Ian Moore and the Lossy Coils Continental Club June 22, 2013

When Ian Moore asks for giant bottles of Advil and asks for the house lights to be turned down, you oblige. He is, after all, recovering from being cast as the next blues great where long-haired savants and Stevie Ray Vaughan ruled the airwaves.

But gone were the days of old Saturday night at the Continental Club, where Moore sounded strangely more modern and in full control of his destiny. His old self has been shed away, along with record labels and managers constantly telling him what to do.

His beloved beat-up Fender Strat that looks like it has seen better days was still intact, though, and Moore, aided by his Vox wah-wah, wasted no time breaking into his expressive style of bluesy riffs coupled with poetic lyrics and a powerful stage presence.

It's hard to pigeonhole Moore's musical journey into a single genre, and just as impossible to group his eclectic audience into even a few types.

By the time Moore and his band took the stage, the crowd at the Continental Club had swelled to 200-plus patrons, most of the men early on looking like they might have been dragged there by their women, sans one guy wearing a CBGB's T-shirt, who sang along to every word.

Pretty girls were there in droves, clad in everything from hot pinks and neons, or slinky dresses to super-short shorts and the highest heels with full on bleached blonde hair just for Moore. Maybe this is why the men come out to shows too; who knows.

Moore, with his Dionysus-like convection driving women mad, does after all have an entire DVD, Live from the Cactus Café, pretty much dedicated to women everywhere, littered with song titles like April," "Til You Come Around," and "Magdalena," wedding-song fodder for many women looking to get hitched.

Moore and his band switch gears easily enough though, and wasted no time breaking into "Harvey Gann," a politically arranged piece about a narcotics officer determined to stop the counterculture from taking over Austin in the '60s.

According to Moore, Gann was merciless in his quest, particularly focusing on the 13th Floor Elevators and their singer, Roky Erickson, who was busted for possession of a joint. Erikson pleaded insanity, was housed in a mental institution, and the rest they say is rock'n'roll history.

What else is there to do but follow that number with power anthems aided by amplified organ and a tight-as-hell rhythm section?