ZZ Top
– Tres Hombres
If Tres Hombres were a meal, it’d be barbecued brisket served off the tailgate of a Cadillac with a bottle of tequila for a napkin. ZZ Top’s third album kicks open the saloon doors and starts playing slide guitar with a grin so greasy you can practically hear the sweat on the strings. This is the record where the band stops dabbling and goes full swamp boogie, full beard, full Texan.
Best of…
Billy Gibbons’ guitar tone is its own animal—thick, fuzzy, and downright filthy in the best way. He doesn’t shred so much as grind and slink, like he’s coaxing the notes out with a slow nod and a dirty look. Dusty Hill and Frank Beard, meanwhile, make up a rhythm section that walks the line between laid-back and lethal. They don’t need flash. They’ve got feel. There’s a swing to it, a stomp, and a slow-drag groove that could start bar fights or end them, depending on who’s holding the bottle.
What makes Tres Hombres great isn’t complexity—it’s confidence. These guys knew what they wanted to play, and they played it like it was the last set before the apocalypse. The songs are short, sharp, and dipped in Southern grit. The humor’s dry, the riffs are wet, and the whole thing sounds like it was recorded in a hot car with the windows rolled up and the radio screaming for mercy.
Choice Tracks
Waitin’ for the Bus / Jesus Just Left Chicago
A one-two punch that’s seamless on the record and should never be separated. “Waitin’ for the Bus” has that snappy, head-nodding strut, while “Jesus…” slides right in with blues gospel heat and a lead tone that sounds like it’s been soaked in whiskey and sin.
Beer Drinkers & Hell Raisers
A mission statement set to a barroom brawl of a riff. Gibbons and Hill trade verses like two good ol’ boys swapping tall tales at a roadside diner. It’s dumb in all the right ways—big, loud, and proudly blue-collar.
La Grange
If you don’t know the riff, you’ve either been in a coma or never been near a jukebox. Based on a John Lee Hooker groove, Gibbons turns it into something sleazier, snakier, and unforgettable. It swaggers, it howls, it owns.
Master of Sparks
Weird, wiry, and oddly autobiographical. The lyrics are about strapping a steel cage to a truck and riding it until it flips. That’s the actual story. The music? A low-slung blues grinder that makes destruction sound like a vacation plan.
Tres Hombres isn’t reinventing the wheel—it’s sticking a chrome rim on it and peeling out of town. It’s Texas boogie at its leanest and meanest, proof that you don’t need a lot of gear or words when the attitude does all the talking.