James McMurtry is the son of Larry McMurtry - author of the phenomenal Western ‘Lonesome Dove’. If you’ve ever read this book or seen the brilliant film adaptation with its stellar line up including Robert Duvall and Tommy Jones, then you’ll know that this is a narrative that’s brilliantly adheres to the particularly quirky traits of the South while deepening its tale via tangents of wisdom and a struggle for a better existence, with its inevitable fuck ups along the way.
Fast forward and now Larry’s son James is in the story tellers chair, and the world sure has changed but we’re still swamped with problems, this time however, of a different nature and of someone else’s doing. Mr George W. Bush.
And that's how it is That's what we got If the president wants to admit it or not
Songs of a political disposition are often unsteady ground. Sometimes they’ll come across as uninformed ramblings of wannabe politico hot-heads, sometimes they’ll come across as do-gooder slurs of clueless uneducated part-time anarchists but very rarely they’ll strike a nerve of sincerity and authenticity. Springsteen is completely capable of crafting a politico anthem that actually endures worthy substance, much like The Clash and Dylan, but new music rarely hit’s the spot and reflects little more than just another musical faux pas, an ill-informed cliché without heart.
With James McMurtry however, it’s different. It’s hardly a new song, penned during the height of Bush’s corruption and lies as he and his crooked colleagues flashed untrue claims of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, but it’s a vital rock and roll anthem that demonstrates the fist-fighting vigour of rock and roll sure aint lost. In ‘We Can’t Make It Here’, a song from McMurtry‘s 2007 album, ‘Childish Things‘, the song writing, guitar-tooting Southerner ignores the focal point of these oil-hungry lying smear-merchants and sings about the struggle of soldiers returning from someone else’s Hollywood war - much likes The Boss’s ‘Born In The USA’ and ‘Atlantic City’.
Will work for food Will die for oil Will kill for power and to us the spoils The billionaires get to pay less tax The working poor get to fall through the cracks
Lyrically this is one of the most accomplished and sincere songs of the last ten years. It’s blistering country-rock riff calls to mind films like ‘Apocalypse Now’ and ‘The Deer Hunter’ with its conspicuously 70s Southern bar-room-rock sound. It’s the sort of sound that paints explicit images of an era that we’ve come to conjure through the songs of that time. Jefferson Airplane in ‘Platoon’, The Doors in ‘Apocalypse Now’ and Creedence in ‘Forest Gump’.
‘We can’t make it here’ isn’t in a film though. It’s the soundtrack of coherent problems. We don’t have producers picking songs to soundtrack our lives, the bands and the artists do that themselves and you pick the soundtrack to your own existence, and even though you don’t know it, McMurtry has penned an anthem to soundtrack all of our lives. Locked up far away in middle class suburbia or a boarding school in the far ends of Scotland or a semi-detached in leafy Surrey or University Halls in Birmingham, you may think you’re safe - and although you are, this shit continues to trundle on through the world and McMurtry has found a way to bring the terror and strife and heartache to your door - and you better fucking listen.
Vietnam Vet with a cardboard sign Sitting there by the left turn line Flag on the wheelchair flapping in the breeze One leg missing, both hands free No one's paying much mind to him The V.A. budget's stretched so thin And there's more comin' home from the Mideast war We can't make it here anymore
With the current economic climate, the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer and the countless soldiers who wont return home to their families this Christmas and the endless bloodshed throughout the world, the struggle faced by the lucky ones who return is colossal.
As well as focusing on the money problems of people in today’s crumbling society, this mind-blowing rocked-up power-house punch draws on the dying identity of America, the jobless and the homeless, the imported goods that have forced unemployment to an all-time high, the throw-away nature of society and the general despair felt by thousands upon thousands of people throughout the world.
With it's filthy distorted-out guitar sound and layered out wailing vocals that pile up on the song like the bulked-up harmonies of John Fogerty on a Bloodkin record, this is one hell of an anthemic heartbeat of hope.
Should I hate a people for the shade of their skin Or the shape of their eyes or the shape I'm in Should I hate 'em for having our jobs today No I hate the men sent the jobs away
This isn’t some moral message that’s going to tell you to get up off your arse and fucking do something, because I’m guilty of this, we all are. It’s just a message telling you to listen to this song - there’s still some good left in this world, and at times, I think that this song could be why McMurty was sent to us in the first place…
If you’ve ever read this blog before (which I doubt many people have) then you’ll know I’ve got a real thing about nostalgia. That Laurel Canyon experience is something that’s intrigued me for years now and there’s an undeniable aura of freedom and happiness that follows the scene of this period (and some incredibly dark ones, I know). Yet I always find myself going back to these past troubadours whose knowledge, experience, tolerance and bare talent will override anything you hear in modern music.
Here I’ve gone back to Little Feat. Not a band of the Canyon era and not a hipster California outfit, yet they’re a country howling outfit who exude sincerity and warmth and depth. This video’s hardly from their prime but it’s a gorgeous tale none the less.
For three decades The Grateful Dead have expanded their trippy mindsets via hallucinogenic additives and by faithfully loosing themselves in their doped up hippy psych-folk fest, and finally, or though I’m rather resentful to declare, I have willingly and rewardingly immersed myself in their extensive back catalogue. With an expansive collection of studio albums and an even more impressive anthology of ’live’ experiences to bury yourself into, you really would be a fool to overlook these impromptu Technicolor instrumental journeys of love, life and all things incredible hippy.
For the past few years, every Sunday morning, I’ve had to bite my tongue around even my closest of friends. If dealing with a hangover and a mouth like an ashtray wasn’t enough, I‘ve been subjected to listen to my deluded buddies chatter incessantly about The X Factor.
From my vaguest of memories I can remember a few things, primarily that I have always despised Baked Beans and The X Factor. And recently, after seeing countless posts and tactless feeds on my Facebook and in newspapers about this abomination of a program I began to question why I’m friends with so many of these people, but this got me in trouble before, so rather than rant until I’m blue in the face I thought I’d put it in words and post it through every letter box in the world, if I ever get round to it that is.
Arguments have ensued before with myself and my friends and my friends friends et al. and I’ve never had enough time or evidence to convince these duped individuals why this program is so god damn unpleasant and why it’s the beginning of the end of everything we’ve ever fucking adored. So with a world of information at my keyboard I’m going to give it a go, but I genuinely think it will have no effect, but what the hell, I’ve done my bit for society, right?
The X Factor began in 2004, the illegitimate brother of Pop Idol fame it immediately secured it’s prime time slot on Saturday night television, and rightly so. It claims around 12 million viewers per series, and if people want to waste their lives away watching this anti-reality then be my guest. However, since 2004 and the vigorous sessions, the tears, the scandals and the awful Sharon Osbourne, The X Factor has presented the music industry, and society respectively, with the likes of Steve Brookstein, Shayne Ward, Leona Lewis, Leon Jackson ( I don’t even know who this person is), Alexandra Burke and the captivating Joe McEldery. Well well, I could stop there, but I wont….
Leona Lewis, fair play on that one. She’s not my cup of tea but she’s certainly the biggest success story that this program has produced. She does have a fantastic voice and a slight personality about her, and in all honesty she sings songs written by other talented individuals hidden behind the ghost writers screen very well, but I can’t deny that she’s a golden girl. That ‘Keep Bleeding’ song, or whatever it was called, hit the charts harder than a re-mastered Elvis record and stayed there for longer than all of the other winners musical products put together. Her due success has shaped her into a popstar as well. She’s got better with experience, and although this does include the unjust demanding diva in her, I can’t complain as she slips into the pop industry of today faster than an England international and a ropey of fifty quid brass.
But then there’s the others. All of them. Steve Brookstein, the middle aged balding twerp with a grin like Zippy from Rainbow. He now sings Sinatra covers in Pizza Express, I hope Cowell’s still getting his cut. In what complex strata of humanity did anyone anywhere in England believe that this was the undiscovered gem of talent that had been kept secret from us? And who on earth thought that this man ‘had it’? he’s got a future on a cruise ship, better still, overboard one.
Next up, Mr Shayne Ward - now I had to google his whereabouts. Well the Manchester born All Saints clone is currently working on his third album which he’s originally titled, ’Obsession’ - no narcissism involved there. This record is sure to be a delight, and although I was half hoping he was now homeless or dead or something along those lines, I’ll admit that I am not surprised he’s still allowed to make music because after all we recently let a Nazi pope into our non Catholic country and judges all over the country are re-housing paedophiles near schools without really thinking, so you come to expect these things. I also googled teasers from his new record, out of curiosity more than anything, and it’s good people - it sounds a bit like someone farting in a jar. But one thing that pleased me about Ward was his consistently chart-slipping releases. He started with a number one and slowly the positions began to tumble like a fat kid down a hill. His third single, ‘Stand By Me’ (Ouch!), only reached number 14, such a shame. Luckily for us though, he did beat Journey South to win the X Factor, well, lucky for you I mean because if those two would’ve won I might have pulled a Columbine stunt of sorts.
Number three on my list is Leon Jackson. Not only did I have to google this bellend but I also had to dig up fucking relics to prove his pathetic existence. The first thing that caught my eye was a double figured number, 94. This was where Mr Jackson’s third single entered the charts. It was called ‘Creative’, remember? No? well we’ve got a lot on our plate. It makes you ponder really, all those people watching the 2007 X Factor religiously, praying for their contestant to emerge victorious, praising their every performance in front of that little dumpy Irish man, the man who ruined music with his trousers ever so high and that prostitute with the purple wig who used to fuck rock stars. I’m sure one or two of you must have thought this guy was the real deal?! Hold up! Thousands of you must have thought that, after all that’s the purpose of this program, to find the next big thing right? Or is there a time frame on that? ‘YOU COULD BE THE NEXT BIG THING FOR AROUND A WEEK IF YOU ENTER THE X FACTOR NOW!’.
Let me just show you a little extract about…Leon is it? Well here’s what it said…
“In 2010, Leon Jackson embarked on a new journey, he has became a real 'jeans and t-shirt' artist, gave up his pop-jazz material and is now a singer/songwriter working on guitar and piano led music. Over the last year he has been crafting songs that uncover the last few years life, love and dreams. Jackson has also worked with American artists to produce acoustic songs as well as writing some himself”
Well done Leon Jackson! You working class mother fucker you! He might actually be onto something here, songs about love, life and dreams? I’m losing all faith in humanity. Since the beginning of music people have poured every ounce of passion and soul in their body into writing songs about their far more interesting, debauched, enigmatic and poignant lives - and now this smarmy little gob shite has decided to up sticks, kick of his Dunhill and write some blue collar songs about his fucking troubles? Give me a break, it makes me feel physically sick and fist-throwingly violent all at once.
See what the X Factor does is it glorifies the mediocre actions of worthless morons such as Leon Jackson and Steve Brookstein and it transcends them to you, the handfed hypnotised audience, bags it up in a commercial wrapper made of deceit, lies and the ill informed notion of talent and delivers it right to you with a label on it telling you that ‘this is good’ - because you need to be told what it is, you need to be pointed in the direction of what these money hungry moguls have now contorted into supposed talent - when all it remains is excessive commercialism in a shiny box for people who have lost their way with real music.
Then there was Alexandra Burke, not only is she a clone of Lewis but she also committed one of the biggest sins of the century when she left her shit stained mark on Leonard Cohen’s ‘Halleluiah’. This delicately enigmatic piece of song writing beauty was tarnished by the over produced screech of this incredibly dull individual. Not only am I bemused at the fact that Cohen gave consent for this monstrosity to be released to the masses, but I’m also stunned at the fact that in 24 hours it sold over 105,000 copies - and no, popularity doesn’t country for very much when we consider that both The Cheeky Girls and Katie Price released a single that reached the top ten. Also, I doubt that many people know this is even a cover.
But she was just what we needed. Another scantily clad, bone-skinny dullard singing yet more covers. I’ve seen enough smouldering faces staring down the camera with wind blowing through their extension filled hair to last me a life time, and if I do end up going to hell for my sins they’ll probably just sit me in front of a tv screen for 23 hours a day and show me these punch-worthy faces over and over until I end up hanging myself with a novelty Jedward skipping rope - what a way to go.
Before I get to last years winner, lets talk about the current panel of judges. Although I loathe Simon Cowell and what he’s done to the industry you have to pay give him his dues. He’s a clever chap. He knows how to work the industry, he knows how to pick a hit song, but he is literally the only man who deserves a place on the board of judges.
In regards to everyone I’ve ever spoken to about this program, I can honestly say that no one on the face of this planet, except house-bound middle aged women with lots of cats, give one solitary shit what Louie Walsh has to say. His input is about as useful as giving a rapist the benefit of the doubt. He mumbles his fruitless comments with zero sincerity, he’s wet and useless. I really don’t like him, but no one does so I’ll leave him alone.
Now for the ladies. Although we’d all like to wake up next to a face like Cheryl Cole’s on a daily basis we can’t deny the fact that she is in fact a melodramatic cunt. Her evaluating expressions are far from convincing and the fact that she married a footballer like Ashley Cole shows she’s hardly a good judge of character, let alone a judge worthy of notifying talent. Malaria or no malaria, she’s not fit for any form of authority when it concerns other people’s livelihood. Slag.
And Danni Minogue. Her sister’s a star, she however, is not. I wasn’t even aware of her past achievements prior to this show until I scoured the internet for dirt, as per. Apparently she started off in TV and film, well that slipped past me. I thought to myself, if we’re talking the small screen that inhabits your living room then it’s got to be one of two programs. ‘Neighbours’ or ‘Home and Away’ - it was ‘Home and Away’. Hardly a pedestal for permission exposing clout. Who thought this would be a good idea? Right, picture Cowell and his followers in the penthouse boardroom of Psycho Records in London. Swanky and covered in marble and ivory and the bones of children, they discuss possible candidates for the job…’Who do we know who has a lot of experience in show biz? Who’s got that certain flair of indefinable brilliance? Who has the intellect to splash their ideologies into controversial situations?’ and the answer was a ‘Home and Away’ veteran who was in the stage show of ‘Grease’, were they high? I’d have to be high to sit through that tripe, and I usually am.
If I bare the bones of my honesty in true guilty fashion, I’ll compromise with one point that people continually bring up when jabbering about the hullabaloo of the X Factor, ‘But it’s entertaining!’ they cry. Well, let me raise a few issues on this.
One big seller for this program lies in humiliating the future mass-murdering odd balls who hit the stage in the audition period of the show. Every year they crawl out from under their rocks to reassure us that England still has the ability to produce a high quantity of seriously outlandish, peculiar and often plain menacing individuals. They screech their way through Robbie Williams ‘Angles’, they howl like horny hounds through Take That’s ‘Rule The World’ and occasionally a duo of midriff-exposing over weight teenagers with Big Mac stains down their tracksuits with drawl over a Pussycat Dolls cover. Sure it’s funny. Anything that mugs off strange people in front of an audience is funny, but there’s three audition stages prior to the television appearances. The problem with this returns to what I was talking about earlier regarding the handfed audience. This is the X Factor, once again, controlling what you view, how you view it and it’s revoltingly manipulated so that you see what they want you to see - what else are they hiding from you?
I’m not against anyone having fun. Each to their own, right? Fair enough it’s primary purpose is entertaining, especially the freaks - they‘re amusing to a certain extent, So why get carried away? One of the things that vexes me more than anything, and this goes for Britians Got Talent as well, is that the susceptible audiences who grace these shows are literally so devoid of any rich and fulfilling that they see it fit to rise on their chubby little ankles to give anything with a remote hint of tone a standing ovation. This dim-witted reaction has numbed the potency of a deserved retort when someone viable actually twaddle’s along. Oh and they now use auto-tune during the first television auditions, for those of you who don’t know what that is, here’s an explanation…
“Auto-Tune is a proprietary audio processor. Auto-Tune uses a phase vocoder to correct pitch in vocal and instrumental performances. It is used to disguise off-key inaccuracies and mistakes, and has allowed singers to perform perfectly tuned vocal tracks without the need of singing in tune.”
So to put simple for all you Jeremy Kyle fans and X Factor obsessive’s, it helps those who cannot sing sound near-perfect, followed by Mr Walsh exclaiming, ‘I tink you made de song your own’. Of course they did tubs - queue standing ovation.
I’ll compromise further still. I agree that a number of the people who go on this show can sing, some of them very well. However, rather than moan about the fact that there are countless other people out there on cruise ships, in pubs, in casinos and in back street music venues who can hit a note just as well as these people (because there are), I’ll argue that there’s more to this elusive x factor than clearing your pipes like Tina Turner. We have to understand that a powerful voice, cringingly spouted out at its highest possible velocity, isn’t an indication of conviction - it’s merely a peripheral frill with the primary function of flaunting the one dimensional ability of a totally boring twat. A good voice is a good voice, the x factor, if there is such a thing, is an indescribable spark of beauty that triggers Goosebumps on your skin, a presence that wells up your tear ducts with something so heartfelt that it surely can’t be bottled up and sold by the mass. (see The Beatles, Bruce Springsteen, Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, The Rolling Stones et al).
Last Saturday I was in the pub with a friend. In front of us, on a screen the size of a bus was X Factor, in all its superficial glory. On stepped a girl, a blonde girl with a silly umbrella who was wearing too much make up and had a bit of a Jimmy Hill going on. Now this girl has a distinctly average voice and a less than average face, however I believe it was because this girl looked a little different to the other chumps who grace this visionary program that she was given a shot. She didn’t have a skirt creeping up her buttocks and she wasn’t into ‘R ‘n’ B’ - wowza. But here’s the thing with this grubby little 80s throwback who believes her individualism is key to her success - walk down any university hall or street in London, Manchester, Liverpool, Brighton blah blah, you’ll see an exact clone of this social faux pas minus the voice but double the personality and authenticity. She’s no more than a gimmick who is hoodwinked by her own image, which by the way is diabolical because she’s obsessed with Madonna and all things 80s. Vomit.
It’s difficult to write something with balance when you dislike something so much. I’ve tried to show both sides of this show and even a dashing of compromise here and there, along with a smattering of sarcasm, apparently. But its tough for me - I just hate the false entity that runs through the artificial veins of this apocalyptic beginning. I do understand that its entertaining, but a lot of things are entertaining - throwing rocks at cats is one, lighting a paper bag full of human turds and placing it on your teachers door step while watching them stamp it out, shaving your drunken friends head and writing ‘Penis’ on his forehead, hurling abuse at lowlifes from your speeding car window and also farting on people - that‘s one of the best. But what is more entertaining than all of that is music with heart. Good music that invokes nostalgia, because that means the world to more people than the retarded z list celebrities who coast this show. Ask yourself, do you genuinely think the ‘original’ Ollie Murrs will make a seminal record? Will you go and see him live? Will Leona pen a ditty that with bring tears to the eyes of the future generations? Will Leon Jackson…oh fuck Leon, he’s not going to do anything, but you get my point. This isn’t real, it’s the beginning of the end.
Oh, and I didn’t bother with that Joe chap who won last year because I can only insult these bottom-feeders so much, oh and i was sooooooo surprised he 'came out' (because we were all fucking stunned at that one, it was like when H from Steps came out on Big Brother - we know, we don’t care and, no, it wont appeal to a homosexual audience so you literally have no niche. Tough break).
Recently I‘ve come to the conclusion that I‘m a bit of an old man. Not any sense of age or appearance as I’m still able to bend down and pick things up without making a noise and I know how to update an ipod - it‘s more a state of mind thing. I’m not the type of person who will get peeved at Facebook changing their homepage - who gives a flying fuck? I think young people’s manors have taken a decidedly dire turn towards inexcusable discourtesy and I’m only 23 and I also fucking loathe the X-Factor and believe it is the foundation of apocalyptic happenings with civilisation almost certainly being doomed due to the smoke and mirrors tricks played by these corporate, know-nothing Nazi bastards.
But there’s a number of reasons for this - My overbearing cynicism and slight naivety certainly contributes to this uneasy state of agitation, not to mention a touch of unjust arrogance and a healthy helping of stubbornness. But most old men confine to these tendencies so I’ll sweep it under my Marks and Spencer’s rug and sit with a smug grin as I don a Boden shirt.
But before I appear too grumpy to even approach, I‘d like to confirm that I do enjoy a number of things. Cigarettes is one. Bruce Springsteen and Neil Young, The Rolling Stones, red wine, Uncut Magazine is a god damn bible, bitter, the debauchery and love-fest of the sixties and seventies which I can sure as hell read about due to being born a few decades too late. Then there’s the Drive By Truckers discography which is a work of exploration in itself. The entire rock and roll saga of nostalgia intrigues me on a daily basis, and I also like to read. But that’s it.
Currently my life is a little hectic. I’m working two jobs so I can pay of Uni debts and eventually collect enough tender to be able to do what I want in a year or so. Write. So while I work my near-seven day weeks I come across a variety of utter twats. In particular, one excruciating trait dominated particularly by buck-toothed, public school girls grates me like nails on a chalk board…
In what complex strata of humanity do these hand-me-down, second-class princess’s believe it’s satisfactory to wander around in shops, cafes and restaurants while aimlessly spewing out futile noises posing as conversation on their phones. While being served they jabber, while waiting in line three inches from my face they jabber, when did this become acceptable? I’m sure Tara and Beatrix can live without your ineffectual input for a minute of two while you show some politeness and courtesy to those around you.
Just the other day in a retail outlet I was standing there when this bouffant haired, cocktail drinking Ab Fab throwback plods in, hand glued stuck to her left ear, ‘Yaaaaar’ she disgorged as her face contorted back into that scrunched up balloon knot of failed botox, ‘Yaaaar I know, yes Mummy, I’ll explain it all later but it was sooooo gorgeous’. Well that must have been a vital line of communication between to highly intelligent individuals. The only hope these air-heads have is to marry rich, which most do, or let their parents path their way through private education and high-class social networking until Daddy has to call in a favour to the chairman of the board.
These are the type of girls footballers love. Someone with a corresponding echelon of aptitude and intellect. Maybe we should just let them breed in a gold-clad farm somewhere among telephone pylons and a cloud of carbon monoxide that their gas guzzling, grotesquely personalized automobiles emit with constant coverage of their meaningless subsistence by Hello and Ok magazine. But obviously this doesn’t apply to all, just most.
I gather though, from my experience among these characters, that there is a sense of superiority amid the upper-class females whose Blackberry’s are surgically attached to their scathing paws. And I suppose this is nothing new. The poor only have themselves to blame, right? So the paupers who come face to face with these vulgar and uncharitable ‘yaaaars’ should really just accommodate the substandard conduct. OMG.
Since I can remember I’ve always been curious about the Southern states of America. Perhaps it’s my Dad’s interest in Westerns like ‘Lonesome Dove’ and ‘Dances With Wolves’ along with a youth spent travelling the U.K and places like Georgia and Alabama to follow the misconstrued legend that is Lynyrd Skynyrd. Both of these suggest reason for curiosity, but I think there’s more to it than that.
There’s some fear inducing element that appeals to me regarding The South. It appears as a straight forward and slightly backward existence aided by confederate right wingers and crooked politicians, but I think this is the misunderstood beauty of it all - as Ronnie Van Zant attempted to interpret in ‘Sweet Home Alabama‘. Fuelled by liqueur and horse riding mafia men, leather jackets and Jack Daniels, bar room brawls and backhanded compliments, a unified sense of brotherhood and above all - that mythological flair of old time rock and roll, and when a Southerner slurs his way through that viscose accent under the smoky cloud of 20 Marlboro Reds, there’s a harsher sense of reality, but one that’s all the more exciting.
I began listening to The Drive By Truckers around eighteen months ago. I’d heard bits and pieces, shards of praise and adoration from Uncut Editor Allen Jones prompted me to delve deeper into the thrilling truth behind this unappreciated and undervalued genuine Southern rock band.
Since the release of their first album (now on their 10th) there have been numerous changes to the line up. Including the five in the band at the moment, there have been seven others involved throughout the years, all adding some form of solicited input to the records they have been putting out - either personally via their first two albums or on the major who has supported them since 2000. Out of all members been and cast into the abyss, one name will notably engrave itself into the long history of DBT as a legend, and that is Jason Isbell.
In 1998 the Truckers released their debut record, self-funded and individually put out for the masses to enjoy. ‘Gangstabilly’, which was then re-released by their Major in 2005, is the most ‘country’ of their eleven albums. A vein of authenticity and true southern spirit ran through this album, which although doesn’t portray them in their brightest hour, it did construct a future for them to build upon.
In 2001 Patterson Hood, Mike Cooley and the other DBT bandits created a concept album (Isbell was not in the band yet). An unsettled and nervy path to explore, especially when you consider the subject of this concept record was Lynyrd Skynyrd, a misunderstood collective whose genius pennings of country rock and roll stormers has met with slightly unappreciated response from a world who maybe just don’t get it quite yet…
It was not so much a point to prove for DBT but more of a story to tell. People’s misconceptions of the Southern thing have led them down a dubious and ill-informed street where Skynyrd’s greatest achievement is portrayed as ‘Sweet Home…’ and every other confederate flag waving, hard-working, chain-smoking working class individual is an uneducated racist whose adulation for George Wallace comes before the welfare of their family. It soon became clear ‘The Southern Rock Opera’ was a record about exposing the tales of legends with blasting guitars and an overwhelming sense of beloved pride. It was a record supported by an in depth spine of research behind Skynyrd and co. as well as a flirting sense of nostalgia for a group of people who grew up around The Southern Thing.
‘The Southern Rock Opera’ was also created with the intent of exposing some rather fabled elements of the past. When Patterson Hood wrote ‘Ronnie And Neil’ he was writing with passion, and that comes through with a gritty rockin’ ease. His deep awareness of the Muscle Shoals association (due to his father being in the original line up) added a sense of historic importance to the song and when singing about a misread friendship between two of rock and rolls greatest song writers you have to be careful, but Hood didn’t approach this with a sense of care - he couldn’t. Throughout the howling anthem about Young and Van Zant, Hood tells a tale of unity and understanding between to very delicate individuals who consistently attempted to keep their private lives private - the way it should be. It hits emotional peaks of utter rock and roll brilliance when Hood hollers out with absolute awe-inspiring growl…
“Now Ronnie and Neil became good friends their feud was just in song Skynyrd was a bunch of Neil Young fans and Neil he loved that song So He wrote "Powderfinger" for Skynyrd to record But Ronnie ended up singing "Sweet Home Alabama" to the lord”
And in the aftermath of this poignant anthem Hood brings the fatal reality of it back to us, ‘And Neil helped carry Ronnie in his casket to the ground, And to my way of thinking, us southern men need both of them around’ and our sense of displacement with our existence resumes as we realise that DBT are right, we still need Skynyrd - or the legend that they’ve tattooed to the history of music.
Other reflective highlights of this double album include ‘Let There Be Rock’, a song about Hood’s music obsessed youth, up to no good and not regretting it, ‘Greenville to Baton Rogue’ which tells the unexpected journey Skynyrd took on their private plane before its incurable crash in 1977 which took the lives of Van Zant, Steve Gaines, Cassie Gaines and two road crew members. It’s embedded with glory and elation as well as fear and mortality, which is what makes this record celebrated and in-depth in its own terms.
Then there was ‘Decoration Day’. A sinister premise beats throughout this record like the black heart of these North Alabama characters whose unfavourable antics make this gloomy product of crooked swamp-dwelling cowboys an intriguing and humanizing listen. In this, Jason Isbell‘s first full length album with the band, the young guitarist and singer comes through as a wiser-than-his-years preacher, invigorated by booze and hard-living, calmly stewing his way through the traditional country ballad of ‘Outfit’ which is charged with good old southern morality, originally penned after Isbell’s Dad advised him on staying clear of particular narcotics and to call home on his sisters birthday. The record hit’s a ominous but captivating climax on the epic disruptive scream of ‘Decoration Day’ - a title track that’s enriched in the fraudulent and violent heritage of family’s at war in a place where junkyards act as playground for criminals and the firm hand of the law has little sway over anyone. As heard through the grapevine, Isbell penned this song three days after joining the band, basing it on a true story of a family feud in his home town.
The folklore heard on ‘Decoration Day’ is enhance by its by its heavy-hitting rock and roll punches, packed by the trio of guitars that wail through the grimy thunderous tracks on the album. Then there’s tracks such as ‘Heathens’ and ‘Your Daddy Hates Me’ which add to the substance of this album and the legitimacy in which it relies, and as a whole we can stand back and appreciate this album for what it is - a record of actions and consequences.
One year later in 2003, DBT began work on their sixth full length studio effort - ‘The Dirty South’, another concept album intended at exposing more false impressions of the lives they live and the past they adore. It’s an album packed with irony and hypocrisy, with an air of catastrophe circulating through the darker corners of it‘s gloomier parts.
Another change to the band occurred during the recording of ‘The Dirty South’. New bassist, Shonna Tucker (Isbell‘s wife at the time), had been recruited as the first and only female participant in the band. She bought a variety of skills to the gang, including a luscious and richly soulful voice that yelps its way through the chorus on ‘Never Gonna Change‘ like Merry Clayton in ‘Gimme Shelter’. And it’s this track in question which provides a steady anchorage to the album about the misread southern thing, with Isbell crooning his way through the tracks final declaration of pride and self-respect, ‘You can throw me in the Colbert County jailhouse, You can throw me off the Wilson Dam, But there ain't much difference in the man I wanna be and the man I really am’ he concludes as the scorching guitars slowly burn out.
This, possibly their most accomplished record to date, also contains an edifying and revealing three song suit about Sherriff Buford Pusser. Pusser was a sherriff in Mississippi during the mid to late sixties. Unfortunately for the crooks and thugs who make DBT’s songs so damn appealing, Pusser was on a one-man mission to rid this southern minefield of illegal activity, riding the shacks and bars of moonshine, gambling, whores, brawls and all other filthy antics that make these shady whiskey rock’n’rollers the fabled outlaws they are. His mission, however, was not as straight forward as he had hoped. Pusser died on August 21, 1974 from injuries sustained in a one-car automobile accident. Earlier in the day, Pusser contracted with Bing Crosby Productions in Memphis to portray himself in the sequel to Walking Tall. That evening, Pusser, returning home alone from the McNairy County Fair in his specially and powerfully modified Corvette, struck an embankment at high speed ejecting him from the vehicle. But as with all good tales of misfortune, Patterson Hood felt that the other side of this story must be told, and that’s precisely what he did in ‘Boys From Alabama’, ‘the Buford Stick’ and ‘Cottonseed’, which adorns a multifaceted quality in which Mike Cooley’s corrupt lyricism thickly delves into the darker side of politics and the deadbeats who associate themselves with the fraudulent scheme…
“Stories of corruption, crime and killing, yes it's true Greed and fixed elections, guns and drugs and whores and booze”
And…
“Somewhere, I ain't saying, there's a hole that holds a judge The last one that I dug myself And I must admit I was sad to lay him in it, but I did the best I could Once his Honor grows a conscience, well folks, that there just ain't no good”
By February 2008 this was the DBT’s most successful record, intensified by a number of things, namely the growth and development of the band whose many years together demonstrates that with experience comes an ability to grow as musicians and song writers.
In 2006 the band were to record their final album ever with Jason Isbell. A young man who acted as a totem of solidarity, providing endless quantities talent and an ear for lyrics that scale the path from irony to depression, wit to reality and, possibly most important of all, an ability to craft musical narratives installed with tradition, value and heart-wrenchingly terrifying truth.
The album was named ’A Blessing And A Curse’ and was to be the only other DBT record with the exact same band line up as it’s predecessor, ’The Dirty South’. So with an satirical and rather close-to-home title already set in stone the band went about creating their most controversial album thus far.
It had been a drink-heavy rocky affair since ‘The Southern Rock Opera’. Distortion was rife and people had come to know this band as an Alabamaian rock collective, heavy in the bite that makes rock and roll what it is, but also with the ability to craft a melodic acoustic ditty every now and then, but that was not what they were particularly treasured for. So when ‘A Blessing And A Curse’ came out, fans and critics were slightly challenged as they were hit by an unexpected melodious and harmonious output in which the Truckers owe as much to Willie Nelson, Guthrie and CSNY as their first few outputs did to Skynyrd, Young and Creedence.
Isbell’s input included the oh-so sweet high-note hitting country-pop beauty that is ‘Daylight’, along with the more Springsteen-esqe ‘Easy On Yourself’. Cooley’s ‘Space City’ and articulately insightful ‘Gravity’s Gone’ do not go unnoticed either. The lyrical craftsmanship on ‘Gravity’s Gone’ exhibits some astute observations which includes…
“Those little demons ain't the reasons for the bruises on your soul you've been neglecting, You'll never lose your mind as long as you're heart always reminds you where you left it, And don't ever let them make you feel like saying what you want is unbecoming If you were supposed to watch you're mouth all the time I doubt your eyes would be above it”
Despite the varied opinions of this album, the closing track, ‘A World Of Hurt’, pin points a seminal moment of literary clarity within a judicious bands whose weighty drinking sessions have clearly not malformed their outlook on a world gone to pot. It’s scenic aura and talk-through verses embellish that country-rock lifestyle and the highs and lows of being a normal human, facing the same god damn problems that everyone else does. ‘The secret to a happy ending is knowing when to roll the credits’ Hood chatters as the charismatic depth of his southern slur prudently runs its way through pretentious-absent wordplay in this morose album closer.
On April 5, 2007 Isbell announced that he was no longer a member of Drive-By Truckers. The following day, Patterson Hood confirmed the break on the band's official site. In his letter to the fans, Hood described the parting of ways as "amicable" and expressed the hope that fans would continue to support Drive-By Truckers as well as Jason's solo efforts.
Since that point, DBT have released another four albums, including the nineteen track monster that is ‘Brighter Than Creations Dark’ and, most recently, ‘The Big To Do’, which was met with critical acclaim and a rousing applaud with Uncut editor, Allen Jones, stating that the album ‘Blows the fucking roof off!’.
What I believe is special about the Truckers is that their albums are more than a collection of aimlessly penned rock songs. They steer away from meaningless ditties and filler-heavy tracks as they portray a lifestyle that remains a vital part of American culture and the music scene that continues to thrive there. Obviously the references heard throughout a number of the albums mean very little to us Brits, comfortably wrapped up in our suburban bubble of on-coming social decline, but it’s the insight they construe of being a misunderstood sector of culture that nearly all inhabitants of any form of well-rounded civilization can identify with. Then there’s the nostalgic aspect. They name-drop individuals who most will have no idea about while also paying homage to the likes of Neil Young and Molly Hatchet which only adds to the illusive sustainability of the legends that preceded them.
So while the Drive By Truckers continue to rock, nearly 12 years into their existence, I suggest you take your time to rejoice in a modern day revolution that will never amount to anything larger than is has so far - but that’s what makes these things special. ‘I never saw Lynyrd Skynyrd’, Hood sings during ‘Let There Be Rock’, and neither have we, but at least we can still see Drive By Truckers.
It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. The past six months slowly chipped away at my soul as I trod the monotonous path of promotion, aimlessly assisting in the false-expectation of dullard no-hopers and post-oasis thugs with guitars. It got extremely tiresome to be honest, and music became just another blunt clog in my depressing existance and i knew that when i started to not worry about music then it was time to get the fuck out, but I’ve always been a cynic and I’ve always been naïve - so why change now?
But I’m back behind the keyboard and back listening to music I love, for me, and not for the profit of others. (by the way if anyone i know actually reads this, its not directed at anyone - but the music industry, with big booking agents anyway, is fucked)
So in the spirit of my newly established optimism I’ve decided to review my favourite albums, and although my words will never do them justice and my literary cock-ups will never portray the real beauty of such enigmatic works of art, I thought I’d give it a whirl…
Bruce Springsteen - Born To Run
To review an album of such unfathomable fantasy is a hazardous undertaking which I certainly do not have the talent nor knowledge to complete lucratively, but then again, I believe that very few can put down in words the enormity installed in the lyrical dexterity of this 70’s marker of utter genius.
It’s hard to believe that Columbia were debating the dropping of The Boss and the E Street Band during the year long construction of this, Bruce’s third full length studio output: regret would not have come close to the summing up of that situation had it ensued. Luckily for Bruce and the rest of humanity though, their record label held out for the completion of an album that would define the lustful romanticism of the working class beauty and hope that Springsteen held so dearly to his heart.
Perhaps the most accomplished thing about this album is that over time the myth has not preceded the legend. In the three and a half decades since this defining piece of work was released, the teenage generation has undergone numerous changes be it social, technological and economical, yet the theme of endless summer nights held together by the backdrop of young-gun love and stunning tales of girls, love, lust and escapism still remain so relevant and hopeful.
The thing that captured me about this album is the way that Bruce creates this urban wasteland that through the eyes of a romantic construes into an Arcadian paradise where the summer never ends and our hearts never falter. ‘Screen door slams, Mary’s dress waves, like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays’ he tinkles in the opening spark of subtlety that launches ‘Thunder Road’ into the mini epic that it soon becomes, blossoming with the helping hand of a piano, that as Bruce describes in the ‘Wings For Wheels’ documentary, signifies the beginning of something: in this case, youthful vehemence and unbreakable passion
For someone who rather loathes America, I do love the sheer American-ness of this album. The way the movies portrayed it, they way they said it would be, except slightly more imperfect which undoubtedly adds to its flair. The pretty girls cascading the boulevards, the classic American cars, the shore-side scraps and seaside fires that burn as brightly as the love that inhabits it. Lyrical perfection layered by multi-instrumental howls, building a canvas of saxophones, guitars, pianos and the New Jersey growl of a young man who dreamed of changing the lives of thousands through his melodically uplifting narration.
The concept of escapism runs through the veins of ‘Born To Run’ via tenderly penned lyricism as Bruce displays a sense of captivity within his curb side utopia, ‘Tear drops of the city bed, Scooter’s searching for his groove, the whole world’s walking pretty and I can’t find the room to move’ and he continues, ‘I’m going to sit back real easy and laugh, while Scooter and the big man bust the city in half’.
There’s something mystical about the way Clarence Clemmons saxophone invokes a sense of buoyancy into this album, making it all the more energetic and, as becomes clear throughout the rest of the record, it becomes a necessity in Bruce’s blue collar anthems, accurately construing images of mid-seventies Asbury Park.
As heard in Bruce’s first two releases, ‘Greetings From Asbury Park’ and ‘The Wild, The Innocent And The E Street Shuffle’, these illicit characters he continually turns to, semi-autobiographical in parts, attach themselves to the records and the emotions of the listener. There’s that movie-like sense of epic endings in his proletariat settings of run down arcades and decrepit piers. ‘Jungleland’ clearly portrays this in all its gallant and majestic glory - waves of grandiose pianos and splendorous picture-painting words glamorously ache with the distinguished marksmanship of a man who has finally grasped the unobtainable cusp of perfection, crooning towards the end of the eight minute tale, ‘the poets down here don’t write nothing at all, they just stand back and let it all be’, and that is Bruce in all his unblemished splendour.
