Holy Broke Ain’t Broke Yet
In the dim hum of a Monday night at Spokane’s Baby Bar, a small but spirited crowd gathers, not for salvation, but for the sacred and the profane—the music of The Holy Broke and Jesus Christ Taxi Driver.
It’s a cold Monday. As I walk up to Baby Bar, Kent Ueland (of the Holy Broke) and Zach Dahmen (tonight’s promoter) are outside shivering and sharing some nicotine. I try to bum one from Dahmen who offers to roll me one, Kent interrupts offering a “prefab”.
If this is an omen for the evening, I’m blessed.
For a Monday that would probably be dead, Baby Bar feels resurrected. Friends, music fans, and an assortment of dirtbag types slowly pile in to see a show on a generally off night. Twenty minutes before go time and there’s already a building din from the 25 to 30 people piled in.
Jesus Christ Taxi Driver is illegally parked outside - maybe they know, maybe they’ll ask forgiveness if a parking cop comes by.
A wafting burrito smell fills the room as glasses fill and empty. I flip through this week’s Inlander and transition from praying for the best for Zach’s off-night show and start to warm up to the evening.
There’s a line forming in Baby Bar for drinks and I wait my turn for communion. My bartender for the evening quickly absolves my thirst with an NA beer - she asks what kind and I quip about the IPA I’ll drink.
The Holy Broke led off with his whiskey-sipping tune “Roadsick Blues” and the fellow patrons filed from Baby Bar to Neato as the song transfigured into a faithful cover of “On the Road Again”. Someone in the room hoots with approval and a hearty “Hell Yeah!” ascends over Ueland’s small talk. Ueland introduces himself as Jesus Christ Taxi Driver and slides into his next song. The melody has a hymn quality to it and the words lament an empty glass and a broken heart.
Black velvet Jesuses and Satan on a porcelain throne lookout and bear witness to the jangly guitar and Ueland’s rasped vocals. Neato’s portrait back wall usually feels ironic, tonight it's the perfect setting for a man singing songs in a bar that handwave at his past with religious overtones.
Ueland starts a song about a dead body, the Brooklyn bridge, and running through the corpse’s pockets before lamenting he won’t die looking so nice. I laugh because Ueland’s turn of phrase makes light of the gory tale. Then, my heart sinks and I’m not sure if it’s a bit or a glorified retelling of something a bit too messy to tell straight. Either way, Ueland is standing, swirling a Miller Lite, and wearing his usual vintage Bengal’s hat. It’s a totem for a man who sings so much about being down on his luck.
THE HOLY BROKE, photo by Spicy Ketchup
He opens his next song with a proclamation “this is my only prophetic song”, as he recounts a first sober day in a long while. The lyrics ring out.
♪ I wouldn’t lie to you to my dear, I swear I ain’t been drinking, I’ve just been having a few beers ♪
The room relates with a few raised glasses. A member of the crowd pulls Ueland’s empties and provides an offering of a fresh beer. Ueland finishes the procession with a few more songs before Jesus Christ Taxi Driver takes the stage.
The singer is sporting gilded pants and as a pulsing groove kicks up his rubber neck converts the crowd, at least for the evening, into the devout. The songs transfigure the evening from truth telling into a rock and roll ruckus harkening to TV preachers and their proclamations. A three-part harmony serves as a benediction to the next song before the singer yells.
“C’mon baby, it’s a new one!”
One can sense the spirit of John Lennon in Ian Ehrhart’s melodies as a song infused with the holy trinity of Hard Days Night, Come Together and Hey Bulldog enters the airwaves from his throat. God I hate giving out a Beatle’s comparison, especially because I find myself particularly not a fan, but the comparison is quickly lost as Ehrhart starts spanking himself and wailing.
“I’M LANA DEL REY. “
The way he delivers it, I’m almost inclined to believe him. An homage to an icon, just not the one I had in mind.
Jesus Christ Taxi Driver, a four piece who formed in Dahmen’s basement in 2022, may be newly minted, but they present a well-developed sound. The Monday Spokane crowd gladly bobs along to his hooky refrains.
There’s an essence of rockabilly to the next song, to which Ehrhart shouts,
“I’M A STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!”
He’s working himself into a frenzy. The songs are good and Ehrhart delivers the revival rock sound well.
JESUS CHRIST TAXI DRIVER, photo by Spicy Ketchup
Jesus Christ Taxi Driver’s final song enters a meditative groove before lifting to a bouncing Christmas Carol. How they manage a three-part harmony in the round of “Go Tell It On The Mountain” before descending into a hellish psych rock breakdown would have made Kenneth Copeland’s botoxed cheeks blush.
I’m not sure why, but Ehrhart began removing his clothes and swallowing the microphone - an outline of his member visible just below his elastic waist - as his band harmonizes smoothly.
♪ Jesus is gonna’ make’ me ♪
Ehrhart interjects,
“CAPITALISM!”
♪ Jesus is gonna’ make ♪
“SMALLPOX BLANKETS!”
♪ Jesus is gonna’ make me ♪
“SHANIAH!”
♪ Jesus is gonna’ make me ♪
“THE SUPER BOWL!”
♪ Jesus is gonna’ make me save my soul ♪
NEATO BURRITO/BABY BAR, photo by Spicy Ketchup
The closing tune of the night shone an absurdist spotlight on the evening - suddenly where two men had just spent two hours crooning in religious metaphor, the quieted down dive bar felt familiar. Through the comedic bits, broken hearted stories, harmonica, guitar solos, and theater I felt reconnected to my Bible Belt upbringing. All the piety I’d grown up with had led me to this place realizing the catastrophe we as humanity have thrust upon each other through horrific acts like smallpox, capitalism, Shaniah Twain’s latest hijinks, and the Super Bowl? Ehrhart may have lost me on the last one. As I leave, I can’t help but wonder, was it divinely inspired these two bands would share a bill?
Jesus Christ, a taxi driver, with his least faithful servant, the Holy Broke, hosting an evening for congregants on the verge of our PNW induced seasonal depression.
