By Bill Holmes

Mohawk Place is tucked away on a side street, half a block from one of downtown Buffalo's major arteries, but in many ways it's a world apart. While bars three blocks away have signs posted warning that "no vests without shirts" and "no gang colors" are permitted, this small pocket of cool boasts stickers and posters from some of the best bands traveling America's blue highways. Angry Johnny, The Drive By Truckers, The Blacks and dozens of other bands have double-parked their vans and dragged their gear through the crowd to set up on a stage the size of a postage stamp. But the beer is cold, the crowd is hot, and in this Boy-Band, Mouseketeer-Girl age, that's what you have to do from town to town to get the word out. Even if you have released the best record of 2000 and might truly be The Last Rock And Roll Band.

But you're smart, and you're prepared. Your microphone stands have beer holders build on them, perfect for placing today's special, freshly pulled from the ice filled pail on stage that probably doubles for a bait bucket on the owner's day off. You have a bottle opener on your key ring, because God knows your hands are going to get bloodied enough tonight just playing your instrument. Your drummer borrowed the set from one of the other bands to save time, and even though it looks like it could be a child's starter kit, you know he's going to beat the living hell out of it, because he won't let you down. Not tonight. Not ever. Because you're here to take no prisoners, and even if some of these people are still here from the Happy Hour band's set, that doesn't matter. Your extra guitars and a banjo ("a banjo!", you see someone mouth incredulously) are on stands on the dance floor right in front of the stage, because you're going to turn the whole goddamn place into a dance floor in a minute. You are Marah, and you are The Last Rock And Roll Band, and tonight you are going to launch this small barroom off the ground and give these people a show that will restore their faith in rock and roll and all it means - passion, heart, integrity, soul - because that's the only way you play, and you have no other choice. There are no monitors. There is no soundcheck. You don't care. You perch that lit cigarette in the tuning pegs just like Ron Wood does, and you give a quick look at your brother, who's right next to you doing the same thing, and then you let that first chord go KRANNNNNNNNGGGGGGG.

Dave Bielankos' voice has been described as "whiskey-soaked" and "ragged", along with every other adjective and metaphor that Rod Stewart ever had to endure. Whatever it is, it's perfect, but it's his phrasing as much as his voice that sends writers running for the thesaurus. When you add the fact that the lyrics range from stream-of-consciousness urban jive to intensely introspective emotions, and that the music takes the street-smart soulfulness of early Springsteen and filters it through the sonic wallop of the Faces and Replacements, well, brother, you are on to something huge.

Although only in his mid-twenties, Bielanko has the unpretentious stage demeanor of a veteran. He and older brother Serge were probably born in a road case, and lord knows their path to glory has taken some twisted turns, but here they are. There's a new rhythm section, a suicidal move to make just as your record is getting rave reviews and you have to go back it up. But these are not men of fear. This is The Last Rock And Roll Band.

The set blisters - guitars scream and whine as one, the brothers Bielanko playing musical Pong with leads and rhythm. Serge bobs to the mike to bang in a harmony, or sometimes just a well placed yelp or howl. Bass throbs, drums slam, thick slide guitar carries the song like a tidal wave over the audience. "It's good to see you having fun in bars", Dave announces, while Serge laughs at a derogatory reverence to Philadelphia. The Flyers have just eliminated The Sabres from the playoffs, and this is a tough town tired of losing. But Serge fires a shot right back, and the crowd eats it up, and one song into the set Philadelphia has Buffalo in the palm of its hand once again.

Joe, the new bass player, is crowded into a corner of a stage so small that it would be considered a violation of the Geneva Convention. Despite the club name, the stage lights would never tolerate a real Mohawk haircut, as they are burning low enough to singe the head of a tall man. Joe doesn't have a Mohawk, but the lights and barroom heat are brutal enough. As if to remind him of his mortality, a portable fan sits perched across from his right shoulder, but it's dead as a doornail. Dave's guitar swinging on his other side, Joe silently thanks Mom and Dad for making him left handed. And I can't even see Mick, the new drummer, because at a kit that small he has to have his ass on the stage floor. He's reportedly fighting the flu, but you'd never know it from the sticks and arms occasionally spotted flying higher than a dipped shoulder. Rock and roll as therapy, I can relate. Serge and Dave are limited to a little bobbing and weaving, and somehow the barroom ballet works flawlessly. But there will be no duckwalking tonight.

Mike Brenner sits stage left with lap steel intact, exhuming guitar sounds, simulating horn sections and playing utility infielder, all the while beaming at the energetic cacophony taking place before him. Marah could be the Faces without him, but with him they are the Faces with a hot Ronnie Wood. Sometimes Mike is Ronnie, and sometimes it's Dave or Serge, but there's enough balance and firepower there so that the brothers Bielanko can act like the four-armed, four-legged, one-minded stage creature that they are. Damn the safety nets; bring on the just-sloppy-enough three-beer guitars and vocals.

It's a short set, not a show, so they fire salvos from Kids In Philly - "Christian Street", "Point Breeze", a hypnotic "Catfisherman" which segues into "Magic Bus". Marah breathes the city life like oxygen and re-channels it into songs, and when they borrow from the masters, it's fiery homage, like their dynamic cover of Lou Reed's "Cant Stand It". Twin guitars suddenly sing sweetly with a reverential version of "Sleepwalk", which leads into the unreleased gem (and longtime live staple) "Reservation Girl". It's a softer, more Parsons/Whiskeytown side for the band, and like their "Why Independent Record Stores Fail" (from the 3-song "Point Breeze" EP), it proves that their songwriting prowess is not defined by tempo.

The banjo is strapped on for "Round Eye Blues", the new record's most poignant song, and the band and crowd are one, caught up in the infectious chorus long before "Be My Baby" slides into the coda. But they pull out all the stops for "The History Of Where Someone Has Been Killed", as Serge flips his guitar mid-song to multi-instrumentalist Brenner before he blows the roof off with a harmonica solo. Ears will ring for days afterwards, but that's rock and roll, folks. They wave and thank and try to leave, but the place is going nuts, so they return to play "Faraway You", the bouncy tale of unrequited love as seen through a bus window. And they thank the crowd again and apologetically try to leave, as there is another band - a hometown band - that's already well behind schedule. But the crowd won't let them, and with a knowing exchange of glances with the on-deck Steam Donkeys, Marah mounts the stage and plays every band's National Anthem, The Replacements' "Can't Hardly Wait". Then it's over, and the audience has been won, and the band mingles with their new-found fans. But not until after they drag their equipment through the bar, out to that van; there's no posse to wipe their ass or even pack their gear. You don't get the sense that they need this nightly dose of humility, but you don't get the sense that they resent it, either.

Marah started as a trio, and Serge has been quoted as saying that when he first saw his brother's new group play in a club, "my first thought was - how do I weasel my ass into this band?" After seeing them live, I'm left thinking "how do I weasel my ass into every show this band plays?" A better-paid writer than me once saw Bruce Springsteen and proclaimed "I have seen the future of rock and roll". Well, I have seen The Last Rock And Roll Band do its thing. Screw the future - Rock and Roll is right here, right now, and its name is Marah, and it's coming to your town, gonna party it down.


(C) 2000 - Bill Holmes