POP MUSIC REVIEW : McConnell and the Havalinas Bristle With Energy and Promise

SAN JUAN CAPISTRANO —  Ira Robbins, editor of the esteemed Trouser Press Record Guide, once described the music of Tim McConnell, now leader of the Havalinas, as “some of the dumbest dance-rock ever,” supporting that opinion with terms like inadequacy , moronic , bland and forgettable .

It’s reviews like that which make performers want to change their names. For whatever reason, McConnell did indeed recently change his stage name from Tim Scott, the moniker he had used since his days with the Rockats in the ‘70s. But that is far from all that has changed with McConnell: The trio he fronted at the Coach House on Saturday bristled with energy and promise.

The Havalinas, rounded out by guitarist McConnell’s former Rockat cohort Smutty Smith on bass and ex-Cruzados drummer Charlie Quintana, are pretty much two different critters: On their recent Don Gehman-produced debut album, the group captured a refined roots sound that recalls Gehman’s work with John Mellencamp in its propulsive textures; live, the Havalinas proved to be more like their namesake--wild desert pigs.

Rampaging over their songs, the three often played like an antic cross between the Stray Cats and the Violent Femmes. Though McConnell and Smith both played acoustic instruments, they did so with a volume and drive that sank thoroughly into the grooves and grunge of their music. And Quintana was one involved drummer, playing with a firecracker intensity throughout the evening.

Not all of their loose live action served the songs. But one can be expected to lose a bit of finesse while performing--as McConnell did at one point--balanced atop a stand-up bass as it’s being played horizontally by a recumbent bassist and simultaneously whacked by Quintana’s sticks.

Some of the show’s impact was diluted by McConnell’s stage patter, which seemed to have a forced, nervous arrogance to it. The band seemed also to veer uneasily between being a serious outfit with something to say and being a teen-bent rockabilly diversion. (In addition to the trio’s bass-dog-pile antics, Smith sports enough tattoos on his arms to populate a Sunday comics section.)

At times those paths happily converged. On record, the passion and intent of McConnell’s songs often outstrip his ability to communicate those qualities; his lyrics--dealing with hard times, racism and a cold society--tend to be more clever than communicative.

In the live setting though, where even errant feedback squeals were worked into the fabric of the songs, McConnell’s lyrics took a back seat to the band’s emotional delivery. And, oddly enough, some of his songs got their message across better with the lyrics partially obscured by the on-stage rambunctiousness. Those included the anti-racist “Sticks and Stones,” the apocalyptic “High Hopes,” and “Fill ‘Em Up,” which rails at the deadening way many children are raised. Whatever preciousness there may have been on the lyric sheet was devoured by McConnell’s howling vocals.