the band been able to bring it back full circle to the quiet, countrified mood of the opening passage.

Of the show’s 20 songs, only a few rang false. A rocked-up reading of Tracy Chapman’s “For My Lover” failed to match the band’s excellent recorded version (saying he was tired, Forrest sang it sitting down, turning over part of the lead to an off-key, mostly inaudible Martt). And Schloss did a stiff impression of Johnny Rotten singing the Association’s “Cherish.” With Forrest there to hold forth between songs, there was no need to force any other gags.

Opening sets by Orange County bands Big Drill Car and Cadillac Tramps were crowd-pleasing but severely limited, especially when held up to Thelonious Monster’s wide range of sources and dynamics. Each band did one or two things well, which isn’t necessarily bad for a young act--as long as it is willing to work on branching out.

Big Drill Car presented a clean (maybe too clean), forceful, high-energy merger of Led Zeppelin tromp beats and earnest punk-pop melody and attitude. But the rise and fall of Frank Daly’s vocal melodies and his thin, linear phrasing was so constant from song to song that his singing became as predictable as respiration.

Daly did a good job of conveying post-adolescent anxiety and confusion without lapsing into piteous mewling, but he needed melodic help. Mark Arnold’s metallic guitar riffs weren’t the answer, and backup vocals, which could have helped a lot, just weren’t in the game plan. Consequently, the most effective numbers in the 45-minute set were the ones like “Mag Wheel” and “Restless Habs” that departed from undernourished attempts at pop melody and emphasized sheer attack.

Cadillac Tramps, whose debut album is due next month from Dr. Dream Records, served up a pounding punk-blues merger that was tasty in the small chunk that their 35-minute set allowed. Any longer, though, and their battering-ram rhythms, razor guitar leads and singer Mike Gaborno’s antic growling would have gotten tiresome. The slam pit denizens loved it, but at this point the Tramps aren’t much more than a good-time novelty act with a single trick to play. If they’re serious about the blues, they’ll learn to find the tenderness that resides there, along with the bluster and humor that they’re tapping now.