Wow, the weather in Tennessee sure has been gorgeous the last few days. Autumnal, a hint of chill in the air, lovely, bright blue skies. You see that? It’s diversion. Hopefully you will be so caught up in thoughts of beautiful fall weather that you won’t really notice what I’m about to say.
Okay, I’m sure some of you anticipated this, especially those of you who actually know me, but every ridiculous, uninformed, lame negative thing I ever said about bluegrass? I take it all back. Yep. I was wrong, you all were right. Yes, I have loved a bluegrass band here and there, but I’m wholly won over now. Converted, as it were.
It’s settin’ to be hell week or a damn good time here in Nashville. The Americana Music Association is having their big conference in town and everyone is here. No, really EVERYONE: Dale Watson, Scott Miller & The Commonwealth, Corb Lund, Will Kimbrough, Jeffrey Foucault, The Hacienda Brothers, Lisa Hayes, Wrinkle Neck Mules, Dave Alvin, Rosanne Cash, Elvis Costello and Allen Toussaint, Alejandro Escovedo, the Cherryholmes, the Derailers, Delbert McClinton, and about 700 other folks. The shows are happening all over and all at once, but we’ll be hitting as many of them as we can. If you’re in town or can get to Nashvegas, this is the time come. Full show schedule is here.
So last night I’m out on the town gearing up for this whole week of good shows and the whole place is a buzz with gossip. Rumor mongering everywhere about some “high class” male prostitute named Big Red, and how he was sent to a nice to hotel room, paid cash and then told to wait for the actual client (as apparently an intermediary was needed to broker this deal). Thunder rolled and in walked the real client demanding some rough, all night, mano a mano action that perhaps went down until the sun came up. You know what I’m sayin’?
First off, this isn’t a sit down and read it through book. The author is predominately a magazine writer and it shows. This book is best read in small digestible pieces, like a series of magazine articles.
What’s really missing is an in-depth analysis of how the politics in this country are swinging wildly to the right and how that’s reflected in the mainstream country music industry. Not that Chris Willman doesn’t try, he does, but with a mixed outcome. I think I wanted something more thought provoking. Reading this was like setting out to argue passionately with someone and instead just sitting around, sharing a pot of tea and going, “Oh yeah, I totally agree with you on that. Uh-huh. Yeah, that too. Oh, man, really, that’s where I’m coming from too.” Which is validating, but doesn’t exactly charge you up, you know?
The world is ending. No, really. I’m pretty sure Toby Keith will be our downfall. Because he might not suck.
Goodness, did I just say that out loud? Okay, here’s the deal. There’s this book, Rednecks and Bluenecks, which suggests that his politics, privately, are very much in line with mine (seriously, there were a dozen, “wait, Toby Keith is a Democrat?!?!?” conversations around HCT headquarters). And then he goes and is on the Colbert Report and is charming, self-effacing and funny. Also he clearly loves Willie Nelson. Plus he’s a tall cowboy, and beef noodle hearty, which means Mimi could probably be easily induced to crush out on him (yikes). And I keep hearing around town that he’s running his record label right and supporting the artists and giving them control of their music etc.
So I hate his music. And yeah, he’s definitely in it for the money to some extent and willing to suck up to the Man and the major labels and play the game (even the name of his label, Show Dog Records, seems to some how imply that he is so playing some game). I don’t dig that. It’s just suddenly I find I can’t blindly hate him anymore. Unles she’s playing some insane game to make money from people he hates? Man, I can’t even follow that train of thought. My world is already upside down enough.
Posted in podcast - September 12th, 2006 at 3:08 pm by Cricket
Hi, kids, it’s podcastin’ time again. While doing our usual random, whatever-let’s-just-go-here trips around Nashville, sometimes we accidentally go see some really exceptional musicians. Sometimes they agree to do podcasts for us. In that vein we present songs and conversation with Tom House (he’s also on MySpace). A very social podcast (right click and ’save as’) in which we talk about politics, Southern Literature, the Nashville music scene in the 70s, poetry, books and record labels. There’s a lack of ice tinkling in the background here, but we make up for it by popping open beer cans. Tom plays sort of traditional bluegrassy folk. He has an incredible old-timey sound and some very thoughtful well written lyrics. I think we could have spent several more hours just hanging out and talking to him. Tracks in this ‘cast include (all Tom’s original songs, unless otherwise noted):
The Last Desperate Man
Who Counts the Money
Sylvanie I Don’t Want to Lose You
Here and Gone
Ft. Worth Blues (Steve Earle cover)
Georgia Queen
No Gala
Hungover and Haunted
You can buy Tom’s music several places online including Amazon.com or you can spend less and get them straight from him for $10 per CD, $2 shipping and handling for the first one, $1 for each additional:
A while back our pal and NE correspondent, Ethel, hooked me up with a copy of Trampled by Turtles’s Blue Sky and the Devil. Before listening, I did my requisite research online, somewhat half-assedly, and though I don’t remember exactly, I suspect I saw “bluegrass” and laid the album aside until recently. [Wait, weren’t you saying something last night about how bluegrass was “pure” music or some other hogwash?—Mimi][You must be high. And confusing me with someone.—Cricket]
Sometimes I’m doing like actual research, work as it were, and I start following links, and more links and more links. It’s called procrastination, kids, and it’s worse than cocaine. Well, except in rare cases, like this one, where it brings you something good (cocaine never does that).
Okay, so what’s always insanely great? Johnny Cash. What’s also pretty damn great? Big Bird. How awesome is the idea of them together?
This band was recommended to us probably upwards of ten different times by different people (and over and over again by a couple persistent lunatics).
Alright then, let’s do it up.
The Wrinkle Neck Mules. They also have a MySpace, naturally, if you’re more of the stalking type. The one-eared mule head furry on their website is creepeh. If you think SciFi Channel original programming is scary, stay away from the website. Oh, look, they’re gonna be in Nashville on the 20th of September at the Americana Music Conference (along with so so many other people, post all about that to follow).
If you like ’90’s alt.country, you’ll love this album, Pull the Brake. You’ve got the multiple lead singers, twangy guitar, banjo plucking, low-fi production, randomly Southern themes, and combination of earnestness and irony in the lyrics. Personally, this works for me and has for a long time. There’s only so many times you can listen to Anodyne or Pneumonia, so I’m all for bands continuing this sound. [I’m on this train, it was good music then and it passes the time test. I’m glad to still be able to find it in new and different configurations.—Cricket]
Denver keeps throwing things at me that I utterly love. First Drag the River, and now The Hollyfelds. Denver, I feel like you’ve been holding out on me, where was all this goodness when I was there a decade ago? Maybe you thought I wouldn’t have been ready for it then, but I sure am now.
The Hollyfelds are a five piece group bringing twangy traditionalist Americana in way that feels sharp, fresh and new and simultaneously like it could have been made any time in the last hundred years. [Sounds like a low rent version of the Be Good Tanyas to me.–Mimi] There’s something completely western about their sound that leaves me feeling I’m missing something by listening to it in Tennessee instead of on some desolate Western prairie. [Insert stock joke about sending you out to the desolate prairie.–Mimi] I close my eyes during their songs and expect to open then them and find myself in some old west saloon, drinking whiskey as the sheriff bangs through the door and the card games stop. [No, that’s just me. I knocked over the bottle.–Mimi]
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