Franchise Players?

McDonald’s begat Burger King, which begat Wendy’s. They called it franchising and saw that it was good, at least for business.

So, in rock ‘n’ roll, hath there been a whole lot of begettin’ goin’ on when it comes to franchising music.

First Lollapalooza made its strikingly successful pitch to the alternative nation. Then the organizers of the H.O.R.D.E. festival saw there was a franchise for a traveling cavalcade of new-generation jam bands playing to twirly dancing Deadheads. Next came the Warped Tour, packaging aggressive punk bands for the surf-and-skate subculture.

On Sunday, a musical mating dance dubbed Hootenanny ’96 used Oak Canyon Ranch as a verdant trysting ground. On a beautiful, hot but not oppressive afternoon, traditional, old-line, ‘50s-based rock ‘n’ roll snuggled up with rock’s noisier but still roots-conscious offshoots of the ‘90s to see what they might beget. Would it be a new franchise, a Roots-A-Palooza that could be carried across the country?

The concept certainly works in Southern California. Here, punk rock has been married to ‘50s rock since 1977, when X, a band from Los Angeles, launched the region’s punk movement with a careening drive derived in large part from Billy Zoom’s juiced-up rockabilly guitar.

Having sold out in its debut last year, the Hootenanny again played to a capacity crowd of 3,500, according to promoter Bill Hardie. Many of the fans sported a slicked-back and pompadoured look or high-heeled, ‘50s party-girl chic; some members of the punkish hair-dye and piercings brigade also were on hand in a crowd that seemed to be mainly in its 20s and 30s.

Hootenanny ’96 was a seven-hour, daylight festival with continuous music alternating between the main lawn stage and a second stage in a more intimate patio setting. The day offered a higher-profile bill than the 1995 inaugural, which had been headlined by the Cramps and Reverend Horton Heat.

Jerry Lee Lewis, who debuted in 1957 on Memphis’ legendary Sun Records, led the traditionalists, who also included four Southern California acts: the Blasters, James Intveld, the Paladins and the Sun Demons.

Social Distortion, the punk band from Orange County that began putting out records 15 years ago, commanded the platoon of noisy upstarts who honor and to some extent reflect the influence of rock’s founders. Seattle’s Supersuckers, North Carolina’s Southern Culture on the Skids, Riverside-based Custom Made Scare and L.A. County’s Los Infernos were others playing roots-informed punk or punk-juiced roots music.

If the crowd had concluded strongly that Jerry Lee was killer, you could pretty much pack this thing up and put it on the road: It would be proof that the punk faction is ready to embrace an original forebear. But the results of the experiment were not conclusive.

“The Killer” was considerably less than killer, appearing unfocused, bemused and meandering in his 45-minute set--a far cry from last year’s terrific outing before an older crowd at the Cerritos Center for the Performing Arts. Much of the Hootenanny audience left while Lewis’ day-ending show was still in progress. (On the other hand, those who stayed gave him a long, resounding ovation when he finished.)

Instead of hurtling through his show like a rock ‘n’ roll fireball and thrusting his ego forward at full force, Lewis seemed tentative. He would halt a song suddenly, just when it began to cook a bit, or pause between numbers to eye the crowd and chat aimlessly. Maybe the sight of crowd-surfers was too big a shock for Jerry Lee. Maybe he was too busy looking outward for what he referred to as “my inspiration”--presumably in halter-topped form--rather than inward to the smoldering, unfathomable self that propels his music.

There was nothing technically weak about the 60-year-old Lewis’ voice or his piano playing. They just didn’t lock into any real thrills. A strong backing band included James Burton, himself an important part of ‘50s rock tradition as Ricky Nelson’s lead guitarist. Burton got his red Fender Telecaster to sound like a slide guitar or a pedal steel with nothing but his two unaided hands.

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After Social Distortion (see accompanying review), Southern Culture on the Skids was the other noise-bringer that scored big. Its hot set on the second stage featured swampy, funky and surf-rock grooves that had the audience in a dancing paroxysm. The band’s joking Southern-rustic stance was at least as fond as it was satiric. There’s a big streak of novelty in Southern Culture, a la such kindred bands as the B-52’s and the Cramps. But taken in bite-size performance chunks, this food-obsessed band greasily hit the spot.

Supersuckers, recently reviewed, were likable, if one-dimensional, with their revving, ZZ Top-meets-Chuck Berry rockers.

Los Infernos, due to debut next month on Doctor Dream Records, recall the roots-informed punk sound and growled vocals of their defunct label-mates the Cadillac Tramps, but Los Infernos’ songs were not striking on first encounter. Custom Made Scare made a good first impression with garage-like rockabilly, country-spiked punk songs and some sharp humor in the writing.

Meanwhile, it was a good day for the Southern California rock traditionalists’ guild. The Blasters, who founded the club back in the late ‘70s, carry on with sharp ensemble work and Phil Alvin’s spirited singing, although there still is no outdoing the songs Dave Alvin wrote for the band before he left 10 years ago. One of them, “So Long Baby Goodbye” was the highlight of the early afternoon set.

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James Intveld, one of the most capable roots-musicians around, gave another reason to wonder why he isn’t at least as major a dude as Chris Isaak. His set featured first-rate originals ranging from the classic honky-tonk of “Cryin’ Over You” to the high-lonesome, Roy Orbison-like sweep of “Samantha,” both from his new, German-import debut CD.

The Paladins’ set peaked when the band from San Diego pulled back the throttle from the brawny if standard-issue roadhouse rock and blues it began with, and cooked at a long, slow, sexy, rumba simmer through “Going Down to Big Mary’s” (“where all the lovers meet”).

Orange County’s Sun Demons made a good impression with their varied takes on rockabilly and country music. “Time Warp Daddy” was a twangy ode to the delights of being a ‘50s throwback; one chunky number had an early-Beatles feel, abetted by good harmony singing. Drummer Joe Tatar was a show unto himself, twirling his sticks between beats or making animated faces to accentuate his sharp exertions.