A Thirst That Would Make The Ocean Proud

Well. At long last.

Presented here for your amusement, befuddlement, irritation, or resentment: the first installment in The Big Rock Candy Mountain Top 100 Drinking Songs. The list was voted on by myself and a jury of your peers, and they did a damn fine job. Please extend a hearty toast to Kip, Kyle, Sean, Andy, and the Right Reverend Frost.

Whenever some magazine or another put out some defining "Best of" list, I would eagerly snatch up a copy, and then proceed to bitch and moan about the selections. Great things were left out, crappy albums, bands, or songs were included, the writers were obviously on drugs, etc. The point being that every list is subjective. It's one of the main reasons I requested outside help, solicited recommendations, and enlisted a panel of judges. I didn't want this list to reflect my taste only. I think we did a pretty good job of getting as fair a representation of great drinking songs as could be managed. As expected, certain styles and genres placed more songs than others. I have some thoughts about that which I'll address in subsequent posts, as we work our way through the list.

I not only encourage folks to disagree with the list, but I'd love to hear your reasons why. I'd only request that insults and death threats be aimed at me and not the judges, who worked their asses off and brought a lot of great tunes to the table. I made the parameters, and had final say over certain issues, so any blame or omissions lies squarely on me. We listened to over 400 songs, and 286 tunes got votes. That's a hell of alot of drinkin', and we've probably only scratched the surface.

With all that in mind, we are pleased, proud, and nervous to announce a new site, hosted by yours truly: Barstool Mountain. For the next two weeks, Barstool Mountain will be counting down all the songs that got votes, but didn't make the Top 100. After that, it will become the official home of the Big Rock Candy Mountain Top 100 Drinking Songs, with individual posts about each song on the list. Sprinkled throughout will be posts on songs we missed, or didn't make the cut. It'll be your one-stop shop for all things drinking song related. And here's the catch: you can contribute. Disgruntled with the list? Was your favorite song left out in the cold? Not enough jake leg blues in the list? Well, you get to put your bottle where your mouth is, and test out your dt's with your typing skills. Anyone can contribute to Barstool Mountain. All you have to do is email me at barstoolmountain@gmail.com, or leave a comment. I'll even host the mp3's. You just have to write the post.

More analysis and observations tomorrow, including a sneak peek at what artists placed the most songs on the list. And numbers 81-90.

Thanks for stopping by. We hope you enjoy.

The Big Rock Candy Mountain Top 100 Drinking Songs

100. "Green Beer" - Scrawl
(Sean says: "Though it's likely lesser known than many of the tunes featured here, Scrawl's "Green Beer" is an essential part of the canon. Alone among our Top 100, it depicts a key facet of contemporary American drinking -- the disorientation and frustration of "outsiders" who wind up at high school / college keg parties. (Not that we'd endorse underage drinking through this exercise, but...)")

99. "Too Drunk To Fuck" - The Dead Kennedys
(Typically hilarious preaching from the notoriously straight-edge Mr. Biafra. What should be a scathing commentary on drinking and frat culture ends up making me want to reach for a pint and test my, ahem, abilities.)

98. "Stomp Them Grapes" - Mel Tillis

97. "Blues Plus Booze (Means I Lose)" - Stonewall Jackson (Our first Country weeper (The Tillis song is a little more upbeat). Jackson visits the pathos of loss and forgetting, in a theme that has become synonymous with drinking songs of all genres)

96. "The Wild Rover" - Traditional

95. "Little Stream Of Whiskey(aka The Dying Hobo)" - Traditional

94. "Two More Bottles of Wine" - Delbert McClinton

93. "Wasted" - Black Flag

92. "Alligator Wine" - Screamin' Jay Hawkins
(Hawkins gives us a recipe for a brew so toxic it gives me the shakes just thinking about it. Forget moonshine and Everclear, this stuff is dangerous. Hawkins' spooky delivery only confirms my fears.)

91. "Kiss Me I'm Shitfaced" - Dropkick Murphys

Can't Buy a Gun

Mr. Kucinich, you have my vote. 'Course I live in Illinois, so it really doesn't matter.

Unsurprisingly, I'm putting the Book Club thingy I mentioned last post off 'til after the Top 100 Drinking Songs extravaganza (Coming next week!). It was really just a book review anyway.

I normally don't cover "new releases" very often. I figger other folks cover those things pretty well elsewhere. But there have been some intriguing records hitting the aluminum or vinyl circuit over the last couple of months: Son Volt, Mavis Staples, Detroit Cobras, Dean and Britta, and Mary Weiss, to name a few. And it's a rare and wonderful occasion when we get a new Billy Childish and a new Holly Golightly record in the same month. Lucky us. I've made it my life's goal to expose as many folks of the world as possible to the genius of Billy Childish, and his new album contains a swell little pot stirrer of a tune where he takes the piss on the great pretender, and Michael Jackson lookalike, Jack White. Hooray, Billy.

But I'm gonna focus on Miss Golightly and her new album, "You Can't Buy A Gun When You're Crying", performed under the moniker Holly Golightly and the Brokeoffs. Essentially it's Holly and a feller goes by the name of Lawyer Dave.

Golightly has always flirted with a little neo-noir Country styling, and this record seems inevitable. It's a sepia-filtered affair, drawn from Southern Gothic that could only be imagined by a girl from a faraway land. Creaky and rattling, the tunes play from the back of a wagon, straw and hayseed clogging the amps. It's an eerie backwoods-styled album full of bad men and badder women, demons, devils,guns, and medicine water.

It's easily my album of the year up to this point. And it features my song of the year, "Devil Do".

Enjoy.

Holly Golightly and the Brokeoffs: Devil Do (mp3)

Holly Golightly and the Brokeoffs: You Can't Buy A Gun (mp3)

Special Bonus: The Jack White piss-take, and second best song of the year.

Wild Billy Childish and the Musicians of the British Empire: Bugger The Buffs (mp3)

See you on Monday, where we'll raise our glasses.

Raunchy

Hello there.

The moment y'all have been waiting for is almost upon us. The Big Rock Candy Mountain Top 100 Drinking Songs will make it's debut next Monday. That's right, next Monday. It'll be a ten-day liver buster, so get yourself hydrated. A project so massive in scope that we had to go and do something rash just to house the overflow. The spillage, as it were.

And since we're a busy bee these days, this Friday we've got the very first Big Rock Candy Mountain Book Club entry. Good god, can he do it? Can the Mountain actually manage 2 posts in one week? Well, we'll see.

Where's the damn music, you say? Enough of these damn promises? Okey doke.

Eddie Bond is a man. I mean he's a man, man. Swaggering and full of piss and vinegar, a rockabilly Lothario, hellbent on love for the ladies and the sweet rhythm spot on wax. Bond was so cool, legend has it, he made fun of a young Elvis Presley, recommending he "stick to driving a truck..." decades before the King had his "dead on the toilet" moment. 'Course those decades in between favored Presley, but we favor Bond in the long run here at the Mountain. The man performed a song called "Raunchy". Really, could it get any better?

Embodying the soul of Memphis, Bond veered from Rockabilly, straight-up Country, and Gospel throughout his career, laying down some crazed tracks that still sound fresh today, especially in light of imitators and hep-cat rock'n'twang wannabes.

Raw Country boy gone wrong trash, then. The kind we love so dearly.

Eddie Bond: Raunchy (mp3)

Eddie Bond: Someday I'll Sober Up (mp3)

Eddie Bond: Big Boss Man (mp3)

Support your local, independent record stores. If there are any left.

Greasy Skillet

I want to say thanks for all the kind words and emails y'all sent my way. Every time I think about hanging up the ol' Mountain, I'm reminded of why I started it in the first place. I rarely make personal posts, so I appreciate your patience. I apologize for the morbid nature of the tunes last time around. This post should be little more in line with what folks expect.

I missed a Baseball post on Opening Day. I'll get along to it soon.

Now then.

Uncle Dave Macon is about as backwoods, old-timey sounding as you can get. Photos of him reinforce a sort of doughy, redneck, good ol' boy persona. It's apt as Macon served as the gateway from 1800's vaudeville tomfoolery to the more stringent picking styles of later followers.

Macon didn't get his professional start 'til after the age of 50, in the 1920's, having lost his wagon business to the horseless carriage industry. But he whooped it up, as it were, once his time came, earning the distinction of being one of the first two members of the Grand Ol' Opry when it was known as the WSM Barn Dance. All of this and more of his history you can read about at the above link.

Macon was a hell of a banjo player. I read somewhere that experts have identified up to 19 different picking styles on his recordings. His voice is pure hillbilly, and his songs are a rollicking meander through the humorous and the strange, at least by our modern estimation. It's pure hoedown and square dance music, so bone up on your do-si-do.

Important Note: I wrote most of this post several weeks ago, long before recent events involving a certain morning talk show host. In the interest of full disclosure, Uncle Dave Macon was by no means what we would now call "politically correct" in certain of his lyrics and songs. One could, I suppose, argue context and time (Nick Tosches addresses a similar issue regarding the persona of Emmett Miller in his fascinating book, Where Dead Voices Gather), but this is probably not the best forum or moment to do so. The Mountain certainly welcomes any comments and thoughts on the issue of Race in Country music, particularly the earlier sides. It's a tricky issue. All this to say that we recommend caution or discretion when purchasing and playing certain of Mr. Macon's records.

Uncle Dave Macon: Whoop 'Em Up Cindy (mp3)

Uncle Dave Macon: Bake That Chicken Pie (mp3)

Uncle Dave Macon: Man That Rode the Mule Around the World (mp3)

Uncle Dave Macon: The Bum Hotel (mp3)

Thank you.

Blackjack

Please pardon this post if you're looking for the usual Big Rock Candy Mountain flippancy or songs about sin and salvation.

A dear friend of mine has just died, and this post is for him.

His name was Jeremy. He had a heart attack at the age of 34, leaving behind a wife and two young daughters. I hadn't spoken to him in a couple of years,but he never let me disappear from his life, or the friends we had created when we were in college. A card or note was always in the mail.

When we met, Jeremy was a fan of KISS and The Eagles. I was into Pavement and Sonic Youth. We should never have been friends if either of us had followed the vague rules of hipsterism. But neither of us was particularly interested in rules. Both of us were passionate about the music we loved, and we argued often. Somewhere within the argument we found a common ground. We agreed on Uncle Tupelo. We agreed on Country music. They were good arguments, and I owe a sense of parity to Jeremy. He kept me honest, and taught me the value of music "for the people", whatever that is. And at the end of the day, a drink would be raised, usually Jack Daniels, a song would be played, and we would sing lustily along. I miss those days. I will never have them again. I will sing alone, with his voice a distant memory. It is the nature of things. The dead sing in our heads, and we can only give them voice through our weak warblings.

Once, a few days before I left Ohio for good, Jeremy "kidnapped" me, and took me out to his father's house. We sat on lawnchairs, in the late August heat, and drank, talked, and watched bats flitting around the light above the garage. We talked about what had been, and what we would be, the dreams and hopes of the young. We were amazing in what we would be, what we would become. We went so far as to "invent" a drink, years before the advent of Red Bull. Mix Cherry 7-UP and Jack Daniels and you've got a "Red Handed Jack." I'm drinking one now. We were invincible that night. We would live forever.

Jeremy attended my Mother's funeral. He had never met her. He went for my sake, to be a friend in a time of loss.

It shouldn't have been difficult to pick up the phone. Make a call. Hear a voice through the static on the other end. I did not do this. Funerals are for the living, to make amends for a lifetime lost.

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this and all is mended:
That you have but slumbered here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend.
If you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long.
Else the Puck a liar call.
So good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.

Jeremy loved Shakespeare. It was one of his great passions. He directed me in college, playing Shylock, in "A Merchant Of Venice." Shakespeare was one of the things we could always agree on.

I've always thought of Jeremy as Puck, The Gate Keeper, the Grave Digger, or Falstaff. Ultimately he was The Trickster from mythology. His was the laughing voice behind the tragedy, drawing you away, rooting you. He was wily, mad, the giggling fool, and often the only ground you could find on this too-trembling earth. He was maniacal, hysterical, and all too human.

As is often the case for music junkies like myself, and like Jeremy, we go to music to inspire us, to move us, or to soothe us. I could post a hundred songs that make me think of Jeremy. But I have shirts to iron and a plane to Ohio to catch. A funeral to attend. Lost in details, and without a net to catch the falling stars around me. That net is gone. I don't believe in God. I don't have the comfort of religion to promise me reunion.

I'm sorry to have bothered you with this. I know you were expecting something a little more facetious from this site. But we're all human, and even Mountains can mourn.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

So, then, for those who have gone before, a brief and incomplete farewell:

Jay Ungar: Ashokan Farewell (mp3)

Nick Drake: Time Has Told Me (mp3)

Uncle Tupelo: No Depression (mp3)

Richard Buckner: Song Of 27 (mp3)

Townes Van Zandt: To Live's To Fly (mp3)

Townes Van Zandt: Rex's Blues (mp3)

Son Volt: Windfall (mp3)

Willard Grant Conspiracy: Notes From A Waiting Room (mp3)

Tom Waits: Cold Cold Ground (mp3)

Tom Waits: On The Nickel (mp3)

Tom Waits: Bottom Of The World (mp3)

Tom Waits: Home I'll Never Be (mp3)

Spend your money on a phone call to someone you love today. Music can wait.

Ranking Strangers

Blah, blah, blah. Where the hell have I been? Erm..the dog ate my fingers?

I'll blame it on a month-long St. Patrick's Day celebration, starting with the startling good Pogues show, where Shane was even in good form. Sort of. You know, for him. I used to make fun of folks who would go to "reunion" shows by the Eagles or whatnot. It occurred to me, as I was clutching my pint, hollering with the rest of the ruddy faced louts for the Pogues to come on, that I was suddenly attending one of those reunion shows I had snarkily dismissed in the past. I'm officially old now. I've always been cranky, but now I've got the age to show it. Granted, the Eagles are shit and partly responsible for the death of music, and the Pogues are godhead, so I don't feel too bad. And I'm not a biased, opinionated bastard at all, either.

Where was I?

The Top 100 Drinking Songs list is still underway. Some of y'all got me some good suggestions recently. I know I promised it by last last weekend, but...well, if you've visited here at all, you know how these things go. Within the next month it'll be up. Don't blame the judges/panelists. It's all me. To whet your appetite, and to give a preview of where this will all go, check out this. We've got big plans for that link. More later.

Where was I again?

I don't cover much Bluegrass round these parts. Dunno why, exactly. 'Spect it's just because it's covered more in a more in depth manner elsewhere. But I got a keen little box set, The Stanley Brothers: The Definitive Collection, sent to me recently that reminded me how swell The Stanley Brothers were.

The Stanley Brothers are Ralph and Carter. Ralph Stanley you're probably familiar with, via his continued great work with contemporary Country artists under the moniker of Ralph Stanley and the Clinch Mountain Boys (sorry about that picture). Carter died way too young in the mid-60's at the age of 41. Contemporaries to Flatt and Scruggs and Bill Monroe, The Stanley Brothers did not achieve quite the renown as those two other groups initially, but time has been kind to the Brothers. The timeless themes and breathtaking, breakneck musicianship of their songs have translated well over the years, enabling a revival of sorts, from Telluride to Chicago.

I've often thought of Bluegrass as music for movement. One envisions the plunking, whirling instruments transporting one through lofty, smokey mountains into deep valleys, moral allusions intact. I can hear Bluegrass through the hum of a motor, gazing from a window as the terrain passes by. What The Stanley Brothers achieve is a stillness within the movement, a tranquility of place in motion. One feels at once earthbound and transported, rooted and moving.

Of course, as in all Bluegrass, you get a little God vs. the Devil.

And, naturally, they weren't above a hoe-down either.

The Stanley Brothers: The Girl Behind The Bar (mp3)

The Stanley Brothers: Blue Moon Of Kentucky (mp3)

The Stanley Brothers: How Mountain Girls Can Love (mp3)

The Stanley Brothers: Rank Stranger (mp3)

Please support your local, independent record stores.

Hey Porter

Big things afoot here at the Mountain. I'm full of unkept promises, but this one is coming to pass, and I think y'all will be right pleased. Really. Keep your eyes peeled over the next month or so. If you're a particularly snoopy individual, you can probably figger out where we're headed.

And, in a, ahem, completely and utterly unrelated note, our panel of special guest judges are busily poring through piles of wax to help me bring you the official Big Rock Candy Mountain Top 100 Drinking Songs of All Time. You're gonna want to get on your knees in humble praise to these folks when all is said and done, and shower them with gifts and hosannas.

Now then.

What to do with Porter Wagoner?

These days Wagoner's probably best known as the funny looking skinny guy that gave Dolly Parton her big break on his long running tv show. Some would suggest he was also responsible for attempting to hog-tie Ms. Parton to his show in lieu of allowing her to find success outside of said show, and the narrow boundaries. I couldn't really speak to that, and I'd say Ms. Parton has done all right for herself over the years.

Wagoner was also a mainstay at the Grand Ole Opry for years and years and years.

Wagoner has also produced some dreadful records. Sappy, unlistenable countrypolitan and a slew of country gospel albums better left to AM radio, where at least the hiss and crackle adds an otherworldly feel to the proceedings.

So why should you give a rat's ass about Porter Wagoner? Well he also made some super swell "hard" county albums in his day. Wagoner had a knack for tales about losers, alcoholics, cheaters, and the insane. No, really, the insane. See below for "Rubber Room", one of the shining testaments in recorded history for the mentally unstable. Performing in his Nudie suit, Wagoner takes these songs to a strange juxtaposed place, where the glitz of appearnce belie the desparation of the subject matter.

This post, believe it or not, is meant to be a recommendation for Wagoner.

Check out some of Porter Wagoner's older sides or collections. Some of which are only on vinyl, but "Rubber Room: The Haunting Poetic Songs of Porter Wagoner 1966-1977" , released last year, is a great place to start. Wagoner has a new album coming out this Spring, on Anti, produced by Marty Stuart. I'm ingrigued.

"The Rubber Room" is completely mad.

"Misery Loves Company" is a great drinking song, one you might see later here at this site.

The Dolly Parton/Porter Wagoner duet below is...well...it's an interesting song that could've been better served with slightly different instrumentation and production, but lyrically it's pretty nifty. And it's Dolly. Who doesn't love Dolly?

Porter Wagoner: The Rubber Room (mp3)

Porter Wagoner: Misery Loves Company (mp3)

Porter Wagoner and Dolly Parton: Better Move It On Home (mp3)

Please support your local, independent cable access television shows.

Daddy-O

In case you're wondering, The Mountain did indeed manage to score tickets to both nights of the Pogues here in Chicago. Yay me. Tom Waits and the Pogues in less than a year. I can die a happy man. Though why they want to spend yet another St. Patrick's Day in New York is beyond me. Bastards. Hey, if you're gonna be in Chicago for their two night stand, let me know.


Anyway.


If you like your rawk a little trashy, a little rockin' bones, a little punky, a little snotty, and you think Esquerita and Charlie Feathers (or Benny Joy, according to them) are the true kings of rock'n'roll, then the fantabulous A-Bones are the band for you.


The A-Bones were formed by Billy Miller and Miriam Linna, who went on to start the Norton Records label, which if you're familiar with the label, should tell you just about all you need to know about the band.


In the words of Johnny Carson, it's Wild Stuff. Eschewing anything resembling pop production, the A-Bones make a noise in keeping with pre-Elvis rock'n'roll. It's nasty, beer-guzzled slop, raw and raucous, the kind of music for a shag or stag party. Mixing surf, rockabilly, rhythm and blues, and straight up trash can aesthetic, the A-Bones pay tribute to all that was good in the vinyl world before Pat Boone came along. Feeding a skronking sax, tribal sexbeat drumming, two distorted chords and a half truth through a funnel of devil doesn't care shared vocals, The A-Bones will, like, move you, man. Dance, girl, dance.



The world needs more bands like this. Unfortunately, the A-Bones are no longer together, in the strictest sense of the word. Alas. Come back, A-Bones, all is forgiven. Instead we're stuck with pretenders like the White Strokes, or sumsuch. Fortunately Miller and Linna are feeding the need at Norton, with some ace reissues of their A-Bones material, and a catalog of other rock'n'trash classics.


Yummy.


The A-Bones: The World's Greatest Sinner (mp3)


The A-Bones: Satellite Dish (mp3)


The A-Bones: A-Bomb Stomp (mp3)


Please support your local, independent sock hop and drag strip.

Swing High, Lonesome

Once again, thanks for all your drinking suggestions. I'm overwhelmed, but in a very good way. I'll be taking submissions until the bitter(s) end, so keep 'em coming if you've got 'em. The panel of judges is selected, including a very special guest, so thanks to all those who volunteered.

Now.

It's the other Tex.


Tex Williams was probably best known for the classic "Smoke, Smoke, Smoke That Cigarette", written with (by?) Merle Travis, and featuring the rather retrospectively interesting lyric "It ain't cuz I don't smoke myself/And I don't reckon that it'll harm your health/Smoked all my life and I ain't dead yet." He can also be spotted in the occasional singing cowboy of the time.

Like his better-known contemporary, Bob Wills, Williams was a pioneer in the Western Swing tradition, melding a traditional and pedestrian style of localized popular music with a more "dance" and "citified" one. Fiddles gone crazy.

Williams' style was more conversational than Wills, and this may have led folks to dismiss him, in retrospect, as more of a novelty act than a serious purveyor of the origins of Western Swing. Which is too bad, because Williams is a hoot. And he's no slouch when it comes to getting bodies on the dance floor.

It's common, of course, to focus on the legends, such as Mr. Wills, and forget about the fringes that circled and helped influence the larger stars.

None of which is to lessen Williams' impact or talent. He's damn good, and worthy of the attention of any lover of Western Swing, or just great party music.

"That's What I Like About The West" is a swell response to "That's What I Like About the South".

Swing your partner.

Tex Williams: That's What I Like About the West (mp3)

Tex Williams: Western Jamboree (mp3)

Tex Williams: I Got Texas In My Soul (mp3)

Please support your local Swingers Club. Erm....

Hardscrabble Lonesome

I spend way too much time bitching about the current state of Country Music. And I spend too much time bitching about the fact that I'm bitching about the current state of Country music. Might be a good idea for me to just sit back and enjoy the good shit that's out there. And there are some mighty tasty platters spinning on the modern hi-fi.

Willie Heath Neal often gets compared to Hank Williams III, having more to do with their relative youthfulness and a tendency towards, ahem, wayward rebelliousness, than in actual style. On earlier albums, Neal did display the tendency towards the sort of self-referential shit-kicker vibe that Williams has perfected, for better or worse, but one always got the sense that Neal traded more in respect for the form than in lineage.

With his latest album, Lonesome, on Chicken Ranch Records, Neal drops any alt/cowpunk leanings and delivers a hell of a set of barroom ballads. Yeah, I said ballads...wait, come back...it's not what you think. We aint talkin' no pansy-ass metal balladry or vile Michael Bolton shite. Great Country has always been about the slow burning examination of where did I go wrong, how did I fuck up so badly, and what can I drink to make it better? It's the bread and butter of the genre. It's also a focus on great songwriting, and Neal steps to the plate, compiling a string of lost love and missed opportunity under the strobe of blinking neon lights. He shows himself as a songwriter, and a damn good one. I'd recommend checking out Neal's other albums. They're teetering, whiskey-fuelled honky stompers, and a hell of a lot of fun. But it's Lonesome that shows Neal growing up, and finding a voice that pushes him toward greatness. 'Least so far as we're concerned. But what the hell do I know?

I've rambled on about James Hand at length, and, frankly, it probably hasn't been enough. Leastways, not 'til I see him on the cover of every damn magazine on the planet. With Willie Heath Neal, we've got a younger version. Neal's not at Hand's level yet, but he's on his way, and I'd give a lung to see the two tour together.

Willie Heath Neal: Broken Hearted Beauty Queen (mp3)

Willie Heath Neal: She's Gone (mp3)

Keep sending those drinking songs!

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