Album Review / Lucero / Among the Ghosts

Ghosts No More: Lucero Have Come Home

by Robert Dean

After two decades in the game, Lucero has reached one of those critical milestones as a band: people care about their new music. 

As many of their peers are relegated to being humored when they play new songs live, Lucero’s fans crave new music, they want the stories singer Ben Nichols crafts from his years on the road, with a heart that’s taken a beating. The darkness of Lucero is what keeps people coming back, and always will. 

On their new record, Among The Ghosts, Lucero have tapped into their hard-living past, the present as the perennial road dogs, but also, what Lucero will mean down the line. Considering the guys in the band haven’t had regular jobs since before they could legally buy beer, it’s an interesting pretense for a core that’s never broken up, but also, evolved together as a unit. 

A Lucero show isn’t a concert; it’s a drunken hangout. The bar hums with copious amounts of whiskey and the crack of a tallboy. The crowd hollering along is a part of the ritual, a moment with your tribe saying that this room understands you, that this moment, these tattooed jerks can lead you somewhere honest, somewhere that only the baptized understand. 

For many of us, we see those songs, those moments of anathema as a reflection of our own mistakes. Ben Nichols managed to take when we feel alone and broken, but shapes his pain into an experience that strangers share, and for many, to the point of tears. Lucero’s darkness, their self-loathing, their regrets, shame, the world pushing against them, against us – was the bond, the communion. 

Fans of the band have a preconceived idea of what Lucero is. The thing is that they’re an emotional collective people feel like they have ownership of. It’s a special place to be in hearts when you can fill a room in any corner of America, and a good 50% of those people  have your band’s logo tattooed on them. The songs are anthems that timestamp people’s hearts and mean different things do different parts of the country. 

For the yankees, Lucero is a band drawn up from the Southern mud, a group that rips apart a room and lets them kick up their heels, hoisting their drinks in hand, shouting along to drinking songs and bummer tunes alike. For the southerners, Lucero is a mixture of country idealism, but with the punk rock ethos so many in the crowd lived through in a pre-internet age, when having tattoos and a Black Flag shirt, but a Hank Williams tape in the car meant something much different than it does today. Lucero even played Alaska, finding a way to give people who are far removed from the continental US something to drink about. 

But, then Ben Nichols got happy. He got married, and later he became a dad. Word around the campfire was the band just couldn’t run on the same kind of smoke as it had in its past, for the fans, it was a long sigh of, “well, at least we’ve got the old songs because the new ones are gonna suck.” 

We figured we’d lost our hillbilly Tom Waits; Lucero was now going to be another band where we endure the new tunes to get to “Drink Till We’re Gone” or “Tears Don’t Matter Much.”

When Among The Ghosts was announced, it wasn’t a surprise by any means; Lucero is a prolific band that releases records on a fairly regular cadence. It was just that the optimism of possibility wasn’t there, that we were going to get another Women and Work or All A Man Should Do. While both records have a few solid tunes sprinkled throughout, they’re not the powerhouses that make up the band’s back catalog like the perennial favorite, Tennessee, or That Much Further West or even 1372 Overton Park. 

Then the songs started leaking out. Lucero flipped the script; they challenged what they’d become over the last few records. 

While the Stax-heavy horns were an experiment in identity, Lucero is so much more. Lucero is regret in song form but also knowing what life looks like from a lot of lenses. Among The Ghosts captures that familiar darkness that fans craved so much, it broke our hearts again, this time not because the bar is yelling the last call, but because the reality of life on the road, temptation, and sin are all out there, but Nichols isn’t interested. 

Among The Ghosts is a personal dive into what it’s like to leave children behind, as drummer Roy Berry recently became a father, too. Guitarist Brian Venable has a son who recently toured with his dad for the first time. These guys are living their years out on the road while their children grow, while their hometown of Memphis goes on without them. 

“For The Lonely Ones” is easily one of the best Lucero songs of all time. It’s better than anything off of the last three records combined. If there was a way to explain what Lucero means, what they feel like, in one moment, the encroaching analog darkness that slithers from the tape and through the vinyl is there, ready to be devoured. 

“Cover Me” is a howling madman of a tune that encapsulates a yearning, an animal fire that’s not like any of the previous Lucero anthems. While it’s about Butch Cassidy, it feels much more nefarious, which is a good thing. “Cover Me” feels violent, but without a threat. Title track “Among The Ghosts” doesn’t feel forced. Instead, it’s a promise to Nichols wife and child, explaining his world one tortured vowel at a time. 

This is the Lucero record fans have wanted. This is what Lucero is, intrinsically: those guys sweating it out in a room, figuring out the vibe, their history, but also knowing who they are. While some bands get progressively tamer with each release, Lucero are more punk now than ever. They’ve always straddled a line of punk and country as kissing cousins, there’s nothing the band can do that would shock or surprise the faithful. The blood is on the tracks. 

Among The Ghosts is the moment that refocuses the dynamic of what Lucero is: While the punk overtones have always been there, “Among The Ghosts” is a statement, that despite what changes in their lives, how they grow, those boys from Memphis with all them tattoos, still have plenty of darkness to mine from. 

-------

Among the Ghosts is available tomorrow everywhere.

Live Review / Glassjaw / Mohawk, Austin, TX

by Robert Dean

At last week’s show at Mohawk, in Austin, Texas, it was probably my 15th time seeing Glassjaw. I’ve been with the band since Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Silence dropped during my senior year of high school way back when dinosaurs roamed the earth in 2000. 

In the time since then, a lot has changed in all of our lives, we’re a little heavier, our hair isn’t as cool, and we get tired faster after a long night. But, at the heart of it, those songs we’ve had for almost two decades endure. Glassjaw has entered that rarefied air of punk/hardcore bands where people love them on the back of their cult classic status. Glassjaw was never an arena act, but it was painfully obvious who the majority of Mohawk was there to see, with no disrespect to Quicksand, whatever. 

Pummeling through songs like “Shira,” “Mu Empire,” “Tip Your Bartender” and “Siberian Kiss” Glassjaw’s current incarnation worked through a few early mishaps to deliver the magic we’ve all cherished for so long. It’s an interesting dynamic to hear Glassjaw’s newest rhythm battery work through the catalog, given their pedigree while playing with The Glass Cloud. While earlier it on, it seemed like drummer, Chad Hasty was playing catch up, but ultimately found his center and moved with precision. 

But, the one elephant in the room whenever seeing Glassjaw is their insistence on maintaining a sense of musical and personal progression that borders on frustrating. Since their second “official” album Worship and Tribute dropped, Glassjaw has been very reluctant to play anything from the back catalog before it. 

Over the years they’ve cited the lyrical content of those songs, and by all means, it’s understandable not to want to belt out lyrics that make anyone feel uncomfortable. 

We get it, everyone gets it, saying stuff that’s shitty and sexist isn’t cool, and honestly not what punk or hardcore taught us about values, respect, or life. 

But, our 20’s were a long time ago, and Daryl had a pen and a platform before he knew what power he was actually wielding. But, there are a lot of people packing into those rooms who aren’t as lucky as me who got to experience hearing those songs when they were new. Glassjaw’s new record, Material Control was worth the wait. It’s rock solid, and a welcomed piece of the band’s legacy, but in respect to that legacy, and love for their future, the past should be embraced, if anything as a cautionary tale. 

I’d argue that if a palatable way to donate to a cause, or make funding a non-profit with donations at the shows, an easier to pill swallow when singing words like “you can lead a whore to water, and you can bet she’ll drink and follow orders.”

Palumbo isn’t Straight Edge any longer, he isn’t preaching between songs, and there are no side project bands that make fans cringe. Instead, he and longtime guitarist and partner Justin Beck seem at ease in their roles as Glassjaw. 

One day, I hope they can find a solution that honors the mistakes of the past content but also champions the fact that Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Silence is a classic. For its ugly intonations and moments of cringe, there are songs many would love to hear for a night. I would gladly donate an extra $10 to a #MeToo propelling cause and hear a speech about fickle youth and the idiocy of men to hear “Ry Ry’s Song” or “Lovebites and Razorblades” live once again. 

Editor: I guess this is Glassjaw from that show… weird as hell looking.

Live Review / Tyler Childers / Austin, TX

©Fernando Garcia

by Robert Dean

Despite my friend’s Doug’s best efforts to give me alcohol poisoning last night at The Scoot Inn, I managed to enjoy a hell of a night thanks to Tyler Childers and his band. 

Ripping through tracks off of his debut record, Purgatory, Childers and his band proved why the show was sold out, with folks standing on the outside, trying to grab a ticket to get inside Austin’s hottest (it was 105 last night) gig. 

Staring out into the crowd with those low-slung eyes, Childers always appears to be searching for something, calling out to a void that could swallow him whole. Through his prayers to the outer world, the crowd fed off Childers relentless psychic energy and last night, we saw the entertainer people in and out of the country world are falling love with, much like his mentor, Sturgill Simpson. 

“Feathered Indians,” “I Swear To God,” and his biggest tune, "White House Road” all made their appearance into the set, while lots of tracks off the Red Barn record popped up in the setlist, too. Not gonna lie, I was waiting for “Nose On The Grindstone” but can’t win em’ all. 

Photo by Jurae Danielle from Floores' show

From the videos I took, I can double down on my enthusiasm for Purgatory and Tyler’s ability to work a room full of cowboys from outside Austin, and the hipsters in camo shorts and Vans alike. Together with his band, those boys held the place in the palm of their hands, rising and falling with every shouted chorus. While some front men rely on fancy moves or a lot of banter, instead Childers let the songs do the work for him. 

Through my adventures of being a drunken mess, I managed to sneak into the green room and talk to Tyler’s band. This the part where I would typically look at my notes and tell you a whole bunch of facts about their time on the road, and their bond as friends. But, thanks to a lot of Jameson, I accidentally deleted my notes last night, because I’m a remarkable journalist. 

Photo by Jurae Danielle from Floores' show

But, what I do remember is how absolutely sweet those dudes were. What a sincerely, nice, group of humans, especially Tyler’s drummer, Rod Elkins. It was apparent throughout the set that his band,  known as The Food Stamps, are a UNIT. They play with precision and execution that is perfection. It made my heart happy to know these were the guys Tyler came up with, the guys from West Virginia he paid his dues with instead of some jobbers from Nashville.

If there’s a night you want at a country show, it’s outdoors on a hot night in Austin, Texas. The weather was perfect, the Lonestars were cold, and we were ready to ride with Tyler Childers and his band. It was exactly what you hope for when you lay the cash down for a show: an experience you’ll be telling folks about for a time to come. We’ll see Tyler Childers grow into the larger venues like Stubbs and ACL soon enough, but for those who were lucky to experience those songs last night, this was one of the nights where we can say, “I saw them way back when.” 

Thanks for that, boys. Come back to Austin anytime. This time, I promise I won’t delete my notes while drunk. 

Who the hell am I kidding? I totally will. That shit was awesome. 

*editor's note - not edited*

Top Albums of 2018: First Half Report

Trailer's top 25 so far. 

Usual disclaimers: The year-end list will be compiled from all FTM contributors' votes. Also, the second half looks really strong, so expect a lot of shake up to this list.

1. Dallas Moore - Mr. Honky Tonk

2. Ashley McBryde - Girl Going Nowhere

3. Blackberry Smoke - Find a Light

4. Caitlyn Smith - Starfire

5. John Prine - Tree of Forgiveness

6. Brent Cobb - Providence Canyon

7. Neko Case - Hell On

8. Fantastic Negrito - Please Don't Be Dead

9. Kacey Musgraves - Golden Hour

10. Joshua Hedley - Mr. Jukebox

11. Brandi Carlile - By the Way, I Forgive You

12. Buffalo Gospel - At the Last Bell

13. Caleb Caudle - Crushed Coins

14. Pusha T - Daytona

15. Old Crow Medicine Show - Volunteer

16. Sarah Shook & The Disarmers - Years

17. Leon III - s/t

18. First Aid Kid - Ruins

19. Courtney Patton - What It's Like to Fly Alone

20. Buffalo Tom - Quiet and Peace

21. American Aquarium - Things Change

22. Charley Crockett - Lonesome as a Shadow

23. Brothers Osborne - Port Saint Joe

24. Courtney Marie Andrews - May Your Kindness Remain

25. Ghost - Prequelle

And here are Robert Dean's five favorites:

Since we’re ½ through 2018 (weird) – here are the records I’m jamming the hardest and think are this year’s best so far: 

Joshua Hedley – Mr. Jukebox

My #1 with a bullet. It would take a miracle to unseat this record. 

Sleep – The Sciences 

Vein – Errorzone 

Charley Crockett – Lonesome As A Shadow 

At The Gates – To Drink From The Night Itself 

Honorable mention cuz it’s new to me: 

Queensway – Swift Minds of The Darkside 

The No-Sleep Roundup: Vein, As I Lay Dying, ...Cassadee Pope??

Hey Y’all. Here we are, it’s almost the end of June, and I’m still trucking away in the world of freelance. But, at least I’m alive. 

In case you missed it, a lot of special people are dying, and it sucks. We’re down an Anthony Bourdain and a Vinnie Paul. Someone had better keep Ozzy, Mike Ness and Danzig locked away in glass cases. 

Trailer informed me that, while it seems like I’ve been writing for Farce for like, ever – it’s only been 2.5 years, which is nuts considering the number of articles, reviews, etc. I’ve written. Check out my first ever piece here about Sydney’s We Lost The Sea. 

In other news, Vein’s new record Errorzone is the best hardcore record of the year. Seriously. It’s like hearing Converge at their beginning all over again. (I’m old. I was there.) 

Speaking of hardcore, here’s a video of a naked dude going HAAM in the pit 

If you care about As I Lay Dying, they’re back together. Dude tried to have his wife killed, so there’s that. We all know the obvious answer as to why they got back together: they weren’t exactly killing it without the jailbird. Here’s their conversation about this hot topic. 

Cassadee Pope who used to be in Hey Monday, a pop punk band, is now a pop country singer? Whatever the fuck that is. Well, she’s playing Warped Tour. This world makes no sense anymore. 

I guess that’s it from the peanut gallery. See y’all soon. Send me money. I’m broke. 

Ride Easy, Vinnie Paul

by Robert Dean

A few years back, I got Pantera’s CFH logo tattooed on my arm. It’s about the size of a half dollar, small and unremarkable, and hidden amongst other splotches of colorful mayhem covering my arm. But for people like me, it symbolizes a brotherhood of riffs and spliffs, black tooths, and obscure references like “May Pop Tires.”

My CFH is a buddy tattoo I got with my best friend after too many Christmastime whiskeys. We hauled ass over to Austin’s Atomic Tattoo an hour before closing, slapped our $80 on the counter, and within minutes were branded Pantera fans for life – a gesture true to the spirit of the band and how they lived. On the way home, through our haze, we air guitared along to The Great Southern Trendkill, doing our best not to raise the ire of local law enforcement. 

At 13 years old, I was rabid for The Headbanger’s Ball. That WAS my Saturday night. When “I’m Broken” slammed across the screen with these four dudes in a room, hammering away at 100MPH, I was hooked and almost 24 years later, nothing’s changed. How could I take bands like Slayer seriously?

I was let deeper into their world watching Pantera Home Videos and loving how they weren’t stuffy and serious like Metallica or Megadeth. Instead of endless montages of boring tour life from the seats of their private jet, Pantera played pranks, drank like fish, and managed to shoot up a few hotel rooms with pellet guns and hold ad hoc boxing matches for $10 bills.

It’s not lost on me that I was lucky enough to have seen Pantera destroy Chicago six times. The shows were brutal, emotional, an exorcism of whatever garbage life threw at me. Pantera owned their musical carnival, chucking beers and paper mache joints into the crowd, but always ripping the seats out of the stadium without any bullshit laser beams or fancy smoke shows; it was four dudes who caught a lick

Pantera came along at the perfect time: they existed along the margins of grunge and metal, making friends with Slayer and Alice In Chains, raising beers and smoking forearm-sized hog legs along the way. Pantera was loud, unruly, vicious, ugly, but goddamn were they a dump truck of fun. 

Songs like “Fucking Hostile,” “Drag the Waters,” and “This Love” sounded pissed and delivered neck-breaking grooves. The guttural moans, the insane guitar playing, the devil may care attitude of a couple of drunken Texans and a New Orleans boy changed how people listen to heavy metal. In all, Pantera released five classic records and even recorded the music for an episode of SpongeBob SquarePants, because why not?

Through it all, Vinnie Paul was a meat and potatoes percussionist who laid in the pocket and stayed there, because when your brother is Dimebag Darrell, the best guitar player since Eddie Van Halen, and you’re sitting behind one of the greatest frontmen of all time, Phil Anselmo, you have to let them shine and Vinnie got the memo. 

But, it never mattered; Vinnie’s first love was crushing behind the kit. He let the legacy of the music do the talking for him, winning drumming awards, going platinum a few times and earning a few Grammy nominations. A pretty good haul for a guy who barely finished high school.

I’ll admit I lost track of Vinnie Paul in his post-Pantera life. I didn’t like Damageplan and Hell Yeah was not my thing. But Vinnie Paul was an icon, a man who changed how drummers played and more importantly, how they didn’t play. 

Wherever Vinnie Paul and Dimebag may be, those cowboys from hell can rest easy knowing punk kids with a shit attitudes are always going to hear the iconic riff of “Walk” and realize life finally makes sense. Rest easy, Vinnie. I hope the weed is good and the Crown Royal is plentiful on the other side. 

Anthony Bourdain Was My Hero and Now He's Gone

by Robert Dean

I always thought I’d meet Anthony Bourdain. I was convinced that as my career evolved, we’d cross paths. I’d get to be one of those writers he loved, we 'd sit there, sucking down Lone Star longnecks in a roadside diner somewhere in west Texas or we’d be on an adventure down in Melbourne talking about why we loved the Ramones and The Stooges, too. About why books matter, why writing is a hard life, not dissimilar to the pirate mentality of a line cook. 

Being a writer and someone obsessed with the kitchen, I assumed this relationship was a natural fit - game recognizing game. He was my idol. A beacon of hope that a punk rock loser could get a win. I don’t have many heroes, but Bourdain was a guy who’d battled his demons. As someone who fights depression, I thought I knew him. 

We’d opine about Pam Grier flicks like Coffy or just how badass Michael Caine was in Get Carter.  We’d order a round of Jameson’s and extol our love of Jim Harrison’s Legends of The Fall. We clink our shot glasses and then go on a bender of epic proportions. He’d dub me an heir to his throne, and we’d exchange texts and samples of whatever we were writing. 

I’d see him one day in my travels and we’d bond about Tikka masala or Old Towne Inn in Chicago. He’d ask a few questions about The Rolling Stones best record and I reply, “fuckin’ Exile on Mainstreet, of course.” And we’d be off to the races.  

It was a good fantasy, and now, it’ll forever remain only that – make-believe. 

I know things because of him. I envied him because he’d shared meals with some of humanity’s most exceptional people when in reality, he was one of the finest too. Anthony Bourdain wasn’t just a host. He was the guy who snuck in the back door, leaving a crack open for the rest of us. 

When people die, it rakes us over the emotional coals, challenging our sense of being, and purpose. Death dares us to ask: what does it mean to live genuinely? Can we carry on someone’s legacy, or did the memory of that person affect us as profoundly as we like to say on Facebook? 

Losing Anthony Bourdain is a knife in the gut. This one hurts. Bad. How could someone who'd realized the dream, who seemingly had the (now)-perfect experience, burn it like a slip of paper into the ether? We’ll never know went on inside of his head. That was Tony’s choice, as he stared into oblivion, locked away inside his five-star French hotel room. 

Folks from all over the world will muse about his greatness, his likability, his genuine nature, that he was an A+ original. They won’t be wrong. Every note and letter spent adoring his name will be a statement in truth: our species is better off for getting to know him over these last two decades. 

Every walk of life watched A Cook’s Journey, No Reservations, and Parts Unknown. We voyeuristically imagined ourselves drinking a cold beer in the jungles of Brazil or wandering on the streets of Tokyo through his adventures. We learned new things about people on the other side of planet, just as they learned about us, over here in TrumpLand.

Anthony Bourdain taught us why food is important, why it binds across the lines of reality and what we’re willing to fight for. All cultures, all people center life around food, and whether seated on the floor or at a table, its an experience we all share as a people. If there’s a universal truth we all know, it’s that food makes us less assholes. 

Even if you hate one another’s opinions, points of view, and guts, there is always the commonality of the meal. We’re drawn to the scent of flesh cooked over fire. Blame it on our hard-coded hunter/gatherer DNA, but it moves us, and Anthony Bourdain tapped into that. 

We tend to be a lot less mean when a medium rare steak served with glistening plate of waffle fries is dropped in our laps. Anthony Bourdain dared us to sit at life’s table, no matter how awkward the conversation, to find a solution, in spite of the gravity of the world. 

Before Kitchen Confidential, chefs were seen as these guys with folded arms in starched white jackets and big funny hats. We were let in on the secrets of the service industry, that everything wasn’t gleaming and pristine. Bourdain pulled the curtain back. He showed us the teeth of the pig, the hair plucked from the hide of the animal, and did so with a bloody, drug-induced irreverence. 

That book changed our relationship to the food we eat. Everything was less about how a plate comes out to the table, but how we see the mechanisms of the environment, which it was centered.

Before him, the Food Network was just knives hitting the cutting board, not a real peek into the industry of service. The Food Network didn’t know what to do with Anthony Bourdain. Instead of embracing the weird, they laid their chips on safe programming. It wouldn’t be too far of a stretch to see how bad they wanted to make up for their error in later years. After just one season, A Cook’s Journey was pulled. To the Travel Channel went Bourdain and the beginnings of an empire were created. 

Despite food being the pulse of No Reservations and Parts Unknown, the people are what made the body of work shine. Viewers into the world of Bourdain learned how to appreciate the far corners of the world, how the people in the streets, the dinner table or against the brass at the local pub, all wanted the same thing: an enjoyable life. 

Parts Unknown stood as the last real bastion of counterculture America in the mainstream. Bourdain created cinema-inspired television on a network, a feat that changed the face of CNN from talking head machine into a place of experience and stories. Anthony  Bourdain let the squares inside his orgy of life. 

While Bourdain hit the nicest of the nice, he also slummed – it wasn’t about the luxury of the room or the number of Michelin stars dangling from the name, it was about the experience. He had drinks made from spit and cow’s blood, he devoured fresh caught snapper on the beach, pulled from a man’s cooler who couldn’t speak a lick of English. The narrative never changed: love the people, and learn their secrets.

Bourdain and his Zero Point Zero crew made television that wasn’t a bunch of fat white guys guffawing over a local beer and burger joint. That pedestrian shit was for the birds. Instead, they saw their chance to make high art, to challenge viewers and take them on the journey.

The Heart of Darkness, the movies of Federico Fellini, the car chases of Steve McQueen, a penchant for crime and darkness, books, and music all permeated the landscape of the show. While competing travel shows opt for canned guitar riff music you could find in an elevator, bands like Queens of The Stone Age, and The Black Keys wanted their songs featured. Margo Price, Ume, The Sword, the godfather of punk, Iggy Pop all got to experience the world of Bourdain, and the result remained centered around the love of art, no matter the medium. 

The look and feel of his shows were never a hatchet job. The narration, the vibe, everything was poured over. Every shot mattered. The writing on the show was brilliant, honest and true. While Bourdain’s books and essays are testaments to his writing prowess, it was the guttural rawness of his scripts that ached, that begged the viewer to travel, to eat, to experience life. 

The honesty of the subjects he took on is what made people adore Anthony Bourdain. He took us to Montana, to Madagascar, to Moscow. We saw the streets of New Orleans, the intensity of South by Southwest, and we got to know the tragedies of Iran and Myanmar. When Anthony Bourdain visited West Virginia, he handled the opioid crisis with care and humanity. He showed his character, it wasn’t devastation porn, but a portrait of a hidden America.  

He was a brilliant writer, a storied cook, a former addict, and the guy you wanted to talk to at the party. And now he’s gone. 

Brian Allen Carr summed up Anthony Bourdain earlier. I’ll end there because as a writer, it’s genuine, respectful and stabs like a dagger. Goddamnit, Tony, we’re going to miss you. 

“Anthony Bourdain was Hunter Thompson, Fernand Point, and Studs Terkel wrapped up in one. He's the reason America eats at food trucks. He's the reason we take pictures of all our food. If you've Yelped, it's because of him. He was the most significant writer in recent memory.”

No Sleep Roundup: Tyler Childers, At the Gates, Lucero, Charley Crockett

by Robert Dean

As life guru, Marc Maron would say it, what the fuck is up, what the fucksters, what the fuckingingtons? 

Over here in unemployed, freelancing writer-land, I’m grinding away, trying to listen to a lot of music, and trying to skim through the trash to give you the hotness that you didn’t know that you needed in your life. 

Without further pomp and circumstance, let’s pull the dog cone off and get licking ourselves. 

Tyler Childers w/Sturgill Simpson at The Ryman

A round of applause for our boy Tyler Childers for his recent debut at The Grand Ol’ Opry, playing with John Prine, opening for Margo Price's sold out run at The Ryman, and overall killing it. We’re beyond proud of him.

Joe Cardomone, the brains behind The Icarus Line has gone solo and is doing some rad, synthy dream-like stuff that feels like it’s a cross between Depeche Mode on the happy pills and what Marilyn Manson thinks he’s been doing for the last decade. 

Holy War is an odd collection of songs that are straight IDGAF about what’s trending, popular or normal. Caromone is on his psychic plane with these tracks, and that’s good news if you’re looking to get weird in the dark over some candle wax and a bottle of Rose. Check it out, but don’t get all huffy with us if you end up wearing a gimp mask, though. That’s your freaky fault. 

CW Stoneking is touring the states again. This time around he’s going solo and not with the full band, it’s likely because last time America dropped the ball and didn’t give this dude the reception he deserved. 

I was lucky enough to see him play at Stubb’s here in Austin to maybe 100 people and let me tell you, that was an excellent night. If you’ve got any common sense, you’ll head over to whatever town is closest and grab a ticket. The fact that CW Stoneking isn’t a household name in blues circles is a damn shame. 

At The Gates released a new record, To Drink From The Night Itself and boy, does it slam. Typically, when a band tries to come back after a classic album, they stumble. It’s a momentous task to follow up something as perfect as Slaughter of The Soul, so when At War With Reality dropped it was just…ok. 

On To Drink From The Night Itself, the band found it’s anger; it’s artistry again. There’s no magical reinvention of the band’s style and sound, this is meat and potatoes At The Gates, but it’s a collection of tracks that rip the hinges off the Camaro. 100% worth the listen. 

Fat dudes with beards who like to wear flannel are stoked as fuck: Clutch has a new record looming, which is cool. The world needs more tunes about blacking out on the road and writing a rock and roll song about it. 

From the groundswell of insiders, I keep hearing this new Lucero record is their best one ever. That’s a TALL order considering there’s a mighty fine batch of songs in the back catalog, specifically one named Tennessee. I’ve yet to hear it for myself, but multiple sources near the Memphis Monsters relay the same story. 

This isn’t new information, but can we all agree that the new Perfect Circle cover is probably the worst record cover of all time? I mean, come on. You rockstar folk ain't on the struggle; you're millionaires. Spring for someone to at least try. 

Brandan Schieppati of recently reformed Bleeding Through fame talks mad spicy on the new metal and hardcore bands of today, especially Bring Me The Horizon: here.

Lastly, go buy Charley Crockett everything. His recent record, Lonesome As A Shadow is a sleeper album of the year. Seriously. It’s a mixture of Louisiana and Texas that works without coming off contrived. There’s a unique blend of busker timing, but also captures the feeling of what it’s like to sing for your supper. The record features a potent mixture of old school 50’s RnB, blues, and classic country. Don’t sleep on this one. He’s on like, every music platform, ever is touring eternally. Grab Charley Crockett’s record, you’ll thank us. We promise.

Wait. Serious question: 

I loved the first Leon Bridges record. I don’t like the new one at all. Where are you with Good Thing? Tweet me and let me know what you think. I need to know what I’m missing.

That’s all from me, 

Keep it greasy. 

New Blood: Johnwayneisdead

by Robert Dean

If you’re craving lo-fi punk that’s screaming with early 90’s garage overtones with splashes of rockabilly grooves, Johnwayneisdead’s new record, This Is A Record will satisfy thirst like a 36 oz. PBR. 

Based out of Houston, Johnwayneisdead is a punk duo that’s churning out rebellious, chaotic tunes that aren’t lacking in the fun department. While a lot of the time it’s easy to wax poetic on the meaning and lyrical content or pause, wondering what’s it all mean, Johnwayneisdead’s This Is A Record gives the finger to all of that. True punk rock isn’t rocket science; it’s two guys hammering out songs for beer money and a bag of good kush – that’s it, plain and simple. 

Lately, it feels like music has to be soaked with triple meanings and with backstories, stuffed details that need a field guide to understand the context, This Is A Record doesn’t - it’s fast, catchy and to the point. There’s no wack interludes or songs that come off as confusing or like they needed to be left off the record, but instead, everything cruises with the same frantic pace. 

“Joey Lawrence”, “Buddy Holly”, and “Vampire Breath”, all of these songs ooze with a sentiment of the old school punk we used to pull out of distro boxes at shows or local record shops. Despite the music slapping, I feel bad for Johnwayeisdead because of the era they exist within. Yeah, they can reach the world with a click thanks to the Interwebz, but had these guys been in the game twenty-five years back, we’d be talking about them with the same reverence as bands like The Queers, The Bollweevils, The Descendants, 88 Fingers Louie, and even Naked Raygun. The DNA is there and if “Joey Lawrence” isn’t a bonafide, beer-spilling, sing-along, meet me out by the dumpsters. 

The riffs, the slapstick, fuck you attitude is honest, and it’s not a dollar store copy. These dudes live and die by the show and the world that comes with being a punk rocker in the south, and at a time when kids today think computers are instruments. 

Grab a vinyl of This Is A Record and support these dudes, because if you’re into punk that brings back the good ole days, Johnwayneisdead delivers in spades.

Buy the album here: http://johnwayneisdead.com/shop/this-is-a-record-pre-order

or here: https://store.cdbaby.com/cd/johnwayneisdead12

or stream at Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/album/2InQr48IbuvBNCMc2COswR

The No Sleep Roundup w/Lucero, Leon III, Vein, Joe Rogan

by Robert Dean

So, this week in insomnia I’ve listened to a bunch of music, read a few books and even watched the episode of Anthony Bourdain in Montana. He hangs out with Jim Harrison before he died, what an honor. Joe Rogan was there too, but they did Joe Rogan stuff and just shot some birds. 

Anyhow, I’m averaging about 3-4 hours of sleep a night right now since I’m writing freelance full time. You’d think around 4 AM I’d pass right out, but nope. Pop a Benadryl and go hunting for new stuff, waiting for the little pink monster to kick in. 

Enough about me, let’s get into this week’s hotness: 

Because I’m a douche, I didn’t mention them sooner, but The Profane Anything Band is a local Austin outfit playing some sweet rock and roll that’s not flashy, nor over the top, but straight ahead. There’s something to be said for a band that plugs in and gets rowdy. Give them a listen they gig all over town. For fans of Guided By Voices, Yo La Tengo, Brainiac. 

America’s secret crush Cardi B was on the Stern show and continued to show why she’s good for the music industry with her refusal to be a mindless robot. Hate her music all you like; it’s appreciated when an artist puts everything on front street and understands her place in pop culture.  

Leon III has a new video out. It’s appropriately weird in that Joe Walsh, “too many Coors with a guy you’re just trying to buy mushrooms off of” kinda way. I appreciate bands who go for it and don’t give a shit what their peers are doing. Quiet Hollers are those kinds of dudes. Give it a look and listen to their new record, Alberta. 

While you’re at it download everything from Leon III and Quiet Hollers. 

Vein dropped the new video for Virus//Vibrance, and I’m so stoked on it. This is so much of my jam; it’s like this song + video was crafted out of the old school hardcore videos from 20 years ago that I frequently search for. I have high hopes for Vein. If this is any indication of what they’re capable of, please take all of my money. This is chaotic, fast, and heavy as a ton of bricks. 

Everyone on Earth saw the Childish Gambino video, so I don’t have to link it. It’s been watched 70M times in 7 days.  Sidebar: I seriously had NO idea Childish Gambino was big enough to headline a night at ACL. I have a mad love for Awaken, My Love! But, damn. Donald Glover is killing it right now. 

Joe Rogan roasts Takashi 69 and the other kids of the internet here.  This one is just good for the soul. 

Lastly, Lucero dropped two new songs, and there’s a lot to unpack here folks. 

First, if you look at the new band photo, Ben looks like he’s straight from America’s Next Top Model. Brian has now assumed the role of mystical Memphis shaman, which is fitting if you follow him on social media. Thankfully, Roy is still wearing the signature bike hat. 

The cover of the new record Among the Ghosts is sick. That’s some straight Southern Gothic right there. 

I like that Ben has made it a point to call out that folks thought the new stuff would suck because he’s happily married and now has a kid. I can’t say I’m not guilty of thinking that, too. 

As for the music, I couldn’t be happier. As a die-hard Lucero fan, (I have an L star tattoo) this is the record we’ve been waiting a few years for. This feels more like a gritty more swinging version of Tennessee, That Much Further West, Overton Park records, which are arguably the fan’s favorites. 

That’s it. Keep it saucy. 

Show Review: Austin's Night With The Distillers

Photo by Holly Jee

by Robert Dean

Typically, when people think of punk rock, and its legacy, it’s mostly a male-driven narrative. Women tend to be an afterthought in the annals of the history of the music. Sure, there’s a little slice laid out for Wendy O Williams and the notorious Nancy Spungen, but by and large, women are forgotten in the long game of the music.

When Brody Dalle announced she was getting The Distillers back together, the Internet immediately rejoiced with fans from far and wide hoping the band would make their way through their neck of the woods. But, like all things on the web, how real were all those comments, how much weight was on the bands first tour in over a decade?

Having sold out almost every show of the band’s first run, it’s clear that The Distillers still have a place in the public’s heart, considering most of the ticket buyers are now in their 30’s who’ve aged right along with Brody, as many wear her lyrics as their reality, as a badge of courage all these years later.

What happened tonight (May 1) at the Austin, Texas stop on tour was hopefully a moment for the band to take stock of their legacy to know that what they did, what they now do again - matters. Tonight, as I stood in the back a sold-out Mohawk, I watched a palate of people cry out, rejoice and scream words that were more than just liner notes, they were a personal mantra.

Photo by Holly Jee

Tonight’s Distillers show didn’t belong to the men. We were nothing more than a set decoration, a band of extras in the hundreds sipping our Lonestar tallboys, watching as everyone’s punk rock crush slammed her way through hit after hit of the band’s catalog. No, tonight was about marginalized voices, about women, about queer punks, about punks of color and everyone in between who felt like the change between the car seats.

The mosh pit wasn’t a dude-dominated sweat lodge of bros slamming into one another, but instead as a percolating, roving circle of exorcism lead and owned by the women in the audience. For them, the things they’ve bottled up for so long, the emotions of being female in a world as fucked up like this, everything spilled out.

The band cruised through a greatest hits setlist any fan would love to hear including “The Hunger,” “City of Angels” and “I Am Revenant” to name a few of the fist-pumping crowd pleasers. Despite Brody’s evident agony of losing her voice, she soldiered through and made the show happen, despite relying on the crowd to do their fair share of the singing, which none seemed upset about in the least.

As I stood in the back, I watched gay punks bob and weave, howling along, I saw women scream along, pointing their fists in the air, chanting each word to songs like “Die On A Rope” or “Oh Serena” with a refreshed meaning and purpose all these years later. 

New Blood: New Orleans' Orifist

by Robert Dean

When most of us think about New Orleans and heavy metal, we know what to expect: Sabbath-worshipping riffs, guttural screams into the void, weed smoke, and pure boozy tunes and couldn’t have been bubbling up from the caldrons of anywhere else. But, hold onto your Saints hats, there’s more just down tuned gothic blues happening in southeastern Louisiana.

Eschewing the blues-tinged grooves, New Orleans’ Orifist goes the complete opposite of the expected and turns the death metal up to 11 with nods to Morbid Angel and Death vs. EyeHateGod or DOWN. The results are a solid debut e.p. and a collection of riffs that pummel vs. make the listener nod their head in between pulls from their Jack and Coke.

Orifist’s Behold The Fortunate is a solid batch of songs that don’t feel rushed nor sloppily constructed. Instead, the effort works within the genre of brutal death metal and lends credence to the buzzwords of the scene: the riffs slap, and the playing is technical and tight. Orifist is not a band comprised of beginners, and it’s apparent thanks to a prominent scene veteran presence.

Because of the technical, nuanced nature of the songs on Behold The Fortunate, Kevin Talley of Dying Fetus fame was enlisted to record the drums, and the results are exactly what you could expect: steady blast beats, elaborate double bass rolls, and precise technique to drive Orfist to a high level.

On tracks like “Unity by Association” or “Satan Tastes Like Purple” genre fans will be delighted in the definite throw back riffs to the 90’s Florida death metal scene with its clear influence of Slayer and Metallica. While there are a lot of points throughout Behold The Fortunate that are very much up to date with today’s bands and their copy and pasting of grind and black metal into the genre. Orifist’s wheelhouse is the large head bobbing groove that Cannibal Corpse was churning out back in the early 00’s circa Gallery of Suicide.

“Basking In The Light of The Dark Lord” might be a brutal few minutes, but there’s no doubt these guys have an affinity for some Master of Puppets and Reign In Blood.

Behold The Fortunate is an excellent debut effort for these dudes down in Louisiana, the release is over on Spotify. Give it a listen, headbang, praise Satan, do all of that other cool metal stuff.

----------

Behold the Fortunate

https://www.amazon.com/Behold-Fortunate-Orifist/dp/B07BV72QGZ

Don't Call Him An Outlaw, Joshua Hedley Is So Much More To Country Music

by Robert Dean 

When people ask about Farce The Music, I like to think of what we do around here is spread “The Gospel of Good Shit.” We’ve helped give a little credence to folks who are either up and coming or out there killing it, who deserve more ink than other outlets are providing them.

We talked about Sturgill before he was cool, and we blabbed on about Chris Stapleton when he was still “that big, bearded dude from The Steeldrivers.” We shouted from the rooftops about Tyler Childers and Colter Wall back when no one had so much of heard of these dudes outside of Ole’ W.B. Walker. We’ve not shut up about Margo Price since she was talking about losing the farm and wanting a bottle of wine for momma.

Lindi Ortega, Jason Isbell, Lillie Mae, Ian Noe, Kacey Musgraves, and Justin Wells - all of that amazing music, we’ve been waiving those flags a long time now. This isn’t a pat on the back; it’s a mission statement: we’re dedicated to helping champion amazing artists, and hopefully getting some of these folks who are still slugging it out in bars, playing for tips, sell a few t-shirts or at least another bottle of PBR after their set. 

There’s a name that keeps popping up on my radar over and over again, someone who thanks to my mate Harsha down in Sydney, I got the chance to see in a tiny little room above a Spanish restaurant on the other side of the planet. That name is Joshua Hedley. 

While I enjoyed my experience seeing him in a packed room full of Aussies in their best country gear, it wasn’t until I heard his new record, Mr. Jukebox, when I was flabbergasted at Joshua Hedley’s beauty and brilliance.

Joshua Hedley is a name that will be mentioned in places “too cool” for country, that vaunted Sturgill Simpson territory, an area that blurs the lines of just who Sturgill’s “core” fanbase is, nobody knows – but there sure are a ton of them. Rolling Stone has already jumped on board, and then there’s NPR, The Chicago Reader, The Tennessean, to name just a few who are falling hard for Hedley’s debut Third Man Records release.

Having spent years as a featured Monday night performer at Robert’s Western World down on Nashville’s main drag, since his teens, Hedley knows a thing or two about playing the hits, and it shows on Mr. Jukebox. It’s become lore amongst the musicians on Broadway to cite how well Hedley knows his country music, but also that he can play it at the drop of a Stetson.

What Mr. Jukebox isn’t, is another record featuring a desire to be a bar room badass, a fighter in a leather hat ala Waylon with a Kool dangling off his lip, ready to clean a clock and peel out on a Harley, middle fingers up. Outlaw isn’t a world uttered when describing what Hedley does, in fact, it’s the exact opposite of what he does.

When Waylon and Willie were coming up and energizing the idea of what the Outlaw scene meant, it was on the merit of beer swigging hooligans who write songs for guys with hard knuckles and a constitution for cheap blow and fast women. The songs weren’t complex arrangements, nor did they lean on the traditions of Nudie suits or songs about horses and other fairy tales of the scene back then.

Outlaw was decidedly not what was popular in the day’s country music, which featured lush string arrangements and stories about heartbreak, and deceit by a lovelorn partner. There was a sense of beauty to those songs, a purpose driven by big choruses and a beat that anyone could two-step to, drunk or sober, happy or sad.

That’s precisely the nerve Joshua Hedley taps into on Mr. Jukebox with booming traditionalism and on the nose respect to the late 50’s early 60’s era of country, before disco or rock n' roll changed the flavor.

The soul of Mr. Jukebox is decidedly unhip to mainstream Nashville standards, but the songs are glorious throwbacks to guys like Ernest Tubb, George Jones or Buck Owens. The reason Mr. Jukebox succeeds is his backbone of traditionalism, not only in character, but also because of Ole’ Hed’s dedication to the heart of real country music.

Hedley’s fiddle furiously battles his smooth vocal runs with a multi-disciplined attack that's just damned good music. Joshua Hedley can strum a guitar, sing with a clean, clear harmonious range, and write lyrics that are not only witty, but also painstakingly crafted so that the words on some of the record’s tracks land like guy punches.

Mr. Jukebox is the record you can slip on for MeeMaw while she’s in the kitchen and you’re likely to get a head turn out of her because the sound, the style, the playing is so believable, so in the moment; it’s hard to reckon that Mr. Jukebox is brand new. Say what you will, but there’s always something pleasing about getting a flicker of recognition from the old school, even if she’s just making a gumbo in her slippers.

The record’s opener, “Counting All My Tears” lets the listener know that without a doubt, Conway Twitty’s stamp is there.  All throughout the album, the steel guitar slides and wanes while the harmonies are large productions that harken back to the thick, wall of sound delivery, but with a slight tinge of gospel power hidden in the rafters for a sprinkle of good luck.

“Weird Thought Thinker” feels like that era of Willie Nelson before he moved back to Texas, while “I Never (Shed a Tear)” feels straight off Patsy Cline’s vine and broadcast to the world via The Grand Ole Opry. This is pure classic, country music that’s without any of the bullshit sparkles. We’re getting closer and closer to two factions of country music coming to the forefront: Southern Pop and Country Music.

If there was any doubt of what Joshua Hedley does, brother you ain’t been paying attention. Mr. Jukebox is here to stay, and the waves we’ll see in his wake will only push those boats higher and higher – green Nudie suit and all. 

-----------

Mr. Jukebox is available everywhere you consume fine music.

Sleep Transcend The Holy Mountain And Enter The Sciences

by Robert Dean 

When a band releases a record that defines their career, it’s Sisyphean task to follow it up. Very few bands can write a Sgt. Peppers and come back swinging with the White Album as the Beatles did. The same goes with the Stones, who managed to write five classic records in a row, starting with Beggars Banquet and ending with Goats Head Soup. 

Bands like At The Drive In, Glassjaw, Refused, and At The Gates, all have classic records people obsess over and study to an almost scary degree. Genres and styles of play have evolved around the seminal The Shape of Punk To Come and Slaughter of The Soul. Over twenty years later, kids are discovering those records and trying their best to copy the magic caught on tape.  

When Sleep released its droning, doom-defining monolith Dopesmoker, it was met with a resounding thud thanks to the band's label refusing to release it in its original form. A secondary tracked down edition titled Jerusalem finally was released, but it was always Dopesmoker that found its way into tape trading circles and bootlegs pressings. But, the fervor for Dopesmoker bubbled up from the tar pits and over the years, has become canon for all things stoner. 

In the wake of Dopesmoker’s release and subsequent troubles, Sleep broke up, but remained brothers in smoke. Al Cisneros formed his otherworldly OM while guitar hero Matt Pike challenged Lemmy for the baddest man in rock and roll with High on Fire. Drummer Chris Hakius played in OM for a few years but ultimately hung up his sticks to focus on being a family man. 

And then in 2009, Sleep reformed out of nowhere. Capitalizing on the growing doom and stoner scene in mainstream metal circles, Sleep went from playing ½ filled bars in cowboy towns to packing bodies into rooms holding a few thousand across the globe. For almost a decade, the band toured sporadically, hitting the Blue Chip festivals or doing a nationwide run for month or two, raking in the cash. 

Stoner metal fans devoured the chance to see their heroes live, for the chance to be taken to the church of all things Weedian. 

In these past years, Cisneros, Pike, along with new drummer Jason Roeder of Neurosis fame pummeled their way through Sleep’s greatest hits and no one was one bit mad about it. They still got the cherry festival payday, while red-eyed fans gobbled up the band's merch with no fear. For the band, the promoters and the fans, this worked, and it was easy for one simple reason: writing new music could taint the legacy for the world’s greatest doom band that’s not Black Sabbath. 

Music, especially metal fans can be fickle. People care about legacy in heavy metal. Bands can go from hallowed legends to “they wrote The Ugly Organ, but the new stuff sucks” real quick. Once the band falls down the ladder a few rungs, people stop showing up to the shows, and the hype dies down. 

Sleep continually teased new music, but only released one track, “The Clarity”. Everyone figured they’d write a new record, someday, but till then, fans would enjoy hearing “Dragonaut” or “Holy Mountain” at shows, knowing they’d never be bumped out of the set list. 

But then on 4/20 Sleep surprised the world with their first record in two decades, The Sciences through Jack White’s Third Man Records. The Weedians had awoken, and they brought forth new tunes for the stoned masses, but the question that was on everyone’s mind: would Sleep cheapen their legacy or affirm it?

The band did neither. Instead, The Sciences is one of the year’s best records and moves beyond, “good follow up to Dopesmoker,” and places Sleep as the undisputed heirs to the throne of Black Sabbath. The Sciences is not only a neck breaking, sludgy love song to the universe, it’s a poem to the mysteries of faith, but it’s also a masterpiece. 

Al Cisneros taps into the wild, unearthly drones of his OM project and interjects them seamlessly into the 2018 edition of Sleep. The band capitalizes on tight, circular driving grooves that feel familiar, but not tired or a rehash of what they’d already achieved. 

The Sciences offers a narrative on what’s it’s like inside Sleep’s world of churning riffs that demand the listener join them on a quest into the deep recesses of the mind. 

Instead of mindless wandering, which many of their burned out contemporaries are guilty, tracks like “The Botanist” and “Marijaunauts Theme” are soulful explorations of what stoner metal, doom, or whatever you want to call it are capable of thanks to Sleep challenging not only themselves, but where the genre can go sonically. 

The record takes the classic riff exploration of the Sleep blueprint, but showcases the intensity of Matt Pike’s furious playing, should anyone forget he’s more than the shirtless guy with the beer gut, but a metal icon that happens to be relentless guitar hitman. 

The Sciences transcends because of two primary reasons: one being Jason Roeder utterly and undeniably changed the DNA of the band for the better with his brilliant handwork along with his in the pocket, dynamic drumming that’s more John Bonham or Bill Ward than he lets on with Neurosis. 

The second major plot point regarding the success of The Sciences is easy to spot: the band are students of the game. Cisneros, Pike and Roeder are still stoners playing metal in bands who tour most of the year. They’re involved in the evolution of the scene with Sleep, but also High on Fire, Neurosis, and OM. These dudes never lost touch with their mission but evolved as musicians, and people in the process of the band’s successes. 

The songs on the record are playful and on the nose with their love of all things Black Sabbath and the dank kush. The vocals are less hooky sing-alongs to capture an ear, but instead on “Giza Butler” or “Sonic Titan,” they’re droning absolutions to a realm we probably cannot fathom. 

Instead of a lousy cash grab, we’re lucky enough to see this trio of brilliant stoners evolve before our eyes. Who knows how long a record after this one will take to craft, it doesn’t matter, anyhow. These six new tracks on The Sciences are good enough to hold us over for a long while, or at least till the pipe needs repacking.

----------

The Sciences is available everywhere you enjoy music. 

The No Sleep Roundup w/Tyler Childers, William Matheny, Yodel Boy, Sleep

by Robert Dean

Here we are, kids. April is almost kaput, and we’re in the driver's seat towards summer. And we all know what summer means for music: a bunch of wack trash will compete for the much-desired “Song of The Summer” well, what you’re about to get here ain’t none of that bullshit. Not now, not ever. 

This week in the roundup, we’re checking out a whole bunch of different stuff folks have sent over. First up, Sleep dropped a new record, “The Scientist”. I’ll have an in-depth review of that boner-inducing masterpiece by weeks end, or the weekend, we’ll see. Other reviews I have planned: New Orleans death metal band, Orifist along with Mr. Jukebox by Joshua Hedly. Aren’t I diverse? 

Anyhow.

The yodeling kid was at Coachella, which is cool, and lame, but whatever, a whole bunch of square Googled Hank Williams, so hopefully a few of the cooler ones got into it and Ol’ Grandad found new blood. I guess he’ll be at Stagecoach over the weekend, too. Get that money, little dude. 

Some weird ass white people are getting snake massages. We’ll link it, so you don’t fall down the Google rabbit hole with that shit. Just as an aside, folks if you’re getting a “massage” by a boa constrictor, you’re gonna need to sit down with your priorities and see where your life took a turn for the worse. And believe me, I’m weird as they come.

William Matheny has a new record out, “Moon Over Kenova.” If you’re a Tom Petty or Elvis Costello kind of person, this is right in your sonic wheelhouse. Matheny’s style is Americana, but he’s got a rock and roll backbone. The songs are radio-friendly, simple tunes that work. 

There’s something to be said about a singer-songwriter who can cut out the nonsense and keep the narrative and structure tight. You could do worse than William Matheny, give em’ a listen and let us know if you like what you hear.  

Our boy Tyler Childers landed his fantastic song “Whitehouse Road” and “Nose on The Grindstone” on an upcoming episode of Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown. Congrats to Tyler and his soon to be world takeover.

But, can we pause for a second, Gangstagrass’s “Hard Time To Come” aka the theme from Justified was also featured. I LOVE Justified. I’ve watched every episode and am actively collecting a copy of every Elmore Leonard book. But, that song sucks much ass it’s a long-running joke amongst my wife and me that someone owed a favor or money to get that featured. 

And that’s all she wrote. Stay creepy.