Feb 6, 2007


So are they a country band?" the chick at the vending machines asked when she saw this disc in my hand.
"Kinda..." I mumble as I think "Oh, great. Another one of those conversations."
"What do you mean kinda?" She halfway snaps/halfway flirts "Either they are country or they're not."

"Well...Country music encompasses quite a lot though doesn't it?"
"Is it good country?"
"What is 'good country'?"
"Garth Brooks is really good!"
And how am I suppose to respond to that? And was she serious? And what the hell is it that seems to invite total strangers to want to strike up conversations with me? Sort of dumbfounded I throw something out off the top of my head just to get the people to leave me alone "No, they aren't really country. They're more like a satanic death punk band and the message they have to say speaks directly to me." The conversation stopped there as she tried to get as far away from me as soon as possible.
My mom used two buy all those 2 record (or two 8 track tapes) sets the sold on TV back in the 70's. After allowing the 6 to 8 weeks for delivery I would eventually have some time standing in front of the huge faux Mahogany grain RCA console stereo and would start lifting the needle through Donna Fargo & Lynn Anderson (who, by the way, I thought was dead or at least MIA but I was at my folks house a week ago and my mom had a copy of a bluegrass album she recorded a year ago. I'll have to ask her if I can borrow it. I wonder how much coin Joe South still makes off "Rose Garden" these days. It's gotta be an alright paycheck...I believe I heard it in a pharmaceutical ad the other day) trying to find the rowdy rebel type of guys. Even if it was even ballady type song like Merle Haggard's "Sing Me Back Home" I knew it was a lot more tougher than the "Happiest Girl In The Whole USA" would ever be. I wonder if that's the same sorta thing the band was thinking when they chose their name. A sound shaped by dusty road, scarred knuckles, greasy hair and dirty blue jeans this Portland two piece, fronted by Silverking Patrick Foss, in some songs such as sound like a powerpop band taken to down to it's most spartan of set up's and at others a raw bluesy punk rock mess with that good whiskey burn (and maybe a little bit of the ghost of Del Shannon's hurting mood lingering around too). Not once does this band fall into a place where most people think of when they think country music nowadays. No Puff Daddy goes hillbilly, no Mariah Carey in a gingham dress and a body perm, no "Jimmy Buffet is pretty cool" nods...ALL OF WHICH THERE IS TOO MUCH OF GOING ON THESE DAYS (but I'm probably preaching to the choir here with all of that anyways). The country here is of the foot stompin', patting the pet Bluetick Coonhound on the head and drinking Jack and Lemonade out of an old pickle jar waiting for the sun to go down to go raise some real hell type of country that once it's cranked at a loud volume it becomes the same stuff that fueled plenty of many a bar fight, speeding tickets and parole violations. Pure Country Gold=Blistered Rock-n-Roll Combustion

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