QUOTE OF THE WEEK: “I’m talking about being a complete loser ... something totally new to the rock idiom, which by its very nature is immature and totally macho-orientated ... only in country music can you find a guy singing about that kind of deprivation honestly.” — Elvis Costello

SONG OF THE WEEK: “A Good Year for the Roses” — George Jones

“Oh what fools these mortals be/ So tragic and so funny/ Ships are bones that sail the sea/ For lands of milk and honey/ The promise of perfection sighs/ Into each mortal ear/ Never to be realized/ That’s how it is, ‘round here ...” – Eliza Gilkyson, “Milk And Honey.”

Memorials should be directed to:
Breast Cancer Fund
c/o Red House Records
PO Box 4044
St Paul, MN 55104

It’s kinda funny, lookin’ back. Thinkin’ about how enthralled I was as a doofy 6-year-old towhead by the classic country music that ebbed and flowed about me like the sky blue waters of Northern Minnesota. There, in the late ‘60s, your big choices on AM radio were 24 hour hellfire-and-brimstone broadcasts, tinny, teeny-pop poo or those grand, sweeping death odes and barroom ballads. “The Day Clayton Delaney Died,” “The Wreck Of The Old 97,” “Carroll County Accident,” “Your Cheatin’ Heart,”—they all swirled together in my still-forming psyche to inspire and nurture a life-long love for sobbing pedal steel, cracked, high-lonesome voices, Telecaster moans and, of course, cryin’ in yer beer lyrics.

Later, as a teenager, I was coaxed by social necessity and raging hormones to embrace the dulcet strains of The Stones, Black Sabbath and Bad Company. But was that really as big a leap as I thought at the time? Looking back, I was equally enamored of the sly, country winks of Stones tracks like “Faraway Eyes,” the shattered, soul-baring cry of Sabbath’s “Changes” and the lonesome call of Bad Co.’s “Seagull” as I was the demonic, hoodoo chortle of “Sympathy For The Devil,” the mind-melding acid crunch of “Hole In The Sky” or the fist-pumpin’, booty-bumpin’ sexual bravado of “Feel Like Makin’ Love.” The country I had turned my back on lived on, in, and all through even the toughest rock and roll bama-lama I could dig up, it seemed. When punk, new wave and metal came along—and Nashville became overrun with sycophants and sharp-eyed businessmen with 10-gallon hats and empty souls—I lost country’s trail for awhile.

By the ‘90s, I’d found it again (or maybe it had found me ...): Uncle Tupelo, Blue Mountain, The Jayhawks, Lucinda Williams—and a hundred other like-minded souls who’d followed the same path as Willie, Waylon, Gram Parsons, and even Elvis—sent shivers down my spine and brought wonderful, unbidden tears once again creeping from my rock-hardened peepers. Suddenly, my music collection began to resemble the demented library of a genuine nutter—I mean, who listens to Abba, Loretta Lynn, Fugazi, Bob Dylan, George Jones, Syd Barrett, Dusty Springfield, The Beastie Boys, Hank Williams, Guided By Voices, Koerner, Ray & Glover, Etta James AND Nirvana? Whatta freak!! But ya know what? I wouldn’t trade my wacked-out, fucked-up, totally disorganized, non-genre-specific love of all great songs regardless of background or record company intentions for all the fucking rare Beatles “Butcher Cover” albums in the world, buddy.

That’s why it’s always nice to get a whole mailbox fulla disparate artists who all share that same inherent love and respect for the country drunks, the raging punks, the metal blazers and the down-bound shoegazers as I do. Over the next few weeks, we’ll check out a couple of hot up-and-coming local acts, as well as a pair of releases from a cat who reaches way back (an’ way up!) for his muse, as well as a few odd DVDs that are snarling at me from yon corner for a bit of ink. Right then, crack the top on that cold one, kids, an’ crank up yer own personal mismatched inner jukebox ...

High On Stress
Moonlight Girls
2005
OBT Records

Talk about a record that damn near matches up to my own eclectic tastes, track for track! These local rocky-tonk heroes-to-be (Nick Leet: vocals, guitar and organ; Mark Deveraj: drums, percussion,and guitar; Jon Tranberry: bass, organ, vocals, guitar and production; Ben Baker: vocals, guitars, organ, lapsteel and harmonica—not to mention special guests Mike Brady on banjo, Jim Anglo on axe, Elliot Hilton on piano and Rev. Matt Marohl on pedal steel) are equally at home spewing ‘Mats-ian vinegar, howlin’ out Haggard-isms or riffin’ off Rolling Stones-y lyrical lashings.

That’s really not such a big surprise, once you suss that various band members and contributors to this collection come from such varied backgrounds as Mr. Whirly, Accident Clearinghouse and the Turf Club Sunday Night Acoustic jam. Toss in a cornucopia of influences ranging from timeless mountain music to dirty pub rock to skivvy punk to roadhouse blues and you’ll have some idea of the absolutely fresh, urgent, in-the-moment groove running through
Moonlight Girls.

Highlights include the hypnotic, melancholy album opener, “You Have Conversations With Jesus,” which bucks and snorts like a randy, winter-bound stallion (“And you wonder what is wrong with me/ Don’t, because I’d like to know ... I’m tired an’ over you ...”), the edgy, nervous drive of “Eyeliner Blues,” the country death chuff of “Harris County” (“... an’ you ain’t never been high, boy/ An’ you ain’t never been stoned/ Until you suddenly find yourself alone ...”), and the honked-out, jug-guzzling ode to lost youth, “Sleeping In The Backs Of Cars,” which softly thrums its way into your head like a tall glass of good sippin’ whiskey: “Do you think we’re ever gonna see it through?/ An’ I’ll be alright/ Just for tonight/ An’ you’ll be high/ High as a kite/ Just for tonight ...” Been there, done that, don’t make me wanna go back but sure evokes the one-of-a-kind feeling of waking up in the cold dawn in the back seat of a ‘78 Oldsmobile with dried puke on my jacket, four cents left in my pocket and a cramp in my back from humping a seat divider all night.

The real treat for me here, though, is the absolute abandon and pure-dee musical joy that fairly oozes from the short-but-oh-so-sweet nugget “Cash Machine.” This one belongs on that great, mythical jukebox betwixt Doug Sahm’s “Give Back The Key To My Heart,” Dylan’s Blood On The Tapes rendition of “Tangled Up In Blue” and Ween’s “I Don’t Want To Leave You On The Farm.”

Like a lot of great country-fied rockers, the tune glides in on tentative acoustic strummin’ and a grab-you-by-the-balls line (“The moonlight girls make the weather/ Where the jukebox plays ‘Let’s Spend The Night Together ...’”), then slams into a barn-burnin’, soul-soaring, fuck-off-and-die to pain an’ heartache hootenanny. A universally-empathetic romp about livin’ life at the dark end of the street an’ just bein’ happy as a pig in shit that you can get a cash advance from the machine an’ drink yer troubles away one more hour, one more night, one more week: “Red-eyed girls/ Go home in fancy cars/ After all-night parties drinkin’ in the hip-hop bars/ An’ I go home, Studio 24, the jack of hearts/ Sleepin’ on the floor ...”

Though this whole album is chock full of killer hooks, note-perfect historic homages, and fresh, thoughtful lyrics, “Cash Machine” most embodies the spirit, guts and true-blue, whiskey-soaked American soul flowing through the band itself. High on stress? Fuck it, hit the cash machine, get an advance, go out an’ dance, let your survival be left up to chance ... killer shit. HighOnStressBand.com.

Closin’ time for this week, ya yahoos! Ya don’t have to go home, but blah, blah, blah ... tune in next week for more of the same. ‘Til then—make yer own damn news. ||

If you have local music news/gigs/CDs you’d like to see mentioned in this column, or you’d just like to find out exactly who in the hell Clayton Delaney really was, send replies to: Tmygunn777@peoplepc.com.