A Pony Named Olga. The barkeep was raving extreme tossing out guarantees for free. Step right up. I concluded I had to go. Dodging the raindrops, I came upon the scene at Abilene to a thunderous giddy-up coming through the joints pores and doors. I can think of better names, but I can’t think of a better band than A Pony Named Olga. This name would fit if Olga were perhaps a rabid pony.
It was said that these three cats out of Deutschland were somewhere between cow punk, bluegrass, and rockabilly. Some even said polka (that often happens if the artist plays fast and has a “ski” or “witz at the tail end of their surname). But lemme break it down for you: The band was simply a wild ass, hyper-speed, sweaty four on the floor combo without seat belts.
The neck vein-busting guitar player pulled a furious flurry from his battered Jr. as the bassist used his doghouse as monkey bars, alternating between slapping it and kicking it with his heel as if he were kick starting a flooded pan head. The drummer was all kind of backwards wearing his snare around his neck while playing the kick drum behind him with his heel. A Pony Named Olga played so fast that it delivered a hot and steamy four hour set in under an hour. Man oh man, what a show. A Pony Named Olga uber alles!