Alchemy

Let me first apologize to the members of Ol' Yeller and Big Ditch Road. I didn't make it to the Nomad World Cafe, because I was over at Louie's Lee's Liquor Lounge watching The Fucking Gleam.

Unfortunately, The Goddamned Gleam is the best band in Minneapolis right now. I hate to delve into the sacrilegous waters of Hennepinosity, but, during a week in which we bid a fond farewell to one of the most kick-ass bassists in anyone's recent memory, it's comforting to know that there's a band in town that really couldn't give 3 shits.

What I really hate about The Goddamned Gleam is fishing. I've spent a few weeks scouring the waters of Chisago County for "all the right fish," in a never ending battle between me and that bastard Poseidon. The worst thing that could have happened to me was to hook into a band, one act play, or circus sideshow that embodied that dynamic. Unfortunately (note, that's twice I've used that word), there's a band that embodies all three.

Look, I don't want to doll this all up. This ain't Pavarotti at the Met. This is the sudden realization that it's Sunday, you've dropped half a paycheck on an ice house, and all you've caught is an eelpout. But, it was a state record eelpout, so anybody who questions how you spent your weekend can get fucked.

Dear Bill,

I know you live in Austin, Texas, where talented musicians write catchy songs and all, and the clubs are filled with "National" acts wowing the local intelligensia with their Twang doctorates.

But, goddamn Bill, these three guys are retarded. This band makes no sense. And yet, they drive a nail into the heart of the American experience. What an absolute waste of an evening. I'm ashamed I went.

Greil Marcus, you suck, you know why? You don't have a copy of The Chisago County EP, and I do. Get with the program, Top Ten Boy.

--El Platano Blanco

From :
Reply-To :
Sent : Wednesday, June 22, 2005 4:07 PM
To : othersideofcountry@hotmail.com
Subject : CMA Member Survey

Dear CMA Member:

CMA values your comments and suggestions. In an effort to better serve you, please take a moment to click the link provided to fill out the CMA member survey. It should only take about 5 to 10 minutes of your time. Membership is the foundation of our organization. It is a priority for CMA to be servicing our members to the best of our ability. Any input you may have would be greatly appreciated. If you have any questions please call 1-800-788-3045 or email membership@CMAworld.com. Thank you for your time.

(URL withheld, super-secret membership only stuff!)

This email contains privileged and confidential information intended only for the use of the person to whom it is directed and intended. Any reproduction, dissemination or other use of this email by anyone who is not the intended recipient is strictly prohibited. If you have received this email in error, you should advise the sender immediately and delete the email from your mail box.

Sooooooooooooo.....I'm a member right? I wouldn't have gotten this if they hadn't accepted my money and sent me this email. I haven't received my "initial membership materials" yet, though. In a perfect world, it'll be a folder full of bumper stickers and stuff, and a copy of their magazine with my hero, Kenny Chesney, on the front.

Anyway, I took their little survey, which was basically aimed at gauging how much the membership knew about what was offered by the CMA. A "did you know that we...?" sort of thing. I struck a blow in one of the comments fields by saying that the CMA needed to reach out to Americana artists more, especially in towns like Austin, Texas, Chicago, and the Triangle area of North Carolina. Little by little friends, little by little...change things from the inside mamma said.

The release date deadline is approaching for CMA award nominees. I think my ballot might change a little, but I'll print that in July, along with this year's edition of the 100 Greatest Country Songs of All Time (Last year's list).

From CNN.com:

WASHINGTON (AP) -- The House on Wednesday approved a constitutional amendment that would give Congress the power to ban desecration of the American flag, a measure that for the first time stands a chance of passing the Senate as well.

"Ask the men and women who stood on top of the [World] Trade Center," said Rep. Randy [Duke] Cunningham, R-California. "Ask them and they will tell you: pass this amendment."

Almost overnight the Glorious Loyalty Oath Crusade was in full flower, and Captain Black was enraptured to discover himself spearheading it. He had really hit on something. All the enlisted men and officers on combat duty had to sign a loyalty oath to get their map cases from the intelligence tent, a second loyalty oath to receive their flak suits and parachutes from the parachute tent, a third loyalty oath for Lieutenant Balkington, the motor vehicle officer, to be allowed to ride from the squadron to the airfield in one of the trucks. Every time they turned around there was another loyalty oath to be signed. They signed a loyalty oath to get their pay from the finance officer, to obtain their PX supplies, to have their hair cut by the Italian barbers. To Captain Black, every officer who supported his Glorious Loyalty Oath Crusade was a competitor, and he planned and plotted twenty-four hours a day to keep one step ahead. He would stand second to none in his devotion to country. When other officers had followed his urging and introduced loyalty oaths of their own, he went them once better by making every son of a bitch who came to his intelligence tent sign two loyalty oaths, then three, then four; then he introduced the pledge of allegiance, and after that "The Star-Spangled Banner," one chorus, two choruses, three choruses, four choruses. Each time Captain Black forged ahead of his competitors, he swung upon them scornfully for their failure to follow his example. Each time they followed his example, he retreated with concern and racked his brain for some new stratagem that would enable him to turn upon them scornfully again.

Without realizing how it had come about, the combat men in the squadron discovered themselves dominated by the administrators appointed to serve them. They were bullied, insulted, harassed, and shoved about all day long by one after the other. When they voiced objection, Captain Black replied that people who were loyal would not mind signing all the loyalty oaths they had to. To anyone who questioned the effectiveness of the loyalty oaths, he replied that people who really did owe allegiance to their country would be proud to pledge it as often as he forced them to. And to anyone who questioned the morality, he replied that "The Star-Spangled Banner" was the greatest piece of music ever composed. The more loyalty oaths a person signed, the more loyal he was; to Captain Black it was as simple as that, and he had Corporal Kolodny sign hundreds with his name each day so that he could always prove he was more loyal than anyone else.

"The important thing is to keep them pledging," he explained to his cohorts. "It doesn't matter whether they mean it or not. That's why they make little kids pledge allegiance even before they know what 'pledge' and 'allegiance' mean."

--From "Catch-22," by Joseph Heller

Representative Randy "Duke" Cunningham, you're a fucking moron. If I were a family member of one of the victims of 9/11, I'd punch you in your stupid fucking nose. In fact, call the FBI (they have a file on me, the result of gaining clearance to work in the US Attorney's Office and the US Bankruptcy Court as an intern during law school), get my phone number, call me up, so I can call you a fucking idiot, personally. Better yet, fly in, look me up, so I can punch you in your stupid fucking nose.

The Fourth of July is by far my favorite holiday, moreso than Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Year's, and Halloween put together. The Fourth of July is a glorious day, it's the day celebrating my liberty to call Randy "Duke" Cunningham a stupid fuck. A fucking moron. If someone burned a flag in front of me, you know what I'd do? I'd say, "You stupid fuck, what does that prove? Do you realize what sacrifices were made so that you could pull off that stupid fucking gesture?" Then I'd shake my head and walk away. To suggest that cops should get involved and that person should be thrown in jail is ANTI-THETICAL TO EVERYTHING THAT THIS COUNTRY STANDS FOR, YOU STUPID FUCK.

People shouldn't burn the flag, just like they probably ought not burn things like the Bible, the Torah, or the Koran. But hey, you know what? People do stupid shit, and THAT, Randy "Duke" Cunningham, you fucking moron, is what everyone died for: the right to be politically active, the right to do nothing at all, and/or the right to do stupid shit.

Why don't you focus on solving the woes of unemployment, terrorism, education, and energy? You fucking moron, how much will it cost me in EXTRA fucking tax money to arrest and prosecute these people? Ask Porter Fucking Goss where Bin Fucking Laden is. You know what scares me? Bin Laden pointing a loaded gun or a lit stick of dynamite at me, not Bin Laden buring a flag in front of me. If Bin Laden set a flag on fire in front of me, I'd turn on the garden hose and soak the fucker.

That's all I have to say about this. Stupid sombitch.

Dear Gary Bettman and Bob Goodenow,

You guys are assholes.

I had a pretty rough Winter for a lot of other reasons, but, not getting to see the 8 or 9 games that I usually do as part of my season ticket package that I share with some friends really drove the final nail in. On a typical "Hockey Night" in Sparksville, the route was to take off work early, get to Cosetta's for a Caesar, and some Mostaccioli, then hop over to McGovern's for an hour or so of more courage, then plod mercilessly into the X for my seat location in the corner, upper deck, row two, on the aisle. Up there, with real hockey folk (legend has it, there has been turnover of seats in the lower two rings, but, in the team's brief history, EVERY package has been renewed in the upper deck every year), I would shout and cringe as Jacques, Mario, and Mike dragged this team of overachievers into sniffing distance of the promised land.

But even all that wasn't the best part of the night, Gary and Bob. The best part of the night was the Lemaire press conference on 'CCO, after the game, trying to get out of downtown St. Paul. "Da guys have just got to play bedder or we won't score da goals and win da match." When there are thousands of people around the world who feel you may have been the greatest hockey player ever if it weren't for some guy named Wayne, you can speak with ruthless honesty in a heavy French Canadian accent, and it sounds like somebody reading the Gospel on a Sunday morning.

So kiss my ass, Gary and Bob. You've ruined a lot of goodwill around this Country and Canada, with your hardball negotiating, and pitty-pat fights in the newspapers. A lot of people don't believe in this sport anymore. But I do. As such, I renewed my seats this morning, for the alleged season that will kick off this Fall. But, you're not going to win me back that easily. I have half a mind to just not show up, because that's where you guys lose. My seats only cost $12 a head, per game. If you could make ends meet on my $24, you'd be miracle workers. No, where you make your dough is when I show up and spend my hard-earned disposable income on other crap: $6 beers and $5 hot dogs and $15 foam claws. That's pure profit. Call me a masochist, but I'm willing to take a $150 hit, so that you don't get another $300 or $400 out of me in crap money.

For the sake of argument, let's say I do want to come back, you dickheads. I'd like to see a few things happen to reinvigorate my interest. Here are my demands:

I
What moron named this team "The Wild?" I like the jerseys and all, and, at the end of the day, I guess it doesn't matter too much, but let's put Plan A back into play: change Dallas to the Lone Stars and give us back the North Stars. If you polled 100,000 hockey fans, 99,998 of them would say that's a great idea. The other two people would be the two suburban moms from Eden Prairie who suggested the name in the first place; they typically wear their Wild jerseys over their Kenny Chesney Tshirts, Kenny doesn't know anything about hockey. Dallas has a lot of great hockey fans, and they would shit themselves to buy a hockey jersey patterned after the Texas flag. And, it goes without saying...do you have any idea how many updated North Stars jerseys you'd sell the first WEEK they were available?

II
What brainless cocksucker put these guys in the Northwest Division of the Western Conference? This team should be in the same division with Detroit, St. Louis, Chicago and Dallas. Mix and match the rest of the league however you want, just make this happen. A) It would restore natural rivalries with more games between these clubs, B) those natural rivalries would translate better on TV, the contract for which you have absolutely cluster fucked into oblivion with your bumbling lockout. You're going to have to ditch some teams and realign eventually anyway, get the ball rolling early.

III
Have Gary Thorn record individual commercials for each team right before the pre-season. In fact, hire him out to record answering machine/service messages for every season ticketholder of every franchise, if they so choose. "Jack is not home right now because it's Hockey Night at the X in beautiful downtown St. Paul." There should be lots of cute commercials where Gary's trying to fill up his time by calling soap box derby races and whatnot, because of the lockout. This league's equity is the authenticity of its regular participants, you're going to have to capitalize on that and try to drive it into the ground. It may seem obvious, but one would have thought that complete disaster of burying a whole season would have been obvious to you knuckleheads too.

IV
There should be a pee-wee hockey match during the first intermission of EVERY NHL game from here on out. The "Peanuts Theme" should be playing in the background. Non-negotiable.

V
Suspend Todd Bertuzzi for life, or reinstate him immediately. Being the rapacious, money-grubbing fools that you are, you know that having him on the ice would mean instant bankroll. People would come to see Vancouver and watch them on TV just to boo and feel self-righteously vindicated as they agreed with the announcers, who will chastise the league at every turn for putting him back on the ice, proving once again that Pro Sports really can be only about 1 degree above Pro Wrestling at times. Regardless, you need to embrace your violence base by telling the refs to swallow their whistles, or you need to completely root that type of play out and get the scoring machine greyhounds on the ice.

Yes, Gary and Bob, you can save the League yet. Mostly by resigning. But since your egos won't allow that, just follow a few simple demands and find ways to apply them across the board. Then maybe, just maybe, things will turn around.

Sincerely,
JKS

P.S.--Don't come to this town. Don't sit in a box, don't watch a game, don't go out to eat, either before or afterward. You're simply not wanted here.

I guess I ought to clarify something, because I've gotten more responses from my disappointement at the Bottle Rockets' last show than about half the things I've ever written.

One, I'm a Bottle Rockets fan, and specifically, a fan of Brian Henneman's songwriting. I think "Indianapolis," is one of the greatest Country Songs ever written.

Two, I applaud Brian's decision to stop drinking. Few people in this world today live in an environment where they're not close friends with, or related to, someone who gave up the hooch. It's a difficult life decision to make, and it's an even more difficult process once you've taken the first steps.

Those things being said, what do we have left? I've responded to a number of emails from folks who understood what I was trying to say, though I don't think I veiled anything.

Bottle Rockets gigs used to be dangerous, and, not just because of the booze and cussing. Those first 2 or 3 records contained some pretty hardcore music that I would like to believe was based in some kind of swagger about life and living, and not just the product of some kind of boozed soaked bravado.

There was none of that on Friday night. For whatever reason, the electricity was gone. There was a nice new number called, "Happy Anniversary," I think, that made a nice point and displayed some real emotion. But it was bookended and surrounded by some very yeoman like playing and singing that didn't really seem to be going anywhere. Also, the SUV song in the midddle of the "new song" set made about 10 people leave the joint. I don't ever remember a Bottle Rockets gig where people left.

If I called him a pussy, I didn't really mean it in the perjorative sense, I meant it as one end of a spectrum; you've got drunken, vomiting, full-on Missouruh asshole Brian, and on the other end, you've got a kind of straight laced pussy. If you're going to choose the latter, there's a way to be effective at it, and still get the most out of your talents, which...let me repeat...Brian has in spades, he's a very talented man.

Just break up the Bottle Rockets. You don't have to bring the booze, just bring the swagger. Bring the anger. Bring a big stick that you fashioned out of a large tree limb, that you found in someone's yard in Festus, and swing it at us. If it's not too late, take that SUV song off the new record and try again. Dry or in a puddle, there's a better Bottle Rockets band somewhere out there than this one...alas, maybe it's only in my memories...

Some men are born pussies, some men become pussies, and some men have being a pussy thrust upon them. Brian Henneman is not a good pussy. Let me explain.

You...me...Aunt Ethel...we all used to go see R.E.M., and we knew Michael Stipe was going to fill our ears with hard driving Athens college rock about how hard it was to be a schoolgirl in a 45 year old vegetarian male's body. There were a few years in there when that bit really kicked ass; but, we could never say we were disappointed in Michael's obscure asexual naval gazing, we EXPECTED it.

There was a time when the Bottle Rockets would play anything from a small baseball stadium to the worst, vomit-covered, broken-toilet shit hole in downtown St. Louis and lives were at stake. There was swagger and art and the distinct possibility that someone was 3 seconds from a catfish ass whoopin' at any moment.

But then everybody got cleaned up.

Now, don't get me wrong, if someone has an issue, a problem, or a sickness, and they decide to do something different, I'm all for it. Vive la difference as our French brothers say. But, if that's the case, then DO SOMETHING DIFFERENT. Don't show up in my town and call yourself the Bottle Rockets and then karaoke frat rock your asses through all the chords and key changes like a tribute band. If I wanted Rush, I would move to Canada.

I want my message to be clear. I like Brian Henneman, and I respect his talent. But the Bottle Rockets are done. The Bottle Rockets embodied everything that was wonderfully terrible about being out of control in the heart of Missouruh: as long as your neighbors don't mind, that M80 is legal. Call this new band something different and unplug those guitars. Get some stools, and drink your water from a pint glass with some ice and a lime wedge so we at least have the illusion that what you're doing is exotic.

A real DJ from a real radio station said that he may have seen his last Bottle Rockets show tonight, and I concur. If you want to be a pussy Brian, lose the hat and go acoustic. My expectations will change, and I'll be more receptive to the new you (which I applaud and support, because I understand that sometimes a man's gotta get cleaned up). Just let me die with my Festus mojo intact...with the memories...it's all we got...

From CNN and the Associated Press:

MEXICO CITY, Mexico (AP) -- Mexican and U.S. researchers said they believe an ancient-looking, rarely seen fish in a Mexican river represents a new species of catfish -- and an entirely new taxonomic family.

The new species was dubbed Lacantunia enigmatica, of the family Lacantuniidae, in an article published in the online scientific journal Zootaxa.

The Lacantunia enigmatica -- "enigmatic" because scientists are not sure of its habits or its origins -- is a flat-sided, thick-tailed fish that grows to about 1 1/2 feet (1/2 meter) in length.

"This fish has ancestral characteristics. It is not like a modern catfish," said Rodiles, who at first was not sure of the significance of the find and consulted with researchers from the University of Texas at Austin and the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia.

"It has characteristics that indicate its ancestors were among the world's earliest catfish," Rodiles said.

The University of Texas said in a news statement that anatomical studies show that the fish is the only member of an ancient group that may have arisen while dinosaurs roamed the Earth.

Jonathan Armbruster, an associate professor of biology specializing in catfish at Auburn University, said the discovery of the new species was significant because it could help scientists learn more about the movement of continents and people.

And, from the StarTribune:

WAUSAU, Wis. -- This is indeed a fish story � not about the one that got away, but about a rare one.

A white muskellunge is swimming in the waters of Lake Tomahawk, a northern Wisconsin lake in Oneida County. State fisheries experts captured it in nets during a population survey in April and released it back into the lake.

"I've never seen nor heard of an albino muskie, so it's an unusual fish to say the least," said John Lyons, a longtime fisheries researcher for the state Department of Natural Resources in Madison.

The nearly 33-inch long, 8-pound muskie had white skin but with a slight greenish tint, said John Kubisiak, a DNR fish biologist who was with the netting crew that handled the fish.

Muskies typically are silver, light green or light brown with dark, vertical bars along their long bodies.

Albino muskieWisconsin DnrCory Painter, an officer with the Madison chapter of Muskies Inc., said Friday the discovery of the white muskie created some buzz among anglers.

"I think it would be pretty cool to catch it,' said Painter, a 36-year-old angler who's caught about 100 muskies in his fishing ventures.

From the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources:

Bowfin (Amia calva)
A medium-sized, greenish fish, the bowfin can be found in clear lakes and slow streams through much of Minnesota. This primitive fish was around when dinosaurs roamed the earth. It is also known as dogfish.

Fun facts
Bowfin survive in murky, oxygen-depleted water by rising to the surface and gulping air into their air bladders. They can also survive out of water for a considerable time. A farmer once found live bowfin in moist soil when he ploughed a field that had been flooded a few weeks before. In recent years, fish farmers have shown interest in making bowfin eggs into caviar.

Dear Bill,

Fish dead, albino, and ancient are in the news these days, and this is one of the omens the moonbats talk about when predicting the GREAT RAPTURE. The world can't just exist for these people, churning out its strange mix of human perfume and vomit, and calling it history. No, there has to be a violent end, and someone has to pay, while they're rewarded with great bounty and inner peace.

I take great comfort that you and I are focused William, on the important things in life. Our ships sail in many directions, but we're constantly on the quest, and we don't busy ourselves with our souls and the souls of others so much; good is good and bad is bad, and God or whoever or no one will sort us all out later.

But back to the ranch, as they say, Friedman. This rag of a newspaper, cruelly dismissed by the Governor, and weekly used to wrap so many fish down at the local market recently printed up a list of Minnesota's Fifty Greatest Hits. I didn't partake in this venture out of apathy, sloth, and fear; I was too lazy to submit anything, and I knew the heavy hitters would be involved, so I thought I'd defer to their wisdom and see what came out. Plus, I knew, on the back side, I could slap up a disgusting little list of my own in this space, and focus it on Minnesota hillbilly stuff. So here are Minnesota's Ten Greatest Alt Country Hits. Naturally, this list is purely subjective, ill-informed, and obtuse. I encourage discourse on this, and maybe I'll print a retraction and reconfiguration in later weeks.

1. "Secondhand Love," Bellwether
The Jayhawks get all the love, but Bellwether had the opportunity to do it better and more thoroughly. This song embodies most of the things that are good about Salt Truck Twang: chicks, kind of a looping, loafing, yet grungy, guitar lick, plus a little harmonica and nasally six-string reverb.

1. "Goodbye Marie," Gear Daddies
Out-state desperation with everything from above, for the first time.

1. Trailer Trash, 5 year weekly run on Wednesday nights down at Lee's Liquor Lounge
Everyone was reminded how to dance and that all that Garth Brooks line dancing bullshit really sucked.

1. Front Porch Swingin' Liquor Pigs seemingly endless run at the Viking Bar
Everyone was/is reminded that hillbillies don't like haircuts, baths, or sobriety.

1. "Rose Marie," Ben Weaver
Because of some guy named Robert from Hibbing, Minnesota has a mythic connection to folkish type stuff. So, out of God-knows-where comes this gravelly-voiced guy howling about a woman on the edge in a hotel on the edge of town. The look on his face was priceless when I explained to him that his song was about suicide, "Really?" he asked. "I didn't think she died, she drives away doesn't she?" No Ben, no.

1. The Jayhawks, Saturday, September 20th, 2003, performing "Blue" at First Avenue
There was a moment during this show where Gary shoved his glasses back up on his nose about midway through the audience coughing "Bluuuu-uuuuue" right back at him. It was a pretty magical thing.

1. The Drive-By Truckers, August 6th, 2003, 400 Bar
This gig took 5 years off my life.

1. "Bleeding Fingers," Lucinda Williams
The fact that she recorded this album and this song here in the dead of winter one year gets glossed over a lot.

1. "Tampa To Tulsa," The Jayhawks
I give this song a 15 on a scale of 1 to 10.  In my feverishly scarred brain, there's the slightest twinge of Ringo laced irony that after all of the fabulous soaring two-part, Gary-Mark harmony, a Tim song was probably the most endearing, if not the best.

1. Cash Only I-V, The Cabooze
It's the kind of piddly local show where every year, in the dead of winter, your faith in humanity is restored. My own personal highlight: a couple of years ago, during Ol' Yeller's set where they were all dressed up in orange jumpsuits with prison numbers on the breast, I turned to my right and saw Fancy Ray fuckin' McClooney. I shouted, "Fancy Ray! What the hell are you doing here." He smiled that big broad smile and replied, "I wanted to see what you white boys was up to." I offered to buy him a drink, he politely declined. Five or ten bucks for something like that. I was overserved and undercharged.

From the wire on CNN.com:

NEWPORT, Tennessee (AP) -- Law enforcement agents raided an illegal cockfight and arrested 144 people attending what one official said may have been one of the nation's largest such gatherings.

Several SWAT teams, helicopters and dozens of state troopers participated in the raid Saturday on the sprawling Del Rio Cockfight Pit. They seized about $40,000 in cash and killed more than 300 roosters.

"Reputedly, this was the largest cockfight in the United States," said District Attorney Al Schmutzer Jr. "It was becoming open and notorious, and you just can't stand back and let something operate like that in the community."

David Webb, a gamecock owner from Rhea County, said he lost more than 20 chickens valued at $150 each during the raid. "I've been around this stuff all my life. Everything I've ever known is a chicken fight," he said.

And from WVLT in Knoxville, TN, this addendum:

Goodwin says Sunday's bust is not the first on the Del Rio site, agents raided it several times in the 1980's.

...cockfighting was a misdemeanor in twenty-nine states by then and a felony in sixteen. Arizona, Louisiana, Missouri, New Mexico, and Oklahoma still allowed it, but in Louisiana some of the sport's biggest boosters had been swept out of office, and in Arizona and Missouri animal rights groups were gathering signatures for state referenda on the sport.

At the same time, however, cockfighting had never been more popular. There were at least five hundred thousand cockfighters in the United States, and owing to the immigration of Asians and Latin Americans, the number seemed to grow every year. There were three national cockfighting magazines, with names like Feathered Warrior, and there were cockpits in even the most tranquil, law-abiding communities. When I told the name of my hometown in Oklahoma to a criminologist who specializes in cockfighting, he laughed. "Oh yeah. I know the place. There's a pit just outside of city limits."

Part of me wanted to go back and see that side of smalltown life, to let it rattle my memories like the false fronts of a Hollywood set. But another part, Demoruelle must have known, was just looking for a thrill. When he wasn't fighting chickens, Demoruelle worked in a drug rehab center, and he knew all about forbidden pleasure. "Be careful," he'd told me, only half-joking. "If you get into this thing, you might really like it. I can get somebody off drugs or alcohol better than I can off of chickens."

--From "Enter the Chhicken," in Noodling for Flatheads, by Burkhard Bilger, reprinted from an article in Harper's Magazine, 2000

People ask me why I'm drawn to the hillbilly side of life. Why do I do a pissant radio show and why do I do an even more pissant blog? It's because at the end of the day, there are only two facts a human being can cling to: 1) real cockfighters call 'em chickens, and 2) places like the Del Rio Pit are always in places like "Cocke" County.

I've got a few guesses about the extent of this enterprise which I'll hazard here. First, Al Schmutzer, Jr. knew about this pit...he knew about it before this weekend, he knew about it while he was in law school, and he probably knew about it the first time he got to third base with Mary Lou on the bench seat of his daddy's truck. Forty Grand and 300 chickens at roughly $100-150 a bird works out to about $75,000 total on a Saturday night. You're talking $300 thousand a month, or $3.6 million a year. That's what the squares call "industry."

Second, anytime millions of dollars are being bandied about in a small town setting, various people are getting a piece. In this instance, they're either getting it as part of the "house," or they're getting some fine, traditional entertainment on a Friday night that insures some generational continuity and stops the spread of communism in the Free World, and especially the lower 48. So the question is, if everybody knew about it, and everybody was getting paid, who got burned? You can just imagine the mayor's son or a local deputy losing a whole paycheck in a drunken frenzy "on the gray."

Real life isn't like the movies, and I don't think Al Schmutzer, Jr. is some kind of modern day Boss Hogg covering up his tracks, worried about the nosey Revenuers invading Cocke County and busting up a good thing. Rather, the truth here is that a great deal of Cocke County tradition is going down the tubes "because it was time."

I'm not here to defend game fowling, although an Uncle of mine is a partisan of the sport. I just want you to realize the next time you're frying up ol' Foghorn Leghorn on your grill or in your iron skillet, that that chicken lived for about six weeks, shoulder to shoulder, in a cage, most likely with its beak wripped off. On the other hand, one of these roosters is raised and pampered for almost 3 years, the best food, the freest range. Both types of chickens lose their lives in a violent flash. Which is more cruel? In which one does the chicken have a fighting chance at reaching old age? Revisionists cringe at this kind of truth, and the good people of Cocke County will most likely sweep this under the rug and move their pit to another locale.  But don't turn your nose up at them; when you have a governor who wants to build a sprawling Indian Casino onto the Mall of America with a massive Canadian drug pharmacy inside, chicken fighting pits aren't far off...and probably wouldn't be either, the residual noise of jet traffic from MSP over a Richfield garage being just the kind of thing to get a rooster's "pride up."

If that bit of moral relativism is a little too hard for you to swallow, well, as mamma always said, "nobody said life was fair."

For some more perspective, I highly recommend the song "Gallo Del Cielo," by Joe Ely on Live From Antone's on Rounder Records. It's seven minutes of pure Americana genius on betting the whole family farm on a chicken fight. I also highly recommend Bilger's book from earlier in this post. It's one of the most thoughtful collections of work on the "hidden" Southern culture, and he is flat out one of my favorite writers.

"...So lie down, my love, let me come into thy garden and eat thy pleasant fruits. Thou has doves' eyes within thy locks. Thy navel is like a round goblet which wanteth not liquor, thy belly is like a heap of wheat set about with lillies. Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn."
"Oh, David. No, David."
"Thy breasts like to clusters of grapes on the vine. The joints of thy thighs are like jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning workman, thy neck is as a tower of ivory. Let my banner over thee be love. Let me stick it in your ear."
"No, David. Oh, David. Oh, David, David--no, David." And, saying she would ne'er consent, consented, and was not sorry afterward. "David," she sighed with bliss when we rested. "That was divine. Where do you get such beautiful words?"
"I make them up out of whole cloth," I told her, feeling pretty good about them myself.

--From "God Knows," by Joseph Heller

I can remember the first time I fell in love with Neko Case. It was in Austin, Texas, March of 2000. This girl who was both ratty looking and strangely alluring at the same time stomped up on a stage under a tent, and after tuning her guitar a little, glided to the mic and belted out, "Want to GET it all behind me, you know that everything reminds me..." and everything after that was just a blur in my brain. Lust comes in many forms, but honest lust occurs when you react purely to something pure like the sounds that come out of this woman when she's on her game. She channels a compelling personal story into a twang operetta that is absolutely gut wrenching for anyone with a drop of testosterone in his veins...even the happy songs.

I want to screw Neko Case's Voice. I want to stick it in her Voice's ear, and I feel ashamed that I've reduced this human being to just a part of her, but that's the way it is. For the last four years, lots of closet stalker types have thought they had a shot with some beautiful and talented women who were celebrities because Billy Bob Thornton nailed Halle Berry in Monster's Ball. I'm not like that, but the most repeated joke by men at a Neko Case gig is, "Shhh...my girlfriend's singing." But I know she's not interested in me, she doesn't find my story compelling, and she's never had the slightest inclination to meet my parents.

The sold out crowd at First Avenue was kind of a surprise though. I've seen her in the Entry when there was hardly anyone there, same at the 400 Bar. Don't get me wrong, she ought to have sold out shows like that, I'm just curious about the spike. Personally, I think it's just a weird combo between the "it's her time" phenomenon, and the true weight of The Current's promotional capabilities; in other words, she's peaking as a performer and she got MPR'd. There were a lot of people there last night who had either never been to First Avenue, or hadn't been there in a long long time. They moved uneasily among each other, and weren't quite sure what "the rules" were.

But I could see it in their eyes, all of them, even the women...they wanted that Voice on them, and over them, and around them, and for the most part, they got it. Remember when Radar decides to be the camp DJ and Colonel Potter keeps requesting "Sentimental Journey" over and over again? That's what I'm talking about. You're not physically in love with her, she's just stabbing at your heart and making you flesh out the emotions in your real life. She has such a plain brown wrapper beauty about her, too, that resonates in the corners of femininity where Shania's and Faith's nips and tucks dare not tread.

Her band was top-notch, as well, featuring multi-instrumentalist Jon Rauhouse, who sort of reinvents traditional steel and banjo parts, and then somehow makes it all sound honky-tonk old, and hill country wise.

Several blocks away, an hour or so earlier, I spent a good 6 or 7 songs listening to another Pacific Northwest twang outfit, Richmond Fontaine, stomp through their catalogue of twisted alcoholics running into life's little brick walls, at The 400 Bar. This Willy has a knack for storytelling that makes you want to laugh and cry, because you feel sorry for his characters, but you're sure as hell glad it's not you. "Through" ought to be an arena country rock anthem in this land:

You walked with a limp
And I was worried about that
But it turned out all right
Turned out that you were okay
And they pulled the car up
They held you to the ground
Never met anyone like you
Wasn't always so fucked up...woo-oo
But I know
I know that I can
Feel that way too
I won't get so bleak
And I won't feel soooo through

It's such an odd song about an odd duck, but it feels normal and everyday, and it's a story you overhear in bars all the time. The band's deceptively rollicking country guitar and rhythm parts really take the edge off the tragedy, too, especially live. This is a live band's live band. They feed off of whoever shows up, whether it's 100+ (seen it) or less than 20 (seen that too). They sneak up on you too, hence the opener gig at The 400 on a Tuesday night when something major like Neko is going on over at First Ave. In my heart of hearts, I want their gigs to always be this small, so I can get the full effect.

This is a quick update on my application for membership to the CMA, or Country Music Association. If you're a regular reader of this space, you know that I needed two things: 1) $50.00, and 2) A good rec from 3 references "in the biz." I'll work in reverse order and say that I feel pretty good about my chances with those three references, should they get called by the CMA to review my application. Of course, a spotless reputation is a touch-and-go phenomenon in our instant access world, but all the same, I think those guys are in my corner as far as this process goes. As for the first thing, this was in my online bank statement:

05/26/2005 Card transaction COUNTRY MUSIC ASSO $-50.00

So they took my money! Which begs the question, will they return it if ol' Ed Benson gives me the ixnay when the Board of Directors reviews my application? Modern Mainstream Country has been a land of no refunds to many of us for many years, so I'm guessing not. What was it Jerry Reed sang? "She got the elevator, I got the shaft..."

Anyway, I need to change my ballot, with the upcoming June 14th release of "Begonias," by Caitlin Cary and Thad Cockrell on YepRoc Records. Whereas once my vote was:

VOCAL DUO OF THE YEAR
Brooks & Dunn, they're going to win it anyway...Wham! always wins.

It's now:

VOCAL DUO OF THE YEAR
Caitlin Cary & Thad Cockrell...lots of smooth hillbilly love, love gone wrong, and just plain old wrong songs..

I'm going to pay this duo a backhanded compliment of sorts and hope they don't take it the wrong way. I once described Thad Cockrell as the Barry White of Alt Country, and what Ryan Adams would have become had he not become what he is today: as boring and self-absorbed as that asshole in Cold Play. To that end, this record feels a lot like a Whiskeytown record. I hope I didn't just give them the kiss of death there, because I really liked Whiskeytown. And I really like both Caitlin's and Thad's work over the past few years. But you can't divorce yourself from your roots or your surroundings (and, in Country Music, you shouldn't want to), and this album is what the premiere North Carolina broken-hearted, alt twang band would pump out if there were such a beast.

But wait! This is new! This is original! It's just trading on that old Whiskeytown groove, it's not sheepishly, embarassingly, and boringly repeating it! As I mentioned above, Thad Cockrell is the Barry White of Alt Country, and if you can't get laid to this record, well then bubba, you need to pay closer attention to the commercials during pro football games. When Caitlin Cary sings about love lost it's like watching an expensive vase get broken in a completely silent room, beauty and destruction and beautiful destruction, a strange harmony in the sound of shattering China, ghostly, yet piercing. The first 6 songs on this disk are everything that was, is, and will be right about alt twang; if you've never really turned onto the hillbilly groove borne as much out of The Replacements and Sonic Youth as it is out of Buck, Johnny and Hank, then on June 14th, go start your education with this little group of ditties right here.

So George and Andrew...er, I mean, Kix and Ronnie, you can kiss my ass. I'm voting for Caitlin & Thad (pending application approval).