POP MUSIC REVIEW : Barnyard Humor Is Farmers’ Only Flaw

SAN JUAN CAPISTRANO — Were those the tears of a clown gleaming on Country Dick Montana’s face Saturday night at the Coach House?

Uh, not quite. It was just silver tinsel, stuck to his bearded, Stetson-topped mug with an adhesive of spilled beer.

Montana is the strapping, black-clad drummer and designated reprobate and master of bad taste of the Beat Farmers, the schizoid San Diego band that comes at you with highly skilled and heartfelt heartland rock one minute, and Montana’s stumblebum barfly meanderings and toilet humor the next.

The basso-voiced performer got wrapped in tinsel and a string of flashing lights during the Christmas segment of the Beat Farmers’ two-hour-plus concert. The centerpiece of the festivities was his version of “The 12 Days of Christmas,” in which most of the gifts were so foul as to not bear repeating here. Montana sang from a sheet of paper as he sat on a table in the middle of the audience.

His list included “7 Dobermans with some sort of intestinal disorder” and “genital herpes” as a substitute for “five golden rings.” It also included “four MCA record company executives (pause)--smiling,” a sneered allusion to the band’s misfortunes in the music business.

The Beat Farmers could cry real tears if they wanted to over their longstanding status as a small cult item on the national scene, and over the fact that they haven’t had an album of new material since 1989.

However, the band does have a newly recorded album in the can, and is now searching for a record company executive, smiling or otherwise, who will put it out.

“We’re 10 1/2 years old, goddamn it, and we still have a career and some very interesting prospects,” a defiant Montana growled at one point.

Unfortunately, getting record companies to invest in the Beat Farmers’ brand of heartland rock at this point in the music business cycle may not be easy. They’re in much the same stylistic ballpark as Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Bob Seger and John Mellencamp. And even some of those marquee names have had trouble notching their accustomed sales numbers lately, given the commercial ascent of gangsta rap, pop-R&B; crooners and grunge-alternative-whatever.

On merit, the Beat Farmers are deserving--or at least the less warped, more musical, Montana-stays- behind-the-drums-and-keeps-his-yap-shut side of the band is.

In Jerry Raney and Joey Harris, the Beat Farmers have a first-rate tandem of singer-guitarists--two forceful, fluent and well-attuned soloists who can raise excitement with their instrumental trade-offs or lend a fine swell of vocal harmony to a rootsy anthem.

Bassist Rolle Love thumped purposefully, and Montana played some snappy drum fills before, as the title of one of his songs puts it, he got “All Liquored Up” by tapping his own ample beer supply and accepting numerous offerings of mixed drinks from the audience. Still, he managed to keep a reasonably coherent beat down the home stretch.

Unfortunately, every time the Beat Farmers would string together three or four good numbers, the crowd would be calling “Dick! Dick! Dick!” and it would be time for more nonsense.

In their mixture of strong musicianship and extracurricular dopiness, the Beat Farmers resemble NRBQ, the long-running East Coast band that also has suffered many a mishap with record companies. (It is no insult to the Beat Farmers to point out that the estimable, utterly unique NRBQ is miles ahead in terms of range, virtuosity and songwriting.) During more than 20 years together, NRBQ’s members have resorted to plenty of on-stage silliness to keep themselves amused and cater to audience expectations of the zany.)

However, NRBQ’s blowing up of Cabbage Patch dolls or its drummer’s off-key repertoire of schmaltzy ballads is positively highbrow compared to Country Dick’s cloacal and sexual fixations. What on earth were he and Harris thinking of with that homosexual burlesque they sang to the tune of the theme from “Green Acres”?

Country Dick’s cohorts showed instances of mild irritation with some of his extended carryings-on, but more often they joined in his fun and seemed at least as cracked up by it as the audience (Montana’s destruction of “The 12 Days of Christmas” was pretty hilarious before the law of diminishing returns set in).

But silliness aside, there is a clear sense of fellowship within the band and enough juicy rocking to justify the Beat Farmers’ existence.

In the best of all possible worlds, some label will pick up the new record, and perhaps a worthy new number, such as Raney’s “Complicated Life” or Harris’ “Midnight World” (which expresses weariness with the life of a bar-rocker) will prove the Beat Farmers’ ticket to wider recognition.

Maybe then the band will be able to concentrate on playing. It would be good to see a more or less straightforward Beat Farmers show with Montana trotted out only for jokes that rely on his singing and playing rather than his sharing of his, uh, world view.

Country Dick’s rendition of Johnny Cash’s “Big River” was an example of what works best. The comedy came from his out-of-control flailing at a guitar, which ended only when the band’s roadie stepped up and seized it from him before he could do any physical damage to himself or bystanders. His histrionic but sincere show-closing rendition of a tear-stained country ballad would also be worth keeping.

The next time something gets stuck to Country Dick’s face, let’s hope it’s a warning label that says, “Use Sparingly.”