alt-country
(which should have a subtitle of WTF) (and if you don’t like an occasional steel guitar, fiddle and so forth skip this one) (and no more parenthetical comments, neither)
It’s started with a post found at Scott’s place. I just got done writing up a half-dozen eBay paragraphs, and I was just nosing around the web.
I’ve got a new “mini iPod” on order, hopefully, with next day air, it should be here before the weekend. I was pulling together a good play list, so some of that music was still stuck in my head.
I can’t do a top 20 of alt-country music. I’m not well-versed in the genre. But I can add a notes about Texas artists.
Like Lyle Lovett (Scorpio) or Robert Earl Keen (Capricorn). Hank III (Sagittarius), Dale Watson (Libra), Kevin Fowler (Taurus), and Wayne Hancock (Taurus).
I’ve written about it before, but the first time I saw Hank III, the first set he did was raw, down-home, crying-in-your-beer, rip-your-heart-out, lonesome, wailing, country music. With an edge. Which, when he swung into his “second set,” it all made perfect sense. At that time, I sort of figured that second set as punk. Only, it was punk played with a demon fiddle, and pedal steel guitar, and a stand-up bass. Oh yeah. Take that, Nashville. Or, as the song goes, “Trashville.”
And that’s what alt-country is really about. It’s that other side.
A couple of weeks ago, I was drinking coffee drinks and soaking up a vegetarian meal at a local, rather bohemian, place. The music tends to be pretty diverse. Dead Kennedys, and music of a similar ilk is often on the sound system. What would I expect from a younger, 20 – something crowd? But then, a little later, there was some Johnny Cash. I asked, like I often do, what the connection was.
The little Libra explained it, “Like, you know, it’s real.”
I don’t find Johnny Cash in the alt-country group, but I do know his canon of work is widely respected. Thanks to a little Gemini girl, I added Gram Parsons – perhaps the original cosmic cowboy, to the list of frequently listened to music. Plus I’d recommend it, as well. One or two of his tunes always wind up on my play lists these days.
Put REK’s first two live albums on the list. Live #2 and Live from the Sons of Herman Hall (in Dallas, no less). Excellent works.
I’ve found that Steve Fromholz’s Texas Trilogy, especially as rendered by the soulful Lyle Lovett has to be on the play list, over and over. That goes back to train ride, one summer, not long ago, coming back down the silver rails from Dallas, winding through Bosque County. Eerie, as the train passed through a town mentioned in the song. The train doesn’t stop there, anymore. That’s from Step Inside This House.
Michael Murphey and Charlie Daniels aren’t rebels anymore, but their legacy and their earlier works still stand out.
The unverified rumor I heard, Kevin Fowler was offered a suitcase full of money for one of his songs, “Beer bait & Ammo,” if he would just agree to change the lyrics. He didn’t. Last time I saw him perform, he had the right rebel attitude, plus his music is straight out Texas country.
The one time – so far – that I’ve seen Wayne Hancock play, he was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, jeans and sneakers. Not exactly a country a look, but it fits in Austin just fine. Plus he performs. I got a sense that he was giving it all back to the audience, and at one point, I was pretty sure he was signing just to me.
I was conversing with a darling little Leo the other afternoon. On the patio, pieces of pork stuck between my teeth, chatting about life, love, and Texas French Bread tuna sandwiches. I think that Gen X echoed what’s so good about the alt-country that’s hot.
“Oh, I like the hippies’ way of thinking, but I like to eat meat.”
(Musical accompaniment? The Chemical Brothers and especially Norman Cook.)
Two-Meat Tuesday
Because I knew I had to start early, I passed out early, and slept the sleep of an angel. One of the advantages to living like a monk these days.
I popped out of bed, reheated day-old coffee, and got a start. I was ready for that 6 in the unholy hour of the AM honk outside the trailer, and I was off. I packed a bag, thinking I’d have to sit in the doctor’s office or something.
“No, just take my car and come back and get me around noon.”
Good enough.
I should go in the hilarity of picking up a friend fresh out from anesthesia, but suffice it to say, my little red-headed friend was toasted. A kindly nurse rolled my buddy out in wheelchair, and from there, it was a lot of talk, about this, that and the other. She was pretty buzzed. I parked her at her place, and I sat down at her computer, trying to figure out the wiring on her two-computer-and-cable-modem-soon-to-be-wireless home network. Several hours later, as she dozed in the easy chair, I got more and more frustrated, to the point that I gave up. She woke up, told me that she 1) didn’t know the password or account name and 2) she powered it all off to switch the connections around – every time.
I walked home, stopping off just to buy a little bait and pick through half of the two-meat platter. I got home, and all I could think about, besides getting some of the tender brisket to the cat, was getting a fat nightcrawler on a hook, and feeding the fishes.
Ma Wetzel called, and I took the call via the cell phone’s “speaker phone” feature – while I was fishing. A Virgo neighbor, a Leo, and a Sagittarius were walking their dogs, and while I was speaking to Ma Wetzel, the neighbors all hollered in unison, “Hi Mom!” Cute.
Then another Virgo neighbor calls, stops by the waterfront to see me while I was fishing, and somehow, we ended up at Curra’s for dinner.
“Tequila, Conchita Pibil, and raw fish, there’s just something right about it all.”
I was playing my game, “What’s my sign,” with the Aquarius server. Pretty much my standard good cheer, no matter what the sign, and she was in a good mood – we were on the patio. Along about the third cocktail for my Virgo friend, I was drinking decaf coffee, that Virgo has to launch into the “Kramer did a reading for me once and it was so accurate,” as it the story involves a certain (now ex) boyfriend.
A few minutes later, the other server wanders over, a lovely Libra lass, “Whatever he says? It’s right. So right! Remember those coins you gave me?”
No, actually, I don’t remember the coins I gave her.
“I held onto them for two and half months, and my luck has been better ever sense.”
So, a couple of months ago, right before Jupiter went crashing into Libra, I’d added three one-dollar coins to the tip for that Libra, and I’d suggested that dollar coins are imbued with a certain kind of good luck. Which they are, but never mind that now. As an astrologer, I knew from her birthday, that she was about to enter a period of extreme good fortune, due to the planet’s movement. I don’t recall it, but I’m sure I suggested she just needed to wait until her birthday arrived. That’s merely planetary timing, nothing magic.
“I had the best birthday I’ve ever had! Thanks! Listen to whatever he says!”
I was blushing, but no one could tell, it was dark on the patio.
