And that's it. The reboot has begun. Head over to Outhouse Moon. The new site is up and running. Everything you loved about this site, plus a whole lot more. Again, Big Rock Candy Mountain is dead. Head over to Outhouse Moon. You won't be disappointed.
Thanks again for the support over the years. We'll be working hard to make it up to ya.
And so...an ending and a beginning. Thanks to all the folks who have stopped by, commented, been loyal, or just came for the Xmas tunes or the Top 100 Drinking Songs list. Big Rock Candy Mountain is put to rest. But...we're not done. A re-focus of sorts, a new way of looking at things, and some additional folks to help us along.
We'll post a link to the new site on Monday. Head over there. If you liked what we did here, you'll love the new project. Until then:
Our final round of the Big Rock Candy Mountain Best of 2014!!!! We got the greatest 12 rekkids (comprising the, erm...Top 10...math never being our best subject) of the year! Shame on anyone who says rawk is dead! As long as we're drinking, dancing, rebelling, fucking, and smoking or inhaling funny stuff, the 3-chord wonder will always be there to carry us through those jukejoint nights and lonely days!
Ultimately, let's toss "rankings" out the window...every one of these rekkids is essential!
Sit back, crack a cold one, and enjoy! We'll try to better in the coming year.
catl continue to destroy stereos, with a blooze'n'groove assault, shoutin' over tribal rhythm, man/woman cave stomp, 2-person burning house, shuddered shotgun shack riddled in short sharp shocked primal kerosene, bang bang bang the neanderthal beat over nasty geetar strings on blistered ashes, the sound of fallen buildings and gutted basement, stained charcoal and blood. One of our very favorite bands, who do no wrong and continue to raze the fields, lit up and bright red on the dial. Worship.
Miriam Linna (A-Bone and co-founder of Norton Records), spins out her first proper solo rekkid, a bubblegum/gurl groop/wall o'sound platter with a shade of wistful noir. Summer days at the Tastee Freeze, nights at the drive-in, bad boys from the wrong side of the tracks, hot rods, and perfect eternal sound of broken hearts. Lovely.
Like Lydia Loveless, Nikki Lane extends a giant middle finger to the current signifiers of Women in Country music (particularly to the crop of so-called outlaw musicians, who peddle pseudo rebellion safely packaged in Nashville shine). Her voice hearkening to the big boomers like Wanda Jackson and Neko Case, cocky and full of spit, the instrumentation ranging from desert noir to Owen Bradley lushness to barroom hoedown to dusty backroad ramble, it's a stunner of a rekkid, full of confidence, grit and lots of fuck yous. Essential.
Kilgour (one third of the very mighty Clean) reunites with the Heavy 8's for another flawless rekkid of swirling, surging, jangled geetar, heavenly pop beauty. Something in the water in New Zealand...drone and shimmered, autumnal and full of twinkled psychedelic stars, the milky way bright in frosted night, stand and say a small good thing, yes and yes again, beauty.
Classic Soul for the Now Generation, Fields does it cool, a rasped 'n' silken voice takin' ya higher! No studio'n'beats warbled nonsense, just horns and chicken scratch geetar, hollerin' and wooin', deep down rhythm 'n' blues, love and heartache...This cat should be huge...shake and grind, burn down the jukejoint!
Dirty, dirty, dirty....mud-caked destruction, deeper than deep Blues, pounded floorboards, moonshine still in flames, bend yr ear for a moment muthafuka, Poontar (yes, it's a real geetar) ramble slide and distorto mudflaps slappin' up against mouth harp blood spit. More on these cats down the line...
'Merica's true poet laureate...a songwriter worthy of whispered awe, with a rugged voice and ragged glory, the smallness human experience laid bare and transcendent...a whiskey at midnight, street lights through grimed windows shining blurry, figures appearing and disappearing in only snapshot instances, a story not begun or ended, but captured halfway, alive for ticks of an eternal clock. Live in space between the raindrops, we were here and this is how we briefly flamed and flickered.
The band, a 3-piece, blows yr speakers with sonic jukejoint joy, wailing and stomping, harmonica blasting gravel roads into dirt tracks leading to an overhang of weeping willows, moonlight shining on a slow moving river, the barges battlin' with drift and silt. That skiff oared by Huckleberry on a meth binge, throbbing speakers disturbin' gators and skeeters, the loud sound, the groove, the dirty down low. Man, these cats know how to kick yr ass.
John Schooley is revered as one of thee great "one man bands" currently kicking up polluted dust out there in the rawk and the roll. Walter Daniels (the most evil harmonica player in the world) has blown out yr speakers for years on all yr favorite scuzzbloozerawktrash albums. What the hell happens when they meet up? Nirvana? Salvation? 100 virgins? Or...2 rekkids of garbage collection perfection, apocalyptic destruction and back porch wobble, sugar cane bonfire, and shimmy she wobble gutbucket glory.
The Man Who Rode the Mule Around the World busts the jukejoint wide open...the typical one-man band joined by a few folks with embellishments, and Walter Daniels huffing fumes over the proceedings....but ultimately a man and his stomp box'n'bloody stringed hollerin' careening over shack shake spizz fried junkyard cowblooze.
Destroy, oh boy.
Dead Mall Blues is the end of the road...an acoustic nod to the sharecropper goat hollerin' six string drag and harmonica jizz flecked bastard dancing herky jerky over poppin' embers lighting willow trees on droop down fire, a hill blazing orange over wood and soil...
We hope to have an interview up shortly on Mr. Shields, where we can discuss his unique vocal style and his amazing array of home-made geetars and rhythm devices. It's some truly fascinating stuff. For now...
A record full of travel, a restless heart, the highways sepia toned and blurring by, from back porch to back porch, front porch to front porch, along the hard-bitten gravel and tar-smoked white lines. Yelped Appalachia skate park wheel burn meets cotton fields fresh and prickled, meets western mountain range in love. Almost every song is about movement, about nomad, about loss and finding of place. Where we've been, stretching miles and caffeine strung, and where we're going, wide open and full of promise and discovery. A stunning, and, dare we say, important rekkid, a travelogue of a disintegrating way of life, one viewed keenly and full of hope. Stay tuned...we've got more to say on Mr. Shields.
Legend suggests this rekkid was recorded in one day (produced by Yo La Tengo's James McNew) at a rehearsal space (Superb Owl), and live in one take...which is exactly what the world needs. The first track alone, a cover of Heinz's"Questions I Can't Answer" , kicks off with the words "ready" and a squalling spooge-soaked geetar freakout before turning on the jets and blasting out a screaming rawk slab of sonic goodness, with a frenzy of snot vocals and tribal pounding, it leaves yr speakers destroyed and panting post-orgasmic trashcan copulation. And that's just the beginning. Running through a range of covers (some of which, we have to shame-facedly admit, we had to research) and a couple of originals, the rekkid clocks in under 40 minutes (remember when that was the proper time for an LP to last?) and that's a recommendation. Complete and utter destruction, loudnfastnouttacontrol, distorted back and forth vocals between Ms. Linna, Mr. Miller, and Mr. Kaplan (see, particularly "Luci Bains", an out and out destroyer), beat, beat, beat in primal sex explosion, oh yeah, everything gonna be allright, skronking sax (courtesy of Stan Zenkoff), organ, electric piano abuse, nasty and dangerous. Dangerous is important. It's hard to single out a single song (other than the ones mentioned above)...it's such a piece of brief rawk...but "Little School Boy" with a lead by Miriam Linna (wailing to the break of dawn) and "Catahoula Stomp" (with insane organ) are contenders. As are "Just a Little Bit of You", with it's menace and "Tulane", travelling dark highways. (next week, we'll have new favorites!). The A-Bones are your favorite band, even if you didn't know it! Man, we're sweaty just thinking about the rekkid, daddy-o!
Support the artists! Buy their rekkids! Vinyl will always be yr friend!
Part 3 (of 4) in Big Rock Candy Mountain's Best of 2014 list! The rekkids that rawked our world, and moved our soul in mysterious ways (sometimes a bit shamefully, we must admit)! It keeps gettin' better, folks, so wrap yrselves in tin foil, damn that pesky sun, stomp the earth off its axis and git yr holler on!
Fiddle swirled hootenanny, with nods to Pogues-ish shanty breakdown, back porch punk'n'cuntry yelp and do-si-do, two-step rebellion, stars twinkling over stomped embers.
South, by the grace of god, dirt road soul, the bar closing, but we've got a special dispensation to stay and drink and stay and drink and stay and drink, the morning light filtering in, with the backyard rusted jalopy dusty and tremble-started, sputtered sixer roar down back avenues, whipping the whippoorwill in breeze.
Angular scuzz, shout the cracked pavement distorted and shimmering, we own the night, soaked in bodily fluids, gauzy neon blinked and shorted, and blood...yes, blood.
Ms. Golightly (and cohort Lawyer Dave) has been re-inventing the "old weird america" for years now (from her days as founder of the mighty punk Thee Headcoatees, and her own noir-soul solo rekkids)...each successive record in her exploration of the kudzu back roads of 'Merica yields stronger and stranger crossroads, An equal parts kiss-off and love letter, All Her Fault is both a piss-take and a tribute (politics and style, successively).
Greasy curbside soul, baby, drenched in horns/organ/ scratch geetar, move yr hips, sway the dancefloor, get sexytime all over yr loved one, ass rubbed up to crotch swinging stomp, the night for loving, the morning for slow jam belief in tomorrow.
Floorboards quaking, stomped and distilled gin vocals, joyous and sad, beats'n'roots cornstalk swaying in sepia, the underbelly and the last ember lighting the night sky....back porch on fire, sad songs swung groove, they mean so much.
Superfuzz bigtrash, Mississippi burning, oil-splattered waste, deep down dream in gutteral voice ripping the cotton out of socket, peel back 3-chord distorted wonder, howlin' wolves homeless and hungry, blood soaked teeth fighting halogen bulbs oncoming.
Chicago's own, the kids are allright, flat-lined garbage collection, the dirty streets grimed and littered with the waste of giants fallen, fuck that bullshit, doin' it our own gutdurned way, melody under fog and sweatin' spazz destructo melody...the World on the end of a string.
Prolific like Bob Pollard, finally a focused manifesto (whatever that means), epic sprawl, psych'n' rawk'n'pop'n'swirl......geetar destruction, codified vocals over meat mashed whatever-fi production, boogie indie kids, primal rhythm dropping down into tattered sheen, long road acid indulgence.
Yes, Lamont "Bim" Thomas is one half of the Bassholes, which should be enough, of course (not counting his work with The Puffy Areolas and The Unholy Two, amongst others)...but his solo work, under Obnox, has transcended side project. Loud, destructive, distorto-exploded fuzz holler, kill yr idols blasts of noize'n' deconstruction thrash garbage pail blitzkrieg. Take yr expected privilege and blow it the fuck up, White Cop kill young Black man, and Obnox gonna sear yr mind with caustic fuck you to power structure, all the while blowing speakers with sonic cataclysm. This is only the tip of the proverbial iceberg....monumental sound loosed on an unsuspecting populace. More, please....
Best of concluding soon....Please support all these artists, and more, yes, with yr dollars. Bands aint playin' for free (would you pay yr plumber in "appreciation"? No? So why not the bands who endure shitty conditions and crappy promoters to "entertain" you...). Don't be a cheapskate (cuz, you suck as a human being)! Give yr Love in something one can pay the bills in!
Ready for the Rockin' and the Rollin'? Sex, drugs, teenage rebellion, and dancin'! That's what it's all about daddy-o! Feller recently told us that the geetar was gonna be dead in a few years. Since it's survived (in all it's variations...we're talkin' 'bout whatever someone strummed with strings to get laid) for centuries, we ain't quite ready to bury! As long as some 14-year old kid is screaming 'bout not gettin' satisfaction and cigarettes, we figger we're all gonna be all right, cats and kitties!
Day 2 of the World Famous Big Rock Candy Mountain Best of 2014 list!!! Can you handle the delinquent thrill????
(and, humbly, please let us know what great rekkids we missed this year...)
Cherry continues to stretch the boundaries (after her transcendent and essential Cherry Thing rekkid from a couple years ago), mixing soul, free jazz, beats and skronk into a melange of joyous rhythm and blues, her lyrics challenging and her voice a mix of sex and the deeply soulful...a modern Nina Simone, and hugely underrrated. This record swings and throbs, jitters and quakes. A powerful statement from a powerful artist at Her peak.
Desert noir, sand-blasted voice of angel, smoked to the filter, the final motel at the end of the road, lights shot out and the sound of your sleepless nights under sparking neon.
Big Beat daddy-oh! Kickin' jams surged and nasty, bashed not a-bashed, rawkin' sonic groovy, pedal to the metal killer car crash, stripper pole at the end of days optional.
Twitchy, booze-infused punk rawk, angular and aggressive, these cats have been carrying the torch, the flame a centralia candle attracting mutant bugs dancing/pogoing around the flickering finale of civilization.
A return, and returning laying down the sleaziest holler, massive organ, traded vocals, sweaty drenching the funk, killing fat bottom soul straying sex in outer space.
Bay City Rollers. the Sweet. Big Star. The Donnas. Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. Deep breath, and keep on crushing teenage kicks, yr high school wet panty dream cum true!
Soul aint dead....Legendary artist (with only a classic single to his credit) brings the muthafukin' house down on a groove-tread blast of are and bee....horns wailin', soul shoutin', funky filthy drums copulatin'....a master keepin' toes a'tinglin' and asses shakin'...
Drunk-ass sleazy trash, bashin' gotta get fucked tonite scuzz, while the neighborhood burns and the garbage cans are pile high and stinkin',...your mom's worst nightmare, and, thus, yr favorite band of miscreants, kickin' blood'n'cum!
One-man band masturbator (would we wish for anything different?), kicks out the fuzzy sleaze in favor of the more personal. Blissed out drones (with "help" this time) compete in rawk, the edge of drum kit smash-em-up (not loud, but sometimes very quiet). Destroy the sadness, keep the asses moving.
The greatest barfly, shaving off cowpunk, adenoid noise, the stomping boots on the hardwood floor, Songs and visceral sound breaking down the rushes and the cornstalks, a prophet clearing forest for trees, but mangling geetar mighty, and a voice in the back seat of yr 72 Nova....Trans-Ams spin out and sputter to the sounds of John Wesley Coleman!
Time for our world famous Big Rock Candy Mountain Best of 2014 list!!!!!
The following (over a few days) represents out favorite rekkids that we've heard over the the last 12 months.
This is the part where we make some kind of overriding statement about the state of "music" these days...but...who cares? Who wants to read some long-winded evocation about Beyonce, or whatnot? Yeah, nobody, ourselves included.
No long diatribe this year, no blathering manifesto...great rekkids were realeased this year...let's celebrate 'em! If we missed yr favorite rekkids, let us know! We're sure we missed some killer rekkids, and would love to hear yr favorites! Here's what we think...
Daddy-Oh spizz, kneejerk geetar corruption, wailed and fuzzed, Howlin' Wolf as cracker bluster, lookin' for a fuck and stompin' the boards through end-of-days boogaloo.
Fuzzed-out stalks of husked leaves, Digital Leather channels hung to dry Ian Curtis deritus, The Hussy blowing speakers in crystalline transmission of sparkletrash blow-up....the sound of never and the taste of apocalypse.
The master, still lyrically twisting circumstance, your darkest dreams alive, and sometimes hope, minimal always to the words, softly spoken and building monument.
We Never Learn....ex-Oblivian continuing to rawk our world, cowpunktrash rock (except..not at all), no longer beholden, crafting perfect sound forever, a theme, a loss, love gone(r) missing, the break up rekkid of the year.
Scott McCaughey (Young Fresh Fellows), Steve Wynn (Dream Syndicate), Peter Buck and Mike Mills (REM), Linda Pitmon (way too many great projects to name, you should just worship her)...songs about, well, Baseball,,,,,(special bonus...a song about the mighty Pirates pitcher, Dock Ellis...)
So...Xmas (aka Shane MacGowan's birthday) is tomorrow. Regular readers will know what comes next.
We didn't quite hit our "daily" target this year. Life has a funny way of fucking with the best laid plans. But, we haven't given up on our yearly Xmas posting (tons of great tunes we haven't hit yet), despite our prevarication last year. Hopefully we'll do better next year. Sorry if we let y'all down.
In the interim, check out our Best Of 2014 Rekkids list starting after the Holiday weekend. And, we're prepared for more regular posting throughout the year, so hopefully a small percentage of ya will stick around for that!
On to the songs, then...
2 songs always feature in our Christmas Eve (ok, O'Reilly...I surrender...) posting...
Fairtytale of New York is our favorite Xmas song...sadness, desperation, joy, miracles, loss, redemption, love, and hope, always hope, the most important of all. Beauty (in Kirsty MacColl's riposte) and sadness (Shane's warbling attempt at understanding the broken promises of the "New World"). The generic Holiday hits we're inundated with can't hold a dripping candle to the rawness, the very soul of what this song conveys. There are many hipper tunes to swear by, but this was always the template, whether one wants to admit it or not. We will not budge, accusations of sentiment be damned.
Robert Earl Keen's Merry Christmas From the Family comes damn close to equaling. The ultimate drunken family Holiday, spritzed with great humor, a little sentiment (not a bad thing, when kept in context), a joyous melody and blurry instrumentation...we've all been to this gathering, and, while mocking at the time, remember fondly that insane Xmas day, when everything ended under tinsel and sparkling lights. And yes, we all sang Feliz Navidad. Because we could, and it felt just right.
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