QUOTE OF THE WEEK: "Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened, but go on in fortune or misfortune at their own private pace, like a clock in a thunderstorm." — Hunter S. Thompson

SONG OF THE WEEK: “The Revolution Starts Now” — Steve Earle & the Dukes

That doesn’t mean, however, that we should immediately curl up into even smaller, more pathetic little balls of frightened sheep-ness and continue to let “Them” have their malicious ways with us. I mean, doesn’t the very thought of Dick Cheney, sitting snug as a stink bug in a rug at some undisclosed underground bunker location, grinning his death’s head grin and raising a glass of Chivas Regal to Nixon’s’s portrait upon hearing of Thompson’s demise, piss you off just a little bit? I hope so—because I think the last thing the good Doctor would’ve wanted would be for any of the people he inspired over the years to back down now.

When you’re 67 years old, and have single-handedly, physically faced down a raving pack of meth-crazed Hell’s Angels at a four AM lakeside beer party (after the beer is gone) 60 miles from the nearest podunk town; when you’ve ingested 17 different illegal substances, four of which have been scientifically proven to cause severe, paranoid hallucinogenic reactions, and none of which should be mixed with any of the others in even the most extreme situations, and then proceed to stagger nonchalantly through a packed-to-the-rafters law enforcement convention in a shrieking, rattling, flashing, tilting, circus-like gambling establishment on the Strip in Las Vegas; when you’ve written brilliant, dope-fueled exposés that help to rid the world of—or at the very least educate it about—the dirty deals and secret plots of the likes of Richard M. Nixon, Ronald Reagan and the editors of Rolling Stone magazine (and still manage to collect your paycheck); and when you’ve done all of these things and more—why, then you’ll have my full blessing and unquestionable support in putting a gun to your own head and flipping a gigantic, metaphorical middle finger in everyone’s general direction. Until then, you better keep fighting. I know I will. Anything less would be an insult. As for Lord Vader—er—Dick Cheney and his ilk, I have only this to say to them: Thompson may be gone, but just keep this in mind, boys—there are millions of copies of his books floating around out there, and even the Death Star itself couldn’t possibly burn every one of them before some young hot shot writer is inspired by the Doc and comes your way ready and able to drive a figurative stake right through that spot where you’re supposed to have a heart. If anything would give Thompson a good goosing from beyond the grave, it would be knowing that someone he touched with his work eventually brought your ass(es) down. Word. Go safely into that good night, and Goodbye, Doc—we’ll take it from here. And now on to lighter fare ...

CD REVIEWS

Aztec Two-Step
Days Of Horses
(Red Engine Records, 2004)

Aztec Two-Step (the name comes from a line in Beat poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s “A Coney Island Of The Mind”), an East Coast duo who’ve been recording and performing together since 1971, deliver their ninth album with all the wit, grace and musical style they’ve long been celebrated (at least by critics and their staunch fan base) for. Days Of Horses, though essentially following the folk-blues-country path that singer/songwriter/guitarists Rex Fowler and Neal Shulman have been comfortably treading over the past four decades or so, finds the pair offering up some of the most striking, soulful and timely lyrics they’ve penned to date. That’s not to say that the musicianship here isn’t completely professional and almost note-perfect—because it is—but any technically trained wanker can lay down some pretty notes and catchy chords. It takes a wise, humble and open soul, though, to pen a song like “Scotty Moore, Bill Black And Elvis”—a tale of an imaginary road trip to the Louisiana Hayride immediately following the recording of that famous trio’s first 45—and a true music lover to pull it off. Other standouts here include “Tonight I Wish I Was In Texas,” a ballsy, road-weary ode to the Lone Star State that more trenchantly recalls a classic Jimmy Dale Gilmore cut than anything that could possibly come out of the Big Rotten Apple (sorry, I mean “The World’s Second Home,” ack); the immediate, bittersweet “Fools Like Us” (written with Jayne Olderman); and the half-joke/half-tribute final track, “I Don’t Believe In Jesus (But I Sure Do Like His Songs),” probably the funniest and most poignant homage to Old-Tyme Gospel written by a New Age Jewish singer/songwriter ever committed to tape. Sample line: “I love an old-time gospel song/It feels good in my soul/It makes me want to testify and shout/So march on Christian soldiers, although I might just tag along/Converting, that’s definitely out/Because you see my people they were chosen/Still when you play that gospel song/You won’t find me dozin’... You know, I don’t believe in Jesus, but I sure do like his songs ...” How is it that these funny, talented, and downright entertaining guys been playing, recording and performing for four decades and yet still remain relatively obscure? I’m not the only one who wonders. PBS recently ran a documentary on the dynamic duo entitled “NO HIT WONDER,” which postulates that very question. I don’t have any pat answers myself, beyond the standard, “Most people don’t want to hear songs that make them THINK, lads. America prefers to drift mindlessly into its uncertain future on auto-pilot, with a mix CD that could only have been specifically designed for use on elevators running to the Sixth Level Of Hell playing mildly and inoffensively in the background.” My only suggestion to Aztec and their PR folks would be to stop touting them as “FOLK” artists. I mean, I was trying to find a copy of Lucinda Williams’ self-titled 1988 country-rock album recently in a record store, and of course the clerk had never heard of it. I finally went through every genre bin and, lo and behold, found Lu buried in the “FOLK” section, along with some of the most inane (which shall remain unnamed, since if you’re not a folkie, you won’t ever have to deal with them, and if you’re an all-around music fan like me who may or may not want to dig through the “FOLK” section, you’ll be dealing with them soon enough), boring and over-rated poop you’ll ever see in any one section of a music store. Lesson? Sometimes the good shit is accidentally filed under “FOLK,” and nobody can find it. Sometimes the good shit is purposely filed under “FOLK,” and STILL nobody finds it, because they think “FOLK” means all the crap-ola I had to dig through to find Lu. Dig? Dag? Dug? Good! File these guys under three or four different categories—try “Alternative Acoustic,” “Popular Acoustic Rock,” or my personal fave, “Modern Yiddish Batch Pad Music.” I guarantee you’ll expand their fan base. Until then, I hope this review helps a bit—these guys deserve more attention. Check it out!

Entrance
Wandering Stranger
(Fat Possum Records, 2004)

I mentioned this bloke a few weeks back in my review of Sunday Nights, a tribute to the music of bluesman Junior Kimbrough, for which he and the undeniably alluring Cat Power contributed a hot, hot, hot duet (“Do The Romp”), and I’ve been eager to share more info about him and his music ever since. That song was a killer, and it snaked its sly, sexy way onto a plethora of my drunken, late-night mix CDs and LPFM radio broadcasts. I’m happy to have a whole album from Entrance to groove on, though—this unkempt, half-stoned, demon-driven white boy channels the pure fire, pain and howling madness of true, timeless blues/rock. And I don’t mean in some wimpy, stupid-little-white-boy from the ‘burbs way, either. Put it this way—former long-haired “Blues Rock Wunderkind” Johnny Lang is now a full-on, converted Christian soldier whose latest album is an even more watered-down, languid polished turd than the whole series of watered-down, polished turd records he recorded before his conversion. Ugh. Stevie Ray Vaughn is dead. Sigh. Grandpa Clapner? Don’t even get me started, man. And 90 percent of white boys performing under the “Blues” banner these days are nothing but uninspired, unimaginative, unendingly monotonous parodies of the phony white blues boys who came before. So it takes a real down and dirty, nasty, dark soul nestled under that skin of alabaster to make me sit up and take notice. I’m tellin’ ya—this guy is the Real Deal. He’s been to the Crossroads of the Soul, been awakened in the dead of night, shivering yet wet with sweat, and seen two blazing red eyes glaring back at him from over his bed. He’s lain in the dank, wine-and-blood-stained alleys of his heart, wrapped in an old blanket and strumming a busted old six-string in the cold winter rain. And if he hasn’t, he’s the fucking living embodiment of every down-and-out, road-hound musician who’s never been a star to anybody but the other men on his chain gang, or in his ratty hotel lobby, or under the stars next to a blackened, smoke-filled railway overpass. He whines, yowls, yelps, groans, moans, strums, shrieks, feeds back, spits, shakes, trembles, and evokes the honest, tortured soul of a true blues rebel. I can nearly smell the brimstone wisping its way from between the folds of his grease-stained raincoat, almost taste the cheap, watery whisky running down the corner of his mouth, feel the hot rage and deep-seated misery emanating from each song like a hot, fetid blast from the open door of a cheap juke-joint in the ghetto—and what songs! “Train Is Leaving,” “Rex’s Blues,” “Make Me A Pallet On Your Floor,” “Please Be Careful In New Orleans ...” a veritable cornucopia of classic and True roots blues, real American folk, and transplanted, timeless ballads, all done up with such pure-dee stank that you can almost sense Robert Johnson, Leadbelly or Muddy Waters exhaling one last, contented sigh of sassifaction from their respective graves. Tasty, tasty, tasty blues guitar music without a trace of idiotic modern irony or a smidgeon of smug, self-righteous over-production. Hmm—maybe Johnny Lang heard this guy play and it scared him so bad he ran right to the steeple ... me, I’m headin’ to the liquor store. The funk be risin’, right along with that big ol’ yellow moon, an’ damn if it don’t feel right tonight ...

Six Mile Grove
Bumper Crop
(Self-Released, 2005)

As one of the few local music writers left on the scene who’s not afraid to love the shit outta something musical that’s not “in-the-moment-hot,” “hip with the right crowd,” electronica-based, or featuring at least one schmuck I either went to college with, worked with, or want to bed down (not, to quote Seinfeld, that there’s anything wrong with any of that, it’s just not me), I’m happy to announce that I’ve found another great, up-and-coming roots rock band right here in the Twin Towns. Now, I know that’s gonna bother certain people in certain positions who just wish this kind of music (Read: Honest, Real, Soulful, guitar-based, country-inflected rock that’s not snide or smarmy or smart-ass, which as a result is usually of no interest to people whose main goal in life is to impress other jerk-offs with their own jerk-off opinions about trendy, jerk-off music that’s technically not even really music but even if it is has no soul, No Soul, NO SOUL!!!!) would simply disappear from the face of the planet, but that’s just too fucking bad. Six Mile Grove are 100 percent, from-the-heart, dyed-in-the-wool honest pickers and grinners (and sometimes weepers) who manage to walk that fine line between being highly talented musicians and songwriters and retaining their own gritty, down-home values and storytelling style. If my word isn’t enough, the fellas have received praise of late from such music biz legends as Bob Wootton of Johnny Cash’s Tennessee Three fame and Nitty Gritty Dirt Band alum Jeff Hanna. Me, I love this record—right from the opening, Replacements-esque ballad “Heartache Parade” through the train-tempo click-clack of “Man Of Steel” to the delicate, goose-bump-inducing tale “Doll In A Box” and on into the final, fading notes of elegiac album closer “Springtime.” An excellent debut effort from Brandon and Brian Sampson, Barry Nelson, and Dez Wallace—four regular guys with extra heart, soul and true grit. More!

*Six Mile Grove plays their CD Release party for Bumper Crop this Friday, March 4, at The Fine Line Music Café, with Billy Johnson’s Road Show. Call The Fine Line for more details, and check out the band on their website at SixMileGroove.com.

*GIG OF THE WEEK: Don’t miss local rockers Kruddler tomorrow night, Thursday, March 3, as they once again conquer the esteemed stage of The Triple Rock in Minneapolis. This hard-working, long-overdue-for-respect St. Paul outfit has a well-deserved rep among those in the know as one of the most entertaining, original, and booty-bustin’ rawk acts in the area, and with a new, 18-track album in the works to celebrate their Ten Year Anniversary, tonight should be one helluva bombastic, bibulous blow-out. With the inimitable Centurions, the always awesome U-Joint and the indescribably inspiring Plate-O-Shrimp. 9 p.m., $5, 21+. Call the Triple Rock at 612-333-7399 for more info, or check out their ‘site at TripleRockSocialClub.com. This is THE rock show of the week. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya!!

That’s it for this time out, gang. Tune in next time, same space, same place, for more ‘Dial. Until we meet agin’—make yer own damnable news. ||

If you have local music news/gigs/events/CDs you’d like to see mentioned in this column, or you’d just like to let the world know you’re still holding an overdue $3,000 hotel tab from 1975 for one Raoul Duke, send replies to: (temporary e-mail) jamescrouch_1@juno.com.