"I think people should wear togas to see Mojo Nixon," snipped one jaded scenester as Mojo Nixon inspired scores of young 'uns to hoot and holler at the Roxy on Saturday night. "Oh, no," retorted her companion. "This guy's for the college kids who think they're too cool to wear togas."
Whatever, this sub-Tom Waits from San Diego certainly puts the animal in the house, howling like a Mississippi Wolfman and serving up smart-aleck, quasi-redneck toilet humor for terminally arrested-development cases. Those who consider themselves a tad more erudite might hate themselves for laughing at this "Hee-Haw" for sophomores--but laugh one did as, accompanied by washboard master Skid Roper, manic Mojo launched salacious cheap shots aimed at sex, drug testing, Gorbachev, sex, the omnipotence of the original Elvis, sex, the 405 freeway, glam-rock "foo-foo heads" and sex.
Sight-lines were impossible (Nixon sat in a chair for most of the set and the crowd at the front blocked the view for those further back) and the manic humor started to wear thin, but Nixon remains a great self-invented character: the over-energized high priest of corn-pone gross. His acolytes are out there, togas or not.