Cledus

Hi.

Just watched The Conversation, starring Gene Hackman, for the first time in about 15 years. Damn. Besides featuring what may be Hackman's finest moment on film (even over Popeye Doyle), it's a classic tale of paranoia and covert activity that is strangely prescient of certain activities that may or may not be taking place this very day. If you've ever gotten the feeling that you're being watched or listened to, that what you say might be used against you at an unspecified time or place, or you fear that Big Brother's creeping ever closer, this is the film for you. Hell, if you just like great acting, you might wanna oughta check it out.

But, anyway, this aint a film blog, and I aint nohow no kinda expert.

So.

I've been dancing around a proper Jerry Reed (and what the hell's up with that photo...man looks like a knob)post for some time now, including him in two separate past trucking posts.

Born and raised in Atlanta, Reed was already a shit-hot guitarist (dubbed "The Guitar Man" during his subsequent time in Nashville) by the time he recorded his first songs at the age of 18. He recorded some forgotten, or forgettable, country and rockabilly sides in the 50's, with his best success coming off a Gene Vincent treatment of his song "Crazy Legs". During the 60's he released some pretty solid singles and spent his downtime doing session work as a guitarist.

Finally the 70's dropped and Reed hit his commercial and artistic stride with such classics and "Amos Moses" and "When You're Hot You're Hot", amongst others. Reed mixed modern Country and Cajun swamp trash, brewing a moonshine still's worth of tonky love.

Reed was never really included in conversations involving the Outlaw movement circling around Willie, Waylon, et. al, and his flirtation with Hollywood, with the exception of the immortal Smokey and the Bandit, suggested that maybe he wasn't too concerned with working outside the carefully drawn lines of the established entertainment industry. Who knows? But somehow his songs sounded different, more raw and alive than the usual Nashville fare. It's music for southern country roads, topping the century mark in a hopped up muscle car round dangerous curves. Or maybe it's music for beater pickup trucks, with the gun rack barely holding on. Better yet, a pontoon boat hauling illegal whatnot through a Louisiana swamp.

'Course "East Bound and Down" is a stone cold classic so far as we're concerned here at the Mountain. But you've heard that a million times by now (thanks in part recently to our good pal, amigo, Earl Hickey). So here's some other swampy garbage goodness tunes from the mind of Mr. Jerry Reed.

Jerry Reed: Alabama Wild Man (mp3)

Jerry Reed: Amos Moses (mp3)

Jerry Reed: Guitar Man (mp3)

Jerry Reed: Ko-Ko Joe (mp3)

Please consider supporting your local, independent retailers.

Frankly

I got ya covered for your fix this week of crazed, one man band plinkers, pluckers, and bangin' hollerers.

In actuality, Harmonica Frank Floyd may not be quite so bangin' and crazed musically as some of his musical contemporaries like Hazil Adkins. And, well, he's not really technically a one man band, more of a guitar and, er, harmonica man. With peculiar vocal tics. Oh, those peculiar vocal tics.

Floyd got an early start in music, following, naturally enough, carnivals and, most importantly, medicine shows. These shows, typically used to sell questionable medical products, think Hadacol, were generally an anarchic series of performances and lectures, barkers and sideshow freaks. Floyd fit in well with this crowd, developing his slightly loopy style, approaching each subsequent show or rare recording session as an act, the soul shouting emcee, selling you a twisted boozy product of dubious believability, of swamp mosquitoes and peepholes.

Course the believability factor played a large part in his being signed to Chess Records in the 50's. Legend has it that Chess thought that Floyd was Black, and was greatly embarrassed, after releasing several singles by Floyd, to discover that he was more or less a white feller, with traces of Cherokee in his bloodline. A good ole boy, as it were. It's easy, I suppose, in hindsight, to wonder how this "mistake" was made. While Floyd certainly pulls from the Blues as an influence, his style certainly suggests more pull from the Country and Folk side. At best Floyd was an unsubtle stylist. At his worst, and it seems this would have been anathema to Chess, Floyd could sound like a poor man's black-face minstrel, something he surely had great exposure to whilst logging his medicine show miles. Hardly then, one would imagine, an ideal calling card for inclusion on the Chess roster. Who knows? If anyone has any further information on the whole Chess/Frank Floyd story, I'd be fascinated to read more.

Floyd was known to play his harmonica like a cigar, inserting virtually the whole damn thing into one side of his mouth and wailing away. Make of that what you will.

Why should you listen to Frank Floyd, then? Is the phrase folk trash already taken and safely compartmentalized into a nice Best Buy section of the music racks? It's, well, greasy and raggedy stuff, obscene at times, and certainly worth your time if you're a fan of the junk we spew here at the Mountain.

Edit: Got slightly scooped on Floyd, I just found out. Mr. Dan Fontana's got a video of ole Frank right here.

Harmonica Frank Floyd: Mosquito Bar Britches (mp3)

Harmonica Frank Floyd: Howlin' Tomcat (mp3)

Harmonica Frank Floyd: Knothole Blues (m3)

Please consider supporting your local, independent record store. If you've got the dough.

Gun Hard Rock

Hello. I am morally and intellectually confused. Just, you know, wanted to get that out in the open.

It's a funny thing. I'm always going on and on about how this or that artist is somehow forgotten, or isn't getting their due as compared to those they've influenced or who had more commercial appeal, or whatnot. I'd have to admit to being a bit short-sighted on that front, and a tad disingenuous. There have always been obsessives and collectors and, imagine this, just plain fans (y'now, folks who like music just for the sake of it being music that they like) who have kept the torches burning for a plethora, nay, untold thousands of so-called forgotten artists. Not to mention the bands and artists who are forthcoming to the point of negating their own creative impulses about the artists who influenced them. There's even a lengthier argument, which I don't have time for, that the internet, instead of killing the culture of obscure record collecting, as some have argued, has actually amped up the conversations and accessibility to artists not covered in popular media or played outside of the dwindling free form/college styled radio outlets.

Hardrock Gunter is one of those fellers I'd normally be ranting the aforementioned obscurity argument about. Truth is, Gunter's got his fair share of fans. Like Moon Mullican, Gunter was instrumental in transforming the sound of country, playing with tempos and pulling influences from outside the rural template, particularly finding inspiration in the rhythm and blues jukebox singles of the time. Gunter is credited by some as the first artist to give rock'n'roll it's name, utilizing the phrase in the single "Birmingham Bounce". An interesting interview with Gunter, overview of his career, and discussion of "Birmingham Bounce" can be found here.

Gunter's led a fascinating life, and I would highly recommend checking out his website for a full rundown of his history up until present (He's still with us, and has recently performed the odd date here and there), including how he got his moniker, having been born Sidney Louie Gunter. It's well worth your time. More so than hearing me rambling on.

But I'll ramble a bit anyway. Gunter may be the original rockabilly cat. At least the first recorded. There's always going to be an argument about who made who or what. But he's got a little western swing in his blood, as well, suggesting the current confusion in bands that borrow liberally from the country and western canons. And, again, his rhythm and blues influence runs smack dab into a honky tonk barstool. Combine all those and you have the generic template for rockabilly, and we aint saying anything new or revelatory here.

It's how Gunter kicks it that makes it great, how he bangs around the expected, surprises you, and gives you exactly what you thought you should get, but didn't think you could. It's wild, primal stuff, but honed by tradition, a contradiction and a revelation. From raveups like "Hillbilly Twist" and "I'll Give 'Em Rhythm" to the more identifiable mountainy fare of "I've Done Gone Hog Wild", you'd expect Gunter to be suffering from a multiple personality disorder, until realizing it all fits against the backdrop of an artist stretching themselves, too full of music to rein themselves in or square peg themselves into a demographic.

Essentially, Hardrock Gunter is a country mastermind, and he's going to kick your ass, and you're going to like it.

Gunter played with a variety of bands (The Pebbles, The Rhythm Rockers, The Pop-Corn Poppers, The Sunshine Boys, etc., etc.). The collections I'll Give 'Em Rhythm and Gonna Rock Gonna Swing Gonna Dance All Night, collecting his Rhythm Rockers sides, are highly recommended.



Hardrock Gunter: Boogie Woogie on a Saturday Night (mp3)

Hardrock Gunter: I've Done Gone Hog Wild (mp3)

Hardrock Gunter: I'll Give 'em Rhythm (mp3)

Hardrock Gunter: Hillbilly Twist (mp3)


Hardrock Gunter and The Rhythm Rockers: Jukebox Help Me Find My Baby (mp3)

Hardrock Gunter and The Rhythm Rockers: I'll Go Chasin' Women (mp3)

Please consider supporting your local, independent business. Fight the man, man.

Trucks on a Plane

Dirty trucker. Mother trucker. Where the truck have I been?

I'm back, and as a gift, I'm going to revisit a familiar Mountain theme and obsession to make it up to all y'all. We love us some good tasty truckin' music, we sure do, and we've already ranted ad nauseum on the topic already. So kick back for a bandwidth-busting half a cd mix of rubber burning, white line chasing, diesel smoking, pill popping rig rock heaven. Most of the following aren't exactly seminal, but we're here for a good time today, not some boring ole history lesson that no one reads anyway. Pop these in yr 8-trackin' 18 wheeler and hit the road before the snow hits.

Hope the following will appease the patient while I begin relaunch number 33 1/3. Grab 'em quick, cuz once they're gone....

Kelly Willis: Truck Stop Girl (mp3)

(This song features Jay Farrar of UncleTupeloSonVolt, with whom she's also done a fine version of "Rex's Blues". Hop on Kelly's truck here.)

Dave Dudley and Charlie Douglas: Where's the Truck (mp3)

(Well, it's Dave Dudley. And who hasn't lost a thing or two after a wee tipple?)

Scott Biram: 18 Wheeler Fever (mp3)

(More on Mr. Biram at a later date)

Kay Adams: Little Pink Mack (mp3)

(Ok, I lied earlier. This one is seminal. Get your kicks with Kay yonder.)

Del Reeves: Bertha the Bull Hauler (mp3)

(For more on my take on Del, head over to this diner booth)

Dick Curless: Big Wheel Cannonball (mp3)

(Dick's curlies are exposed here.)

Hank Snow: I've Been Everywhere (mp3)

(Not the version everyone knows, but Hank Snow's a personal favorite of mine.)

Jerry Reed: Texas Bound and Flyin' (mp3)

(Yeah, not "East Bound and Down", but I already gave you that a year ago. It's still from "Smoky and the Bandit", and, really, if you listen closely, it's basically the same song. Everybody loves Jerry Reed.)

Kitty Wells: My Big Truck Drivin' Man (mp3)

(Queen of Country Music, queen of my heart. Who doesn't love Kitty?)

Moe Bandy: Kickin' Asphalt (mp3)

(I have nothing to say here. It's Moe. That's good enough)

Red Simpson: Big Mack (mp3)

(Red Simpson eats here.)

Red Sovine: Freightliner Fever (mp3)

(The doctor is in)

Tex Williams: Teamster Power (mp3)

(I was raised as a big union supporter. Still am. Tex pays his dues.)

Planet Rockers: Truck Driver's Rock (mp3)

(Is it genuine, or modern posing? You got me. But I think the Planet Rockers are swell. Featuring Eddie Angel from Los Straightjackets)

Willis Brothers: The Old Sleeper Cab mp3)

(And with that, I'll let the classic tones of the Willis Brothers sing me into my own sleeper cab for the night.)

Please consider supporting your local, independent businesses of choice. Thanks. And thank you.

I Aint Missing You At All Since You've Been Gone

I'm hi-larious. Really.

Actually I'm on a great deal of prescribed medication.

Just wanted to leave a quick note to say I haven't gone away. Between entertaining friends over Tom Waits week, followed by a nasty bout of sickness I'm just now recovering from, I have been neglectful of my free tunes duty. Sorry 'bout that.

I'll be back next week, and with the advent of Autumn, probably I'll be keeping a more regular twice a week schedule. Least 'til December, when I go completely insane.

Cheers. Hack Hack.

Bender

The Tom Waits show is tomorrow. We're gettin' prepared here at the Mountain. Thanks for the e-mails. It looks as if some industrious folks might have already set up a meeting place before the show here in Chicago at Hackney's (see the always fantastic Eyeball Kid for details). I'm a little peculiarized about the place they've chosen (great burgers...so so bar), but I'll probably stop by. There's better Waitsian (whatever that is) bars in the area. Ah, well. A drink's a drink. If you happen to be at the Chicago show, or at the aforementioned Hackney's and happen to spot a feller with a John Deere hat and scraggly beard, say howdy. That'd be me, the walking cliche.

Speaking of bars, and cliches...that's a convenient lead-in to benders.

And Ray Price, of all people.

But benders first. There are quite a few perceptions of what constitutes a bender. For the best take on benders you'd do well to check out The Modern Drunkard (originating from my former home, Denver!). Me, I'm not so keen on the whole fraternal take on benders. Benders don't involve a group of buddies getting together and hitting some dive bars in an attempt to drink themselves silly, ostensibly cheering up or holding up a down in the dumps pal. While that's certainly a fine venture, and necessary at times, it's not really a proper bender. Not to take the romantic view of the enterprise, though, it's really more of a solitary pursuit. A bender isn't defined by time. It's not a one night affair, followed by a hangover and the sudden realization that life's going to be ok, and shit, shave, shower, and off to work. It doesn't involve trendy dive bars and joyous "this is for my friends" banter.

A bender is a lonely affair, where the supposed "friends" are shadows that come and go in reflection on the bar. Not measured in nights or days, but in shots and bills on the counter, it's a giving up more than a grab of desperation. All taking place in the darkest corners, where the neon is a hindrance rather than salvation, and where the one night binge teeters dangerously close to a lifetime of beer stained elbows.

In Chicago we have what are called "old Style Bars". They seemingly have no name, but for the Old Style sign in front. They're found in neighborhoods, as opposed to the downtown (NikeTown) areas, as all things unpleasant are forced farther and farther away from the tourist areas. The windows are dark and clouded, usually with bars or 3-inch thick glass. Slumming frat boys and hipsters are not particularly welcome, nor would they find the glamorous underbelly that Bukowskiites would lead you to believe actually exists. The patrons of these bars are not there to tell you their fascinating life story, nor does such a story exist. There are no rat packers or mumbling mad poets. Just drinkers. And forgetting.

None of that, of course, is in any way intended to represent Ray Price, the man or musician.

Price, a member of the Country Music Hall of Fame, had a pretty fascinating career, from hardcore country honkytonker and friend of Hank and Willie, to swank balladeering that suggested the beginnings of countrypolitan. It was Hank Williams who helped Price get his big break on the Grand Ole Opry, lending him the Drifting Cowboys as a backing band. Price's most well-known hit was "Crazy Arms", a certified classic, and template for future country styling, A great writer in his own right, Price was also a brilliant interpreter, making definitive renditions of songs by Harlan Howard, Willie Nelson, Roger Miller and Kris Kristofferson. In the late 60's Price all but abandoned the traditional country he so strongly influence, opting for variety, including string sections, blues and jazz based material, and neo-pop. Never one to sacrifice individualism for sales or expectation, Price played what he wanted, however he damn well wanted to play it.

Now what the hell do benders and Ray Price have to do with each other?

I've included two separate versions of Price's "Night Life". Both are distinctive, and I have different reasons for preferring each, at various times. The song itself, written by and performed singularly elsewhere by Willie Nelson, is the ultimate fuzzy neon lights and dirty glass ode to the lost. "City Lights", another Mountain favorite, carries a similar sentiment, and is a presceint tribute to a disappearing landscape. "I Can't Go Home Like This" is by no means an important entry in either Country's or Price's canon. But it's a fun little tune about the after-effects of a night spent out a little too late. Not a bender song, but a nifty little tippler, nonetheless.

When the evening sun goes down
You will find me hanging round
Oh, the night life ain't no good life
But it's my life.

Many people just like me
Dreaming of old used-to-be
Oh, the night life ain't no good life
But it's my life.

Well, listen to the blues they're playin'
Yeah, listen to what the blues are sayin'
Mine is just another scene from the world of broken dreams
Oh, the night life ain't no good life
But it's my life.

Yeah, when the evening sun goes down
You will find me hanging round
Oh, the night life ain't no good life
But it's my life...

Ray Price: Night Life (mp3)

Ray Price: Night Life (mp3)

Ray Price: City Lights (mp3)

Ray Price: I Can't Go Home Like This (mp3)

Support your local, independent places of business. Always say please and thank you.

Handy!

Hey. If anyone's in town, or coming into town, for the big Tom Waits show (August 9th!!!), let me know (jukejoint@gmail.com). I lack the funds and/or corporate sponsorship to host some kind of official Tom Waits pre-show party or whatnot, but I work right around the corner from the Auditorium Theatre and plan on having a few beverages at a nearby drinking parlour to be determined before the big event. Anyone who wants to join in and form a wee unofficial Waits-fest are welcome. Let me know, and I'll get some kind of announcement as the date nears.

Now. Mr. James Hand.

I had a really hard time narrowing down two songs from James Hand's album, The Truth Will Set You Free, to post here. So I cheated, and am giving you three. And, frankly, this is the second best album I've heard all year (more on ole number 1 shortly). I guarantee you're gonna see this album again on this site sometime in late December.

I've spent way too much time bemoaning the lack of great, classic, honky tonk country music being made in these here modern times. Sure, there's plenty of that there insurgent stuff filtering through the haze, some of which I'm quite keen on, but it often has too much of a nudge and wink, we're really punk rock but we like ol' Hank quality to it. Country as an excuse or a clever tool. Some of the current darlings of alt.country(who cares what that is) are so completely bland that they barely make for wallpaper. But James Hand....well, damn. No pretense, no irony, no sly slight of hand (hah! sorry). It's honky tonk country through and through. Perhaps it's his age (53), or four decades of working the bar'n'singing circuit. Regardless, Hand has laid down one of the finest country records I've heard in a long, long while. Writing about music always requires a modicum of hyperbole, but I'm not being coy about this one. This is the real deal, a genuine long player worthy of the wax (aluminum) it's pressed (lazered?) on.

A native Texan and horse trainer(?!?), Hand finely drags the soul of Honky Tonk out of retirement, taking a staid and cliche-ridden form and molding it into something both exciting and uniquely Hand's own. From the creepy, brilliant "Shadows Where the Magic Was", with the refrain "....who can tell what the devil does, when he walks on haunted ground" (Frank's Wild Years fans take note), to the barroom lament of "In the Corner, At the Table, By the Jukebox", and every point between, this album hits on every note, every twang, every lyrical device. If this album had been recorded 30 years ago, we'd be whispering Hand's name in the same sentence as Lefty, Merle and Willie. As it stands, it will probably be lost to diffusion of taste. A fucking shame, really. I'd stand on the streetcorner with a bullhorn if I thought it would send the masses in a frenzy on a James Hand binge. But it'd all be show for nought, alas. Country's not dead, folks, it's hiding. How to wake the sleeping beast, strip it of pretense, and into a new golden age? Well, that last sentence was ridiculous, but that's what Hand's album does to me, sends me shivering and frothing at the mouth. Just when I think country's died on us (skewered by the dreaded "Americana"), Hand redeems an entire genre. He's more than worth your time. I think the word essential is overused. I'm going to apply it, in any case, to Mr. James Hand. It fits.


James Hand: Banks of the Brazos (mp3)

James Hand: In the Corner, At the Table, By the Jukebox (mp3)

James Hand: Shadows Where the Magic Was (mp3)

As ever, when your penny jar gets full, please consider supporting your local, independent record stores. Or buy direct from the artist, or their website.

Video Killed the Juke Box Star

Phew. Got 'em. The Mountain managed to score Tom Waits tickets. Not so spiffy seats, but considering the horror stories I've read about other folks' debacles with Ticketmonster, I'm all a-quiver just to be getting in the door. 'Course I'll rest easier once the tickets are physically in my hands. You've all just been spared a 3 week period of whining and pleading. Nothing like a little obsession. And Waits fans, well, we're a peculiar and slightly possessive lot.

I would be remiss, before hopping off to our music star today, if I didn't note the passing of the genius, and polarizing, Mickey Spillane. If you like your boiled very hard, Mickey's the man for you. One of my favorite writers.

Weldon "Juke Boy" Bonner is one of them fellers that should have been picked up (posthumously) by Fat Possum, before they went all bland garage and "experimental" rock on us, ahem. A thwackin' thumper of a hollering one man band that would rightly school the current crop of pretenders and achievers in the ways of Jesus, the Devil, and the blessed sacrament of dirt floor jukejoint swiveldance fuck'n'sweat. All electric distortion and wheezing harmonica workout, Electric Mud a thousand times over(and don't think Muddy wasn't listening), Bonner's recorded output sounds like the kind of booze-soaked, smoke-clouded, madman, twisted and raw performance kissed away by the homogenisation (BB Kingization?) of blues into the quaint, cliche-ridden, safe for adult contemporary radio dreck we hum along to while driving the kids to soccer practice in our SUV's.

Umm...Ok.

With his harmonica racked tight up to his mouth, and his geetar amp cranked to 11, Bonner must have been a force to reckon with live. Slightly less psycho than Hasil Adkins (I said slightly) and not quite as breast obsessed as Mr. Robert Log, Bonner's a proper blues man in the vein of a T Model Ford, minus any backing help. Maybe two of his album titles, which I pulled tunes from, sum up what you can expect from Bonner: Ghetto Poet and Life Gave Me a Dirty Deal.

"Sportsman's Luck" goes out to our good friend Mr. Cheney. Yep, liberal bias.

Enjoy. Stomp.

Juke Boy Bonner: Psycho Jump No. 1(mp3)

Juke Boy Bonner: Houston the Action Town (mp3)

Juke Boy Bonner: Sportsman's Luck (mp3)

Juke Boy Bonner: Railroad Tracks (mp3)

Juke Boy Bonner: Tired of Greyhound Blues (mp3)

Support your local, independent juke box manufacturer and dealer.

Madcap Sleeps

Sleep in peace, Syd.

Syd Barrett: Dark Globe (mp3)

Bats in the Belfry

Fire Jim Tracy now. While you're at it Mr. Littlefield and Mr. McClatchy, fire yourselves and give Mark Cuban a shot.

All apologies to those who have no idea what the hell I was just talking about. Call it a case of a frustrated fan's notes, with more apologies to Frederick Exley.

But that makes a swell transition to today's musical treats.

Tonight's the Baseball All Star Game and all it's pomp, ceremony, and self-importance. But I'm still a sucker for it. What can I say? It's a bunch of guys standing around with big sticks, playing with their balls. Wholesome family entertainment. Pills and topical creams included.

So, yes, more baseball songs. I'm not stalling one little bit. This goes out to my good pal Paul, who's originally from Philadelphia, another Pennsylvania city mired in Major League woe. And, of course, props to the greatest baseball player of all, Charlie Brown.

Enjoy.

Del Reeves: The Philadelphia Fillies (mp3)

Marah: Rain Delay (mp3)

King Curtis: Take Me Out to the Ballgame (mp3)

Support your local little league team.