POP MUSIC REVIEW : Webb Wilder Works on His Persona at Beach Club

Webb Wilder, an ambitious up-and-coming bandleader from Nashville, obviously doesn’t want to be just another roots-rocker.

He and his band (collectively known as Webb Wilder) are looking for ways to separate themselves from a pack that includes such kindred contenders as the Blasters, the Fabulous Thunderbirds, Joe Ely and the Nick Lowe-Dave Edmunds British pub rock alumni association. All those acts are first rate; none, as Wilder probably is well aware, has achieved consistently gaudy results on the pop charts.

Lacking the Chris Isaak option (steamy romanticism combined with movie star looks), Wilder is looking to position himself as the goofball of roots rock.

Wilder--who stars in his own 40-minute promotional video, called “Horror Hayride”--took his campaign from the screen to the stage Saturday night at the Sunset Beach Club. Working to establishing the sort of persona that more straightforward roots-rockers have lacked, he chose an old, all-American favorite: the gangly, fast talking, slogan-slinging, wisecracking huckster.

Topping off the character were his specs and his trademark hat--a smooth gray broad-brimmed affair that’s the sort of thing a dapper rancher wears when he goes into town a-courting (although it’s doubtful that any rancher would be caught in a jacket quite so lounge-lizard shiny as Wilder’s).

As he spouted his patter, you could imagine Wilder earning a living as a snake oil salesman. If rock ‘n’ roll doesn’t work out for him, he can always try life as a carny.

For now, though, he and his band are doing just fine where they are. It isn’t snake oil they’re selling, but an invigorating tonic with all the medicinal properties of good, buoyant, well-played rock.

Their 80-minute set was accomplished and hard-revving. The foursome didn’t careen and explode on the stage like Jason & the Scorchers, another Nashville roots-rock band that, during its mid-’80s heyday, was far wilder than Webb. But Wilder and his mates had no trouble rocking authoritatively with a highly juiced twin-guitar attack led by bantam-size Donny Roberts. Wilder got in some good solo licks, too, and at peak moments the two guitarists played off each other with alternating parts.

When he sang, Wilder’s phrasing and timbre most often recalled the Blasters’ Phil Alvin, although Wilder’s voice isn’t as massive and rangy as the redoubtable Alvin’s. Still, he had enough power to sing with convincing swagger.

What Webb Wilder may have over other roots-rock contenders is the ability to veer far from the traditional path that the Blasters and the T-Birds take, and to plunge into surf and psychedelic music that have a better chance of finding a large mainstream rock audience.

The band created a sort of inland surf music with a couple of twanging instrumentals, “Sputnik” and “Horror Hayride.” “Hoodoo Witch,” the set’s peak rocker, recalled “The Green Manalishi,” a classic of spooky psychedelia by ‘60s-vintage Fleetwood Mac, except that it steered away from Mac’s mysterious East and into a comical Louisiana swamp.

Wilder solidified his psychedelic credentials with a recreation of “I Had Too Much to Dream (Last Night),” the Electric Prunes’ oldie. A bit too straightforward and polite most of the way through, the number paid off at the end in a swarming double guitar eruption.

On the roots-oriented styles, Wilder showed a strong hand. The band steamed over chunky Rolling Stones territory with “Cold Front” (bassist Rich Ruth, who wore one white boot and one black one, marked the occasion by singing backup vocals with a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, just like Keith Richards and Ron Wood do).

The band also delivered a meaty blues rave-up with Big Joe Williams’ “Baby Please Don’t Go,” during which Wilder doffed his guitar and did a crowd-pleasing, knee-slapping hoedown dance.

Wilder’s act is more about energy and fun than deep feelings, but he mixed in the occasional song that appealed to the heart. “Safeside,” an anthem in praise of taking risks for the sake of love, hit home emotionally with its soaring chorus.

“The Rest (Will Take Care of Itself)” was a ballad of reassurance to a doubt-filled lover, punctuated by a nice solo from Roberts on the six-string bass branch of a lyre-shaped double-necked guitar (Roberts’ large collection of instruments included a red, box-shaped, Bo Diddley-style number, while Wilder favored a guitar with a body resembling a gigantic shark’s tooth).

Nick Lowe was an obvious influence on the songs that required less sheer force and more empathy (“Meet Your New Landlord” sounded a lot like Lowe’s gem of a few years back, “The Rose of England”).

With such a wide assortment of styles, and the ability to pull them all off with zest, Wilder shouldn’t need to rely forever on shtick to make his music stick.

Webb Wilder was the first touring act to play at the Sunset Beach Club, and with luck the venue could fill a void in the local scene by becoming a regular stopping-off point for up-and-coming performers who otherwise might bypass Orange County (the Coach House in San Juan Capistrano often won’t book newcomers who are on their first or second tours and haven’t yet made it into the mainstream, and Bogart’s in Long Beach can’t accommodate every new contender or cult band that comes through).

The club is a pleasant room, with a fanciful surfing mural behind the stage, a high ceiling and good ventilation. The sound quality was good Saturday, although the massive, rented public address system used for the Wilder show may have had something to do with that.

The club’s stage is very low, which wasn’t a problem Saturday night as most fans sat in chairs. But unless the stage is raised, sight lines figure to suffer badly at more crowded, standing-room events.