Autopsy IV note: In what is becoming a regular occurance, a reader (Chuck) sent me a show review earlier this week. I hope y’all enjoy it.

Reckless & Ragged: Neighborhood Theatre – Charlotte, NC  3/5/2010

People who follow the Texas/Red Dirt music scene are familiar with the friendly “rivalry” that exists between Reckless Kelly and Cross Canadian Ragweed. The pranks these two bands have played on each other range from the harmless to the down-right disgusting. Through all of the jokes, they are the best of friends in music, having played together at countless music festivals and charitable events. When it was announced that they’d be making a run together through the southeast, I was pumped to see a date in Charlotte.

Reckless kicked off the evening and played for a little over an hour. Their new album, Somewhere In Time, was released last month. It is made up entirely of songs written by Pinto Bennett, the songwriter from Idaho who had a huge influence on the band in their early days. The set list consisted of a few tunes from the new album, including personal favorites Little Blossom and Pure Quill as well as some of their older songs, Baby’s Gone Blues, Drink Your Whiskey Down and Nobody’s Girl. They closed their set with an excellent cover of Alejandro Escovedo’s Castanets. This song has been in the rotation for the band for a while, but they’ve not got an awesome jam at the end that puts a great exclamation point on their set.

Ragweed was up next and the crowd was ready. They have built a nice following in the southeast as evidenced by the size of the crowds at their concerts here. I’ve seen them a handful of times and the crowds here are larger each time. The one thing that stood out to me was their sound – it was loud and just plain awesome. They are really on top of their game right now. Front man Cody Canada kicked it off with what they call the “Trifecta”, three songs (Overtable, Overtable Interlude and Pretty Lady) that are all strung together on their new album, Happiness and All The Other Things. A highlight of the show was the cover of Rosalie, a song written by Randy Pease about his beloved guitar. Randy was an integral part of the original Oklahoma red dirt music scene where Ragweed got their start. Cody explained that their next album, their last with Universal South, will be made up of songs written by their old Oklahoma friends (Medicine Show, Mike McClure and the Great Divide, etc.) so that their friends will get the royalties. About midway through the set, Cody Braun, Reckless’ fiddle player, came out to join in on Anywhere But Here. I wasn’t sure how a fiddle would go with Ragweed’s sound but I must say it was pretty cool. Braun came back out to join on Bad Habit, a song requested by someone in the crowd but Canada said he didn’t know the lyrics. He wasn’t lying as he completely forgot them halfway through the song. He played it off nicely and moved on. Another great moment came next when Braun brothers Cody and Willy covered Buddy Miller’s That’s How Strong My Love Is. Later, both bands were on stage for Ragweed’s Time to Move On, which included a great guitar solo by Reckless’ guitar player David Abyeta. The fun continued with the Ragweed classic Boys From Oklahoma and then Crazy Eddies Last Hurrah, a Reckless song that has been covered a lot by Ragweed. This version included Willy Braun on lead vocals with both bands playing. The night ended with a cover of Chuck Berry’s Promised Land, a song you might not think you’d ever from either of these bands. However, they pulled it off nicely.

Overall, just an awesome night of music from two bands that know how to play great music live. One of the cool things that Ragweed does at most of their concerts is offer a USB wristband that contains songs from the show. Absolutely brilliant – it’s very popular among fans and it’s another way for the band to get their music heard. I’ve included a couple of tracks from the show – enjoy.

Cross Canadian Ragweed – Dimebag
Cross Canadian Ragweed – Time To Move On

Our roving North Carolina reporter, Adam Fenwick, is back with another show report from another tour skipping Florida:

THE ROCK REPORT: Drive-By Truckers @ The Neighborhood Theater in Charlotte, N.C. (Feb. 25, 2010)

When I heard that the Drive-By Truckers would be playing within 30 minutes of my current home in Concord, N.C., at the ever-popular Neighborhood Theater, I knew right away I couldn’t miss the show.

I ordered a ticket the day they became available and that ticket found its way to my fridge, stuck there via magnet to remind me of the fun that was to come Feb. 25, 2010.

And have fun I did.

I arrived early alongside my partner in crime for the evening, a dear friend of mine named Danelle who graciously agreed to come to the show with me despite not having a clue whom the Drive-By Truckers were.

Once parked, we strolled to the front and found the line to get in the door almost around the corner. I wasn’t overly surprised by this, the Neighborhood Theater is a fairly small venue and I fully expected the place to be packed. I was surely right.

The opening act, Sons of Bill, took the stage around 9 p.m. and served as an outstanding prelude to the forthcoming Rock Show. While not like DBT in terms of sound, they rocked the early goers with their own brand of country rock that resulted in me purchasing their latest CD, titled “One Town Away.”

About 30 minutes after Sons of Bill finished up, the Drive-By Truckers hit the stage with an awesome version of “This Fucking Job,” kicking off another great Rock Show.

I got to hear a number of songs I’ve somehow never heard live Thursday night, including Cooley’s “Uncle Frank” and the always classic “Buttholeville” (one of my personal favorites). Of course they also pulled out a number of new classics, including Cooley’s “Birthday Boy,” Shonna’s “I Told You So,” and Patterson’s “Daddy Learned To Fly.”

Once again I had to call it a night a bit early, after having gone to Atlanta last weekend then attended two concerts in one week I was all but spent. I left just as the band was starting “Zip City,” but just after “Daddy Learned To Fly.”

A side note, somehow I always end up near the idiots in the crowd. For some reason one gentleman (the term used loosely) decided to make the area we were standing his personal mosh pit. While he didn’t get decked, I thought Patterson was going to break his middle finger during an exchange shortly before I left.

During “Hell No, I Ain’t Happy” Patterson got on his knees to perform a solo right in front of me. This moron decided he would give Patterson the bird RIGHT IN HIS FACE. Patterson almost seemed to feed off of it, I could tell he was pissed by simply looking at his face. When he finished his solo he simply reached out and grabbed the guys finger and gave it one good yank.

I don’t know if he actually tried to break it or not, but regardless it was a slightly tense moment during an otherwise excellent Rock Show. At least there wasn’t a fight right in front of me like the last two times I’ve seen DBT.

Drive-By Truckers – Zip City (Live at Pine Hill, 2002)

P.S.: Watch what Patterson does when this dumbass starts making a scene in Raleigh, N.C., just a few days before DBT stopped in Charlotte.

THIS POST CAME FROM A LONG TIME NINEBULLETS.NET READER, ADAM FENWICK:

Last Sunday I braved the icy roads in the Charlotte area and ventured into the NoDa Arts District to see one of my favorite singer/songwriters, a gentleman (using the term loosely) named Scott Miller at a small venue called The Evening Muse.

For those unfamiliar with Mr. Miller, a quick history lesson is in order. A native of Swoope, Va., Miller graduated from William and Mary and moved to Knoxville, Tenn., where he quietly began making a name for himself at any number of small-town bars.

Eventually he formed a band called the Viceroys, which morphed into The V-Roys (alongside Mic Harrison, Paxton Sellers, Jeff Bills and John Paul Keith). The V-Roys achieved mild success, becoming the first band to join Steve Earle’s E-Squared Records.

The band broke up on Jan. 1, 2000, leading to Miller venturing out on his own. He has since put out a number of records (alongside his rag-tag band called The Commonwealth), any of which you can purchase at www.thescottmiller.com.

Anyway, back to the point. This was my second time seeing Miller perform live (the first being a last-second trip to Knoxville with a former girlfriend last year) and while this show wasn’t as good as the first, it was far from disappointing.

The Evening Muse — a tiny venue that could seat anywhere between 80 and 100 by my best estimates — was jam packed despite the icy conditions outside.

Miller opened the show with his lone instrumental, titled Feel So Fair To Midland, and from there the show was on in full force.

One thing worth mentioning is how personable Miller always is. He always encourages the crowd to shout out any requests they may have at him during the show, although he regularly says jokingly, “I won’t play anything by the Eagles.”

That alone makes him a unique artist in my opinion, its not often that a musician of Miller’s stature will willingly accept requests from their entire catalog — though it does create minor issues like they did on Sunday.

Twice during requests Miller came up short when trying to remember the lyrics, but rather than get frustrated he just laughed and jokingly said after forgetting the lyrics to a song called Yes I Won’t, “Why did ya’ll request that old shit? I’ve got new music, request that!”

I swear, if Miller weren’t a musician he could easily make a living as a comedian. Between every song he was cracking jokes with crowd members, jokes mostly making fun of himself. The show was short (Miller took the stage at 9 p.m. and wrapped up around 10:45) but there wasn’t a second of down time in between.

Mr. Miller even paused long enough to take a picture with yours truly, which I now consider among my most cherished possessions. Oh yeah, I just happened to be wearing a certain NineBullets.net shirt at the time (editors note: Hell Yeah!).

If you ever happen to be in the same city as Mr. Miller on any given night, I highly encourage you to check him out. You certainly won’t regret it.

Scott Miller & The Commonwealth – Eight Miles Per Gallon
Scott Miller & The Commonwealth – Drunk All Around This Town
Scott Miller & The Commonwealth – Lo Siento, Spanishburg, WVa

Autopsy IV: This post comes from a long time ninebullets.net reader, Adam Fenwick. It’s nice to see a review of the Truckers. It’s been so long since they’ve come to the Tampa Bay area I’ve almost forgotten what THE ROCK SHOW is like. Hope y’all enjoy.

It had been more than a year since I last saw the best damn band on the planet, the Drive-By Truckers, live in concert, which is far too long. So, when my brothers girlfriend emailed me asking if I knew anyone interested in attending a DBT show at the House of Blues in Myrtle Beach, S.C., on Aug. 21, I immediately thought of myself.

So, I took a day off of work and made the four hour drive to Wilmington, N.C., to meet up with my brother and his girlfriend before driving the additional hour and a half to Myrtle Beach. The trip itself was nothing compared to the party that would ensue in the House of Blues.

We arrived just as Tift Merritt was starting up her set before the ROCK SHOW. I’ve heard some of her music before, but I can honestly say I was never very impressed with her, but she was certainly a good opening act that warmed up the crowd before the main event.

When the Truckers finally hit the stage after the half-hour lull between sets, the crowd was more then ready. They opened with The Great Car Dealer War and the ROCK SHOW was on.

One Of These Days? Check. Love Like This? Check. Lookout Mountain? Check.

At one point, Patterson calmly stopped the show and began to talk about the recently past Jim Dickinson, the father of Cody & Luther Dickinson of the North Mississippi Allstars. He thanked Mr. Dickinson for all of his efforts through the years and dedicated “Let There Be Rock” to the legendary pianist.

In addition to all the regular DBT staples, like Road Cases (with extended intro), Heathens and Women Without Whiskey, a few new ones were pulled out. Shonna sang what had to be a new song since I’ve never heard it before and there was at least one other song, sung by Patterson or Cooley, that I wasn’t familiar with either. New material they are testing out perhaps?

As the show moved forward the band pulled out all the stops, including a booming cover of Neil Young’s “Keep On Rockin’ In The Free World” that had the crowd in an absolute craze. In fact, the crowd may have been a bit too crazy, because for the second-straight time at a DBT show, a fight broke out right in front of me. One guy, who had been asked to chill by security once already, was being escorted out by being pulled over the front guardrail when all hell broke loose.

Two guys got to shoving and throwing punches and my brothers girlfriend was nearly thrown to the ground in the confusion (which didn’t sit well with him at all). But, just as he always does, Patterson took the incident in stride by saying as the hooligans were escorted out by security: “That’s what you get for trying to fuck up our rock show!”

Oh, and least I forget, one guy got on stage but was promptly ripped in half by two security guards. Ahh…what a fun night at the ROCK SHOW.

Anyway, the band closed with an amazing version of “Angels and Fuselage” which I’ve never heard live before. As the song wound down each member of the band, starting with Patterson, simply put their instrument down, waved to the crowd and exited the stage. It was a classy ending to a great ROCK SHOW.

Drive-By Truckers – Let There Be Rock
Drive-By Truckers – The Living Bubba
Drive-By Truckers – Perfect Timing

The songs are off the Truckers latest album, Live From Austin, Texas (9b write up) which can be purchased here.

Here we are. The end of the guest post series. We’re gonna close it out with another from Kasey Anderson. Incidentally, the blog My Aimz Is True posted a piece on Kasey’s album of covers, Way Out West, today.

So, as she says, this is Kasey Anderson week in the blogosphere.

I was lucky enough to watch Federation X mature before my very eyes, primarily on stage at the 3B Tavern (which they closed down for good December 31, 2005 with Bob Log III). At their inception, Fed X was a sort of hybrid of everything Northwest: Wipers, Gas Huffer, Mono Men, Karp, Mudhoney and this little-known band, Nirvana. Even in their earliest incarnation, Federation X managed to synthesize those bands without sounding like a retread of every band that sprang forth from a garage in Olympia.

As the band progressed, one thing became abundantly clear: no matter what they sounded like or which influences you might be able to pin down after listening a while, they were a really, really good band. Like unfair good. Living in Bellingham and watching countless bands spring up all over town, then watching Fed X play the 3B was like spending three months following a minor league ballclub and then watching Roy Halladay pitch. It became almost tough to appreciate them because I was so busy being furious that I didn’t get to see them play more often.

But the more I listened to Federation X, the more something started to dawn on me. Buried beneath the relentless sonic assault created by a drum set and two four-string guitars, there were these melodies that owed an undeniable debt to folk music. That’s what separated Fed X from equally loud but not nearly as satisfying bands: they wrote folk songs, they just wrote them differently. That probably shouldn’t have come as such a shock considering the band named their Estrus Recods debut American Folk Horror, but it stopped me in my tracks.

They followed up AFH with the Steve Albini-produced X Patriot, which grooved a bit more than AFH, but retained that same synthesis of those almost appalachian melodies with jagged guitars and a propulsive beat. It was a formula I have yet to see recreated with any success. I suppose in terms of comparison, if you sped up the Melvins, then let them cover Nick Cave’s Murder Ballads record, but told them to lay off of any extended antics.

The band’s 2005 release, Rally Day, was a sort of extension of X Patriot, driving slightly harder and leaning a bit more on melodies that, in their earliest forms, were solo piano tracks. No matter how well they covered the melodies with guitar and vocal harmonies or riffs that faintly echoed Sabbath, the melodies stood out perhaps more than on any of the band’s previous offerings. For somebody who grew up simultaneously on Harry Smith’s Anthology and Daydream Nation, it was a near-perfect combination.

Fed X hasn’t released a full-length album since Rally Day, but whether the band is defunct or on extended hiatus seems up for debate. I, for one, am going to hold out hope that they’ll be back for at least one more record and handful of shows. Until then, I’ve got the records.

Federation X – Southern Comfort (from American Folk Horror)
Federation X – Real American Kids with Real American ID’s (from X Patriot)
Federation X – Rally Day (from Rally Day)

Whew. Well, the alcohol induced shakes from Deep Blues Fest have finally subsided. I got (2) more guest pieces for y’all and I’ll be back posting on Friday. Till then, I have a post from halkaloogie about to awesome bands I’d never even heard of.

halkaloogie here and it’s a pleasure to be allowed to fill in on ninebullets. Seeing that Autopsy IV was asking for help I instantly raked my brain thinking of bands and singers that had not been posted, but a quick use of the blog search button I quickly found that this was not going to be that easy, after 1000+ posts this cat has covered a lot of ground.

I did find a few things that I hope all of you will enjoy

Anyways, a few years ago I was playing an out of town show that ended up being a total disaster we played to a gaggle of 15 year old kids who weren’t there to see us and hated every minute we were on stage, we were stiffed by the venue and ended up with a bar tab bigger than our cut. With a sour taste in our mouths and anger in our fists we headed down the street to find a hole to sulk and lick our wounds, and made our way into this little bar called the Baby Bar which is really a 15×15 foot room with a few chairs and a ton of alcohol. There was maybe 10 people in this place and right in the middle sitting on top of a table with a guitar and a bass drum banging out raw country and blues like there was no tomorrow was Toothless George. He was swilling whiskey cussing stomping and taunting everyone to fight and damn if we didn’t all feel a hell of a lot better.

I ended up trading a few CD’s and t-shirts with him and spent the next months listening to them and hot damn if [the above] picture doesn’t just scream awesome and sum up what Toothless George is all about. He was born in Lithuania of all places and calls Philly home. An old school punk rocker who decided that Hasil Adkins was just as hard core as Danzig.

Toothless George – Don’t Fuck With Me
Toothless George – Train Wreck
Toothless George – Give Me 40 Acres

Toothless George’s Official Site, Toothless George on myspace, Buy Toothless George’s albums

Another great set of musicians that I don’t see have been posted on theses pages are The Cracker Cats, these girls are a great all girl darkgrass 3 piece out of Saskatoon Canada.

I haven’t been able to find that much info on them, but did catch a show in BC Canada a few years ago, and these girls put as much energy into their shows as anybody I’ve seen and very much a girl equivalent of the .357 String Band.

The Cracker Cats – Endlessly
The Cracker Cats – Feed The Fire
The Cracker Cats – Shady Grove

The Cracker Cats on myspace, Buy The Cracker Cats music

Hello everyone. Sorry about yesterday’s silence. It was a case of an insane weekend turning into a long night which resulted in comatose AIV yesterday. I’ve got a few more guest posts for y’all this week while I recover from Deep Blues Fest. This one come’s from Kasey Anderson. I first saw it on AltCountryTab.ca and I am very happy that he agreed to repost it on ninebullets. Hope y’all like it.

You’ve seen Blake Miller’s face. Eyes to sun-strained slits, staring off at God Knows What, smoke swirling around him, cigarette dangling like he’d taken classes from James Dean. When Miller’s photo, taken by Luis Sinco, appeared on the front page of the Los Angeles Times November 9, 2004 – and subsequently appeared in hundreds of publications, along with being singled out by Dan Rather – he became an instant, iconic image of the war in Iraq. Whether he knew it or not, whether he wanted it or not, Miller’s face became a canvas upon which any beholder could paint his or her version of the American Military Man. You want to see quiet resolve and stoicism? It’s there. Looking for a beleaguered soldier whose only remaining coping mechanism is the sort of numbness one can only achieve by constant subjection to death and destruction? It’s there. Any version of America you’re looking for is visible in Miller’s face, you need only project it.

Nearly one year to the date after Sinco’s photo ran, Miller found himself discharged from the military and attempting to re-adjust to civilian life. Jenny Eliscu chronicled Miller’s turbulent re-entry in a piece that ran in the April 3, 2008 issue of Rolling Stone, focusing on his constant battle with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, estrangement from his wife and involvement with the Highwaymen, the motorcycle group of spotty reputation. I’m not going to summarize Eliscu’s story here, as the link makes it readily available, but suffice it to say it’s not an easy piece to “shake off.” I read the piece when it originally ran and found myself turning Eliscu’s words – and Sinco’s photo – over and over, until I was writing about Miller myself.

At the time, I was working on a record that dealt almost entirely with my own life, the first time I had ever written a record that was entirely autobiographical. “I Was a Photograph,” the song I wrote about Miller, was the last song I wrote for the record, and I considered not including it, not because I felt it didn’t fit but because I didn’t want to cheapen Miller’s story by sandwiching it in between songs about how I was a fuckup and love is hell and everything else I had been writing about. But the more I played the song, the more I felt it belonged. Because Miller was like me, like anyone else, before the war. And that’s the point. We all know war changes people but we assume that, like being a fuckup or dealing with a busted heart and a bunch of burnt bridges, they get over it and/or get through it. Eventually. That’s the American way, right? We persevere. Or they do, so we don’t have to.

Well, not always. Lance Cpl. James Blake Miller is living proof that the casualties of war cannot be measured by a death toll or by the deteriorated physical condition of many of the men and women who return home. The casualties of war are something Blake Miller lives with every single day, in his dreams, in his subconscious, in every waking moment of his life (of which there are plenty, he doesn’t sleep much). The casualties of war were written on James Blake Miller’s face long before he came home. They’re there. You just have to look for them.

Kasey Anderson – I Was A Photograph (Blake’s Song)

Well. We’ve arrived in Minnesota and caught Restauvant, Left Lane Cruiser and Radio Moscow at the opening night of the Deep Blues Festival. I am gonna have some guest posts for y’all over the next few days and I thought, “Why not start it off with someone from Minnesota?”.

Enter Neil Smith to add a little class the site. Hope y’all enjoy.

Thanks to Autosy4 for letting me stick my nose in over here and sniff around.  This is one of my fave sites, a necessary stop on an almost daily level to recharge with some high voltage twang.

When I surf on over to ninebullets.net, I’m absolutely certain that I’ll find something every time to help me groove while I’m working on a new novel.  Be it Slim Cessna, Seasick Steve, The Fox Hunt, Biram, John Paul Keith and the One Four Fives, or some good ol’ DBT, I’m telling you that this shit goes smoothly with crime fiction.  Especially when you’re reading some funky, red-clay covered, sweaty and sexy rural noir.

So I’m going to give you some surefire good reads to go along with the ripped speaker deep blues blasting out your ear pods.

Of course, I won’t mention my own novels, like Yellow Medicine and Hogdoggin’, both badass rural noirs following the exploits of dirty cop Billy Lafitte, who gets a second chance after Hurricane Katrina to start over again a thousand miles away in Southern Minnesota.  What does he do with it?  He goes right back to being a dirty cop.  And then it gets weird.  Malaysian wannabe terrorist trying to fund their terror plots with meth money, plus Billy’s love for a girl in a psychobilly band, leads him deeper and deeper into dangerous shit.  Not to mention that in the sequel, Hogdoggin’, he joins a cult biker club.

But no, let’s not talk about those, or about The Drummer (heavy metal drummer fakes his death to fool the IRS, and is discovered fifteen years later in New Orleans), or my first novel, Psychosomatic (First line: “Because Lydia didn’t have arms or legs, she shelled out three thousand bucks to a washed-up middleweight named Cap to give her ex-husband the beating of his life.”).  Really, that wouldn’t be fair, would it.

The first name on my list is Joe R. Lansdale, the brilliant and ridiculously funny author of the Hap and Leonard series, set in Lansdale’s home stomping grounds of East Texas.  Hap’s a good ol’ boy who can kick a few asses now and then, while Leonard is his gay black, Vietnam vet best friend.  Together, they burn down a crack house, go chasing sunken treasure, and generally stumble into situations where they get the living fuck beat out of them.  Highly entertaining.  Start with Savage Season and The Two-Bear Mambo and you’ll blaze through them up until the most recent, Vanilla Ride. But Lansdale is also know for his horror writing, including the story that spawned the movie Bubba Ho-Tep (editor’s note: Bubba Ho-Tep is a GREAT movie).  If you want a fantastic and creepy rural noir that contains perhaps the most skin-crawling image I’ve ever had to conjure up, try Freezer Burn.

Next, in a more serious (but just as warped) vein, would be Mississippi’s late great Larry Brown.  He died several years back at the height of his powers.  Young, only around 50.  But his novels are brutal enough to make you flinch.  I’d start with Father and Son, about an intensely angry man just out of prison in 1968 who goes right back to killing, then move on to Joe and Fay, and for an equally tasty snack, you have to take a look at where he shines most–in the short story.  His collections are Big Bad Love and Facing the Music.  I’m also a fan of his essays in Billy Ray’s Farm.

Back to the funny side of things, even if we’re talking about some dark, dark funny.  One of my all-time favorite authors, James Crumley recently passed away, leaving behind some of the wildest “gonzo noirs” I’ve ever read.  Everyone must start with his classic The Last Good Kiss, featuring an alcoholic bulldog and a detective wandering around the American West.  You’ll get the same melancholy noir/western/black comedy out of The Wrong Case, but I especially love the under appreciated later novels The Final Country and The Right Madness.  I mean, when you’ve got someone hanging herself, only to have the head pop off the body, the body fall on the detective, and them both rolling out the door while the detective is vomiting and laughing at the same time, well…hard to top.

Take a steamy trip down to Florida with Vicki Hendricks’s steamy redneck noir in Miami Purity, which begins with a woman killing her white trash boyfriend with a boombox to the face.  Or Iguana Love, which involves scuba diving, steroids, lots of sex, and, you guessed it, an iguana.  Vicki’s a good friend and a great, whacked-out writer.

To keep you busy for years to come, I’d suggest Southern Louisiana via James Lee Burke’s Dave Robicheaux series, starting with The Neon Rain and stretching through nearly twenty more until you get to the aftermath of Katrina in The Tin Roof Blowdown, and Dave’s Montana fishing vacation in Sawn Peak.  If you like one, you’ll like them all, as Burke has a particular lush style that leans heavy on the description of Southern weather, bayous, and the land, while also displaying his unique take on dialogue.  It’s an art.  A bloody, inspired art.

And let’s not forget the master: Harry Crews.  Not officially a noir writer, but I doubt many Southern Gothic tales of crime and misery in the new American South could have been written without him.  Start with The Gospel Singer and soak in the sensuality of backwoods religion.  Try Scar Lover for one of the weirdest love stories this side of Wild at Heart.  And then there’s Body, which moves the hicks off the mountain and into Miami Beach and women’s bodybuilding.  He will creep you out.  And that’s part of the pleasure of reading Crews.

I could go on and on, but a lot of these you either know or will stumble into along the way (Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men, Dorthy Allison’s Bastard Out of Carolina, Jayne Anne Phillips’s Lark and Termite, Scott Phillips’s Cottonwood, Jim Thompson’s Killer Inside Me, Flannery O’Connor, and old Gold Medal titles from Harry Whittington and John Faulkner, brother of William), but I can’t leave you without mentioning a writer so good that once you discover his work, you’ll mete his name out only to those people in your life you trust most.  You’ll become a disciple.  And that writer is Daniel Woodrell.  He came screaming out of Missouri Ozark country with jaw-dropping novels like Tomato Red, The Death of Sweet Mister, and his most recent Winter’s Bone.  Find them.  Devour them.  You need them.  And all the while in the background, you’ll hear the haunted strains of all those dark fire and brimstone bands you find here on Nine Bullets.

Hope that keeps your library card or local bookstore busy this summer.  But take a break from the pages to head on out to some concerts and soak it all in like New Orleans humidity.  But one thing I’ve learned from being raised in Mississippi, hanging around Southeast Louisiana, and now living all the way up here in Southwest Minnesota’s farm country–the accents may be different, but rural is rural.  We all understand each others’ stories easier that way.

This post showed up unexpectedly in my inbox last week. I came to know of Black Joe Lewis because of The Weary Boys back in the day. I’d been seeing his name popping up quite a bit as of late and had been meaning to check out his new album, Tell Em What Your Name Is.

This post from Romeo Sid Vicious finally prompted me to do so and lemme tell you. It’s awesome.

As a side note Romeo has a pretty awesome Red Beans and Rice recipe.

Allright, on with the post:

BLACK JOE LEWIS & THE HONEYBEARS

Until last night I had never heard of Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears. All I knew is that they were opening for Lucero. The band name sounded like something out of 1975 and their merch seemed pretty understated. But they were opening for Lucero and aside the one tour with The Honorary Title I have generally liked Lucero’s opening acts. I decided not to spend the first act outside smoking and knocking back Lone Stars and I didn’t reget it or head back outside until the last note from their set had faded.

The crowd was packed in and the fire marshal shut down ticket sales. It was a mass of bodies pressed together drinking, sweating, and laughing when Black Joe took the stage and the keyboard started up followed closely by the horns. The crowd was immediately into the music and it soon turned into a sweaty mass of writhing bodies all grooving to the sounds of the Honeybears and Joe’s vocals.

According to guitarist Zac Ernst’s dad (who waited in line with the rest of us) when Joe was shucking oysters he had a habit of breaking industrial oyster knives. Joe, and the whole band, approach their music with the same vigor I would imagine that it takes to break oyster knives. The venue, Walter’s on Washington, is one of my least favorite places to see a show because they never run the AC and always run out of beer. Even with the atmosphere being warmer and more humid than most saunas these boys belted out a full set with every ounce of their energy. They left it all on stage and played one of the best soul and blues sets I have ever had the pleasure of seeing.

If these boys ever manage to stop dragging their feet and tour outside of Texas more I have feeling they will blow up. Their music engages people and their personalities on stage and off make them simply bad ass.

You may have a chance to see them as they are on tour right now. Get your tickets in advance because they are opening for Lucero who are still playing dives they have outgrown and the shows are selling out. Lucero alone are worth going to see and are playing music off their new album due out in the fall but add in Black Joe Lewis and The Honeybears and you end with a show you can’t afford to miss. So see if they are coming to your town and get off your lazy ass and go see these kids tear up the stage.

Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears – Get Yo Shit
Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears – I’m Broke

Autopsy’s fave Joe Lewis track:
Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears – Bitch, I Love You

Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears Official Site, Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears on myspace, Buy Tell Em What Your Name Is

This is type of post is why I love doing these guest post things. You get turned onto people you probably never would have heard of otherwise.

In this case Mr. Daniel Anderson of the blog BykeSkunx tells us about Ben Trickey, a singer/songwriter somewhere in Atlanta.

Ben Trickey, an Alabama native, an Atlanta transplant, a heartbreakingly honest crafter of songs. Born in 1979, Trickey began writing songs in 2001, and has since crafted four full-length albums, six EPs, and one split album with friend and fellow songwriter Brandon Schmitt. His americana-meets-indie/folk style has allowed him to grace the stage with renowned artists such as The Grand Archives, William Elliot Whitmore, Sera Cahoone, and Horse Feathers. What’s more, though, is Trickey has seemingly done all of this utilizing a DIY mentality, with little to no label assistance.

Now, I understand it may be difficult to fully realize Ben Trickey’s musical style from the previous blurb. So, I ask you to imagine the following. You step into a southern dive bar, located on a side street in that first rural town outside the city limits – a place where, when dark, you can really hear the crickets and you can really feel the night. The place you go to hide from your fears with a pitcher of PBR – rustic and run down, but homey and welcoming just the same. In the corner you notice a stage, a small platform, really, with a lone microphone. On that stage stands Ben Trickey, with his guitar and his beers. As he sings his quiet, bare-bones songs, you notice that he isn’t singing to anyone in particular, let alone the few patrons of the bar. Perhaps he’s just singing to himself, as a reassurance that he can make it through the night. As he sings his slow, simple songs, you are taken back to a dustbowl-era mentality. A time when the folk singers were few and far between; a time when the folk singers weren’t just good, they were damn near perfect.

Absolutely give Ben Trickey a chance. I think his tired heart deserves it.

Recommended if you like: Van Morrison, Lucero/Ben Nichols, M. Ward, Neko Case, Pedro the Lion, The Grand Archives, quiet Drive By Truckers

Ben Trickey – Soldier
Ben Trickey – Cheap Wine and Cigarettes
Ben Trickey – Absence

Ben Trickey’s Official Site, Ben Trickey on myspace