Imported

Res ipsa loquitur

Filed under: Imported

LOS ANGELES, California (Reuters) -- Oscar-winning actress Renee Zellweger and country singer Kenny Chesney are seeking an annulment after five months of marriage, a spokeswoman said Thursday.

Publicist Nanci Ryder confirmed that Zellweger and Chesney, who stunned the entertainment world in May with a marriage on a beach in the Caribbean, had split.

In court papers filed Wednesday, Zellweger listed "fraud" as the reason for the breakup but did not elaborate, The Associated Press reported.

A phone call to her attorney was not immediately returned, nor was a call to Gleason later in the day regarding the fraud claim.

From People.com:

Zellweger filed the papers Thursday in Los Angeles Superior Court, citing "fraud" as the reason for the split. The actress's petition also asks the court not to award spousal support to Chesney.

No further details about the couple's split were available, and there was no immediate comment from Zellweger's camp on why she cited "fraud" as the reason. According to top Hollywood divorce attorney Sorrell Trope: "If fraud is checked that means a promise was made before the marriage, but the person who made it had no intention of keeping it. The promise has to pertain to the heart of the marriage."

Thumper's dad taught him that if you couldn't say something nice, don't say anything at all. But it's worth pointing out that it only took Renee 5 months to figure out what I've known all along. Maybe his tractor isn't so sexy after all. I think I'll drop an email to my old Buddy, Buddy Cannon and see what Renee means by "fraud." F-R-A-U-D, in sworn court documents, under penalty of perjury and sanction. God shouldn't tease me like this.

This is still a Presto Electric Hotdog cooker:

More from People.com:

In a statement released Friday, Zellweger sought to "clarify that the term 'fraud' as listed in the documentation is simply legal language and not a reflection of Kenny's character.

"I would personally be very grateful for your support in refraining from drawing derogatory, hurtful, sensationalized or untrue conclusions and greatly appreciate your understanding that we hope to experience this transition as privately as possible," the statement reads.

No further details about the couple's split were available. Zellweger added that she wants "to maintain the integrity of our privacy by not commenting on the specifics of our decision."

Chesney also released a statement Friday echoing Zellweger's sentiments. "This is an incredibly sad time," he said. "I just hope everyone can respect the privacy that I know Renée has already asked for."

Goddamnit boys and girls...Renee's right...

Fraud is a legal term...it's a legal term that in its barest essentials means a material misrepesentation of facts and circumstances was made intentionally. So legally, Renee, respecting your privacy, and, sensitive to Kenny's incredible sadness, you're saying that he made a material representation about you, him, and/or you and him, that just wasn't true, and he did it on purpose. Truly, I plead, forgive our small-minded glea, but we all doubt very seriously that he looked you in the eye and said, "Renee, I like cats," and then, 4 months later commenced to beating your precious kitty to within an inch of its life.

Just come clean...he stole all of your boxes of contact lenses and hid all of your pairs of glasses and threw your hearing aids in the trash, then told you he was tall, had a full head of hair and could sing.

This is still a Presto Electric Hot Dog cooker:

Excuse my fascination with this but...

Fraud is defined to be "an intentional perversion of truth" or a "false misrepresentation of a matter of fact" which induces another person to "part with some valuable thing belonging to him or to surrender a legal right".

I earned my JD from the University of Minnesota in 1995 and passed the bar exam that same year, so allow me a little leeway here...I'm a little rusty...

She's breaking off the marriage because of fraud, marriage and the responsibilities thereof were the legal rights she surrendered. And that's why she's petitioning for no spousal support, because legally speaking, either one of them could be liable for it, post-divorce.

So now we have to sit around and cackle and cluck about what he lied about. Let's brainstorm, shall we?

1. Wealth
Highly unlikely. He has to have about 13 quadrillion dollars. Realistically, I could see a scenario where all of his royalties are tied up in some convuluted contract fashioned by the shitheels who run Cashville, thus rendering him a puppet to their wishes...but jeez, we all have to drop our conspiracy theories at some point, don't we? He's rich, she's rich, so I doubt she's bitching about money, unless he has a spectacularly out of control gambling problem.

2. Sexuality
This is getting a lot of play in the blogiverse, but don't get too focused on the small picture here...he could be a hermaphrodite..........gotcha! The celebrity world is full of your George Michael type confessionals, so I wouldn't be surprised, but let's give the kid a break, he's from Tennessee where I think they outlawed homosexuality shortly before Sherman's March.

3. Potency
If she wanted a real baby and he couldn't provide one...hmmm. Does any guy really wish this on another guy? If I was a betting man, my money might be here, but I wouldn't feel good about it.

4. General Health
As in, I went to the Doctor before we got the marriage license and I don't have Syphillis or Cancer or AIDS. Once again, not one of those you wish on anybody, because if you cook up 10 or 15 possibilities, chances are Renee now has 90% of them. Ew. Gambling problems and drug problems show up down here, too. A drug problem isn't a far-fetched guess, but don't you think the People/Us/Enquirer folks would have caught that long before this Godless union? They ran down their Robert Downey Jr's and their River Phoenixes, don't you think they'd catch the Kenny Chesneys too? Hmmm.

5. Living Arrangements
As in, "we'll live in Texas," then he forces her to live on the boat in the Carribean. I don't have my license anymore, and I wasn't a very good lawyer in the first place, but this seems thin.

6. Capability of Being Married
As in, he was married before and hadn't had it annulled, or he was too incompetent to decide to get married, or he and Renee are actually cousins and he knew it. I'd call these pretty sexy picks if I were a bookie, especially the previously non-annulled (un-annulled?) marriage. Who knows how many Gingers and Mary Annes (or Gilligans for that matter) he has/had/will have down there on the boat? Maybe he's just fucking crazy. Maybe he's so fucking crazy he forgot he met Renee at the family 4th of July barbecue.

If anybody wants to get a gambling board up on this, email me. If we're going to gossip, we might as well cook up some odds.

God, I love People Magazine:

Then, late Friday, Zellweger and Chesney released a third statement, saying that "the miscommunication of the objective of their marriage at the start is the only reason for this annulment. Renée and Kenny value and respect each other and are saddened that their different objectives prevent the success of this marriage."

So now we know...somebody wanted kids and the other one didn't. I was personally hoping for a improperly dissolved previous marriage with an illegitimate child, but we can't win 'em all.

This is still a Presto Electric Hot Dog cooker:

Posted by Jack Sparks at September 16, 2005 8:59 AM

 

Sigh II

Filed under: Imported

I gave up recently.

In the last few months, I've been inundated with shit from Nashville encouraging me to vote for absolute fucking wastes of time like Rascall Flatts and Kenny Chesney for CMA awards.

Here's the thing, you, me, we, us, them...we don't want stimulating variety. We want a package. Let me illustrate.

ESPN.com has a pretty entertaining writer on Page2 of their web site named Bill Simmons. Bill is a very engaging author, who is talented at dropping pop culture references into his work to flesh out ideas and add humorous twists to his topics. He's also one of the most un-abashed Boston sports fans you'll ever read. He bleeds for the Sox, Patriots, and Celtics. And, for that reason, his articles during the past few baseball and football seasons have really added a honed edge to the "Boston experience." His fear and his lament, however, have been stuff like the HBO special "The Curse of the Bambino," the movie "Fever Pitch," and every useless shot of Ben Affleck in his Red Sox cap on TV. You see, what Hollywood and TV think we want is a derivative Red Sox experience, and so they've hand-delivered this sort of cliché-ridden picture of the thing to suck us in.

Don't get me wrong, Red Sox fans are awful, I hate being around them. But I have the good sense to know that their pain leading up to last season's World Series was a very ugly thing, deep and rich, striped and spotted, with wave after wave of idiosyncracy and nuance. I would rather run into some drunken guy in a bar yelling "Sawks!," and tell him the only reason it took so long was because Yawkey didn't like black ball players. THAT'S when you get the true picture of what that whole mess was all about, not some bullshit movie where Drew Barrymore bounces her ample bossom up and down on a baseball field grossly cheapening a moment that literally millions of people were praying for, for 86 years.

But your stupid children won't know the difference. They're going to equate this thing with Ben Affleck, not Leigh Montville and Peter Gammons.

And who's to say they shouldn't?

The point is, you could go buy a Red Sox hat, a "Good Will Hunting" lunch box, watch "Fever Pitch" and the "Curse of the Bambino" and call yourself a Red Sox fan, and no one at the Wal Mart or Target where you bought these things would say anything to you.

Now pay close attention here...

Right after Gretchen Wilson strutted out on stage with a dip in, proclaiming herself a Redneck Girl...Faith Hill is now at or near the top of the charts as...tah-dahhhhh...a Mississippi Girl! No more whispy goddess in designer dress moaning of love from the Eiffel Tower with her bald husband by her side. Dammit, she's DOWN HOME.

The number one Billboard Country song right now is "Play Something Country," by Brooks & Dunn. This comes from the authentic duo--put together by the marketing managers of two labels in Nashville who thought one's voice and the other's pouty cowboy act would play well with the hausfraus--who brought you the boot-scootin' fucking boogie.

Well fuck you Kixx (what a stupid fucking name by the way, what's your real name?) and Ronnie. Johnny Cash fucking hated you. And he hated you too, Kenny. He hated all of you people in Nashville. You know why? You gave up relevance for money. Country music wasn't going anywhere. It wasn't like it was just going to up and disappear. But you panicked and decided it needed to be a product.

"Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy," isn't in the Harlan Howard tradition. Harlan Howard would have invented that phrase, not read it off of a bumper sticker and made a song out of it, ten or fifteen fucking years after it was first said. The long ago dead genius of the songwriters in Nashville was their ability to translate common life into meaningful music with clever twists of language. You fucking people have turned that all around bass-ackwards. Now you take jingle slogans and inundate your radio listeners with them until they go to the fucking Wal-Mart and buy whatever it is you're selling.

Several people at a small radio station in Stillwater can attest to this. I got piles and piles of mail in the last few months encouraging me to vote for this and for that for CMA awards. Many for artists in direct competition with each other for THE SAME CATEGORY. Piles of it. You want to know the joke? IT ALL CAME FROM THE SAME ADDRESS IN NASHVILLE.

You, me, us, we, them...we don't want Country Music. We want the Country Music package.

I give up. I miss you Johnny.

Posted by Jack Sparks at September 14, 2005 11:03 AM

 

sigh

Filed under: Imported

---

If you like songs about puppy dogs being too late to save disabled kids who die in house fires, become angels and prevent car wrecks, screamed at you on top of overly dramatic pedal steel fills, you'll love Martina McBride. Bring your wallet because it will cost more than $40 to absorb her vocal histrionics on the back of your skull and have your soul stirred repeatedly by songs of poverty and abuse sung by a very rich woman with servants. Tonight State Fair Grand Stand, $1,000 (Angels get in free)

Buck Owens wouldn't shit down Rascall Flatts' throats if they were dying of starvation. Maybe I complain too much, but if you're going to force me to accept the Chesney-ification of Country Music, please give me some sort of connection to the historical timeline of the art form. Don't just give Hanson some facial hair and put a fiddle and steel player in their backing band and call them the next Alabama. By the way, who the fuck wants to be the next Alabama, anyway? I sure as hell didn't ask for the next Alabama. Thursday State Fair Grand Stand, $Your Eternal Soul's Damnation in Hell (if you go with two of your best friends, make sure one of you wears a tshirt, the other a Western shirt, and make the fattest of the 3 of you wear a long-cut, untucked silk shirt with a spikey collar and the sleeves undone, pout at any girls you meet)

Posted by Jack Sparks at August 31, 2005 4:09 PM

 

Don Henley Sucks

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We couldn't get Lynyrd Skynyrd, but then again, none of us cared. Here's a hint, or maybe a nudge, perhaps even a wink wink to the State Fair folks: The Gear Daddies should play the Grandstand one of the last 3 nights at The Fair every year, and it shouldn't be as a replacement for some band that isn't even a band, or even the shadow of the band, or even 50% of the band that they're supposed to be.

This is a smoked walleye. It was caught in a Minnesota lake and it was gutted and grilled within 100 miles of where it was yanked unceremoniously from its habitat.

I'm a transplant to Minnesota, and I worship the State Fair. I find it to be the perfect period to my Summer sentence, and I scratch my head in bewilderment at those who fail to revel in its majestic beauty and terrible ugliness. Our hopes and our fears are sewn into the seams and pockets of this spectacle, and we gather, like sardines in a can, to hash this thing out until there's nothing left but a battalion of dumpsters, filled to the lid with the shattered equinox of what we think is "Minnesota."

As you're standing in the middle of a six or seven thousand member sea of humanity watching the 40-someting Gear Daddies play, you realize that they don't speak to who we are so much as they speak to who we hope we are. We want small town education and big city guts, and we pray every night that there's one or three things we can rely on when the sun comes up in the morning. We want to feel like the boss expects us, but we want him to understand that it's still August, and, incongruously, that there are ripe tomatoes on the vine. We want to get bombed Friday night and miraculously find our way home, safely. But we don't want to feel like a pussy getting there.

Here's the thing about the State Fair...about the Gear Daddies...about Minnesota...that you'll never understand, unless you have your ear to the ground Kemosabe. A) You want some friends. B) You want to spend time with your friends, exchanging ideas, lawnmowers, and recipes for smoked walleye. C) At some point, you hope and you pray that some rock solid gal who understands the finer points of paying the mortgage on time, when to plant the tomatoes, where the dogwoods should go in the backyard, and which belt to wear with which shoes, takes pity on you and makes your life worth living. Diablo Cody, THAT is what the State Fair is about; it's about the sweaty mess of 3 deep lines at the port-o-let at 10:01pm, and the men who love them. There is LIFE in this process and genuflection is mandatory.

Posted by Jack Sparks at August 28, 2005 11:25 PM

 

Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and...

Filed under: Imported

Still, I felt a nagging emptiness when I left. That was it? That's the event Minnesotans talk about all year long? --Diablo Cody

You see, my little Diablita, the State Fair is about the annualness of it all. This is a harvest festival. We all get together and celebrate our sunburnt, drunken, fish-poachin', gun-shootin', bike ridin', pontoon wreckin' summers. And, if we happen to come across a bare-chested, 300 pound man with a prosthetic hook for a right arm, wearing a captain's hat, with a distended belly button that would be a b-cup breast if it were on a woman...well, good God woman, that's worth the $9 in and of itself. Some things are different about the Fair each year: the seed artworks, some of the food, a handful of musical acts...but some things are the SAME: like the above photo, an annual rite of "Sparks at the Fair." This year's act was filled with unbridled joy because I had actually bought a digital camera this past winter and was able to capture it in pixilated form for posterity. I apologize, but the only thing I don't like about the State Fair is when they bring in bullshit sissy boy bands like Rascall Flatts, and the scotch eggs. Everything else gets a "10" in my book.

Posted by Jack Sparks at August 28, 2005 10:36 AM

 

A rooster born of heaven...

Filed under: Imported

Carlos Saragosa
left his home in Casas Grandes
when the moon was full

He had no money is pocket
just a locket of his sister
framed in gold

He headed for El Suego
and stole a rooster named Gallo del Cielo
and the he crossed the Rio Grande
with that rooster nestled deep beneath his arms

Robbie Fulks once told The Onion in an interview that Country Music does one thing really well, and when it does that thing, it sort of transcends itself. As I watched Joe Ely last night at Lee's Liquor Lounge, I pondered this idea. What kept ringing in my head is that what I consider good and/or authentic twang music, stains you. It stains your clothes, your heart, and your soul. It gets down inside you and it stays there across the years.

By contrast, the kind of Countrived Music that I rail against is more like lip gloss or clown paint, very temporary. If you're prancing around in a black cowboy hat right now, singing about Margaritas and Senoritas, you're going to wake up 10 or 15 years from now and wonder what the joke was. Why were you wearing that shirt, and man, this song sounds kinda fruity all the sudden doesn't it?

Joe Ely's music isn't like that. I often tell people if they had to re-record the episode of the Simpsons where Homer eats the chili pepper, goes on a trip and meets his spirit guide, a coyote with Johnny Cash's voice, they should choose Ely to fill in for the Man in Black (God rest his soul). When Joe sings a song, it stays sung. There's some kind of creepy, ethereal, authority to the way he sings; and that's not to say his voice is hard-edged and brute. Rather, when you're there, 20 feet away from the guy, and he sings something, you have a hard time imagining anybody else ever singing that song again. I like Robert Earl Keen like the next guy, but, after last night, I can't imagine anyone else singing "The Road Goes on Forever," ever again.

And make no mistake about two things: 1) Seeing the man do "Me and Billy the Kid," live in your face is just about one of the ten best things you can do on this earth if you're a country fan, and 2) Joel Guzman will cut the top of your head off with his accordion playing. I'm not sure I've seen anything like him, this side of Flaco Jimenez. He made that thing sound like a pedal steel, harmonica, and everything in between.

Finally, he sang the chicken fight song during his encores. I think I would have stepped over my own mother to hear that song live. To use a sports analogy, the welling of emotion for me in that song at the end is very similar to Al Michaels' "do you belive in miracles" bit at the end of the game against the Russians. The song is epic, yet believable, and for some reason, you get a big sympathetic hole in your heart for a fighting rooster during it. More of that ethereal stuff I was talking about.

Posted by Jack Sparks at August 11, 2005 9:57 AM

 

A cheap shot at a good writer...

Filed under: Imported

A quick counterpoint to Jon Bream's best live country acts piece on StarTribune.com. His comments, followed by my reactions in bold.

1. Kenny Chesney: With his energy, attitude and athleticism, he throws a party like no other current country star, even if his songs don't measure up to country's finest.

His songs don't measure up to country's worst. To say he sucks ass is an insult to ass everywhere. I'm really lost on why this guy doesn't get savaged more regularly. "...even if his songs don't measure up to country's finest," is the national music writer's code for "we all think he sucks, but we have to write drivel like this because the production companies buy huge ads in our newspapers." Let's all drop the pretense, if Kenny Chesney never recorded another fucking note, none of us in the Country Music biz would be the worst for it.

2. Big & Rich. Genre-blending originality, commanding stage presence and a sense of fun (and humor) have meant that Big Kenny Alphin and John Rich's motto should be "Save a Genre (Take Some Chances)." Thursday at We Fest.

There's nothing original about these guys. Their stage performance is derivative of everything Kid Rock's been doing for many years now. Take some chances? "Save a horse, ride a cowboy" has been a FUCKING BUMPER STICKER for decades! Let's all drop the pretense, these edgy guys who happen to record for the equally edgy independent little shop called WARNER BROTHERS FUCKING RECORDS are an attempt to tap into--albeit about a decade later than they should have--the suburban, white, hip hop market, Wal-Mart Hip Hop.

3. Toby Keith. Part Hulk Hogan and part Hank Williams Jr., this blustery, hard-partying patriot is country's over-the-top success. Thursday at We Fest.

Finally, something to latch onto. It's Part Hulk Hogan part Hank Jr. because today's mainstream country is more like Pro Wrestling than Country Music.

4. Brooks & Dunn. This long-lasting duo has a convincing balance of sentimental songs, sanitized redneck rowdiness and calculated showmanship.

It took all of Bream's strength to say these guys should hang it up. Their act is so tired that they don't even measure up to the 10 bands that are exact duplicates/weird offshoots of them (see Big & Rich).

5. Rascal Flatts. Country's boy band pulls it off with youthful energy, harmony-happy romantic songs and cool hairdos, especially frontman Gary LeVox's (above). Sept. 1 at State Fair.

If Bream wanted Gary LeVox to ask him to the prom, all he had to do was call him. FUCKING BOY BANDS DON'T BELONG IN COUNTRY!!!! I'm calling right now state-wide for anyone who's got tickets for this gig to eat a sweet corn, save your cob, and launch it at the stage in unison when this disaster comes out to play.

6. Sawyer Brown. This veteran group doesn't try to impress with a fancy production. Instead, it lets the uptempo tunes and frontman Mark Miller's dazzling dancing carry the show. Friday at We Fest and Aug. 27 at State Fair.

Two words: Star Search. How long oh lord? How long?

7. Alison Krauss & Union Station. No one can argue with her beautiful voice and the group's awesome instrumental prowess, but it's Krauss' off-the-wall humor that makes the performances delightfully unpredictable.

Finally, someone worth seeing.

8. Keith Urban. This fast-rising Aussie heartthrob injects spirituality, romanticism and guitar heroics into his hook-filled country-rock. Sept. 24 at Xcel Center.

The Sean Cassidy of country. I'm going to tell you what happened with this guy, even though I wasn't there. Some night at some club in Nashville, he was on a bill with 3 other guys who sang and played guitar just as well, if not better than he does. The fat fuck in the audience with the big office at the record company--on his 5th Jack and Coke--signed the good looking guy. That's it, that's what separates him, his looks.

9. Gretchen Wilson. This raw, rough-around-the-edges newcomer's honesty, passion and humor shine through on her forward-thinking but traditional mix of heartache and honky-tonk. Saturday at We Fest.

I'm still warming up to Gretchen. Too bad she's part of the Ass Clown Posse, or whatever they call themselves.

10. Trick Pony. A spunky, fun-loving and fun-generating trio that understands how to create a (contrived) good time. Saturday at We Fest.

Why did he put "contrived" in parentheses? Almost everyone on this list is contrived. In fact, mainstream country music should be changed to Countrived Music.

11. Terri Clark. She rocks! She can be a sensitive balladeer or a sweaty rocker. And she always champions girl power. Sept. 4 at Kick'n Up Kountry Music Festival in Hallock, Minn.

I actually have sympathy for Terri Clark. She starved herself into hotness when she came down out of Canada and that fat fuck with the office at the record company thought he had a chick act he could throw out there and make some dough off of, even if she had a two note voice and a two song act. They tried to make her the "Redneck Woman" thing, but it just didn't ring true, maybe further evidence of Wilson's authenticity, I'm not sure. The thing is, now that Wilson hit it big, they've twisted Clark's bit all around and tried to shove her into the mold. It will be interesting to see where all the chicks go now. We've already seen the desperately God-awful Faith Hill try to refashion herself into a hillbilly queen after selling out mercilessly for so long. What a fucking joke.

12. Dwight Yoakam. Long a Nashville outsider, this Hollywood cowboy is a scrumptious sonic throwback with a deep melting pot of superior tunes and a sly, witty stage style that drives women wild.

I've heard some good things about Dwight's gigs recently. I'm kind of crossing my fingers on his split with his long-time producer.

13. Tim McGraw. He drives women wild, too, not with his statue-like moves but with his hunky body, winning songs and big-budget production. Saturday at We Fest.

Sigh. In another words, he stands out there like a puppet and voice-boxes some song somebody else wrote while hookers and fireworks dance around in the background so the chumps who got duped out of $200 a head down front are distracted from his master's strings? Is that about right Jon?

14. Wynonna Judd. Long one of the strongest female voices in Nashville, she has finally found her comfort zone on stage with a spirited, liberating, humorous journey through her life via her favorite rock and R&B covers along with her own hits. Aug. 26 at Grand Casino Hinckley.

He's right, Wynona has a powerful voice. She also weighs about 2 1/2 bills, which made the fat fuck with the big office in Nashville jump off her ship like a scared rat. Do you see what I'm talking about? Loads of talent, but she likes moon-pies, so we think we'll pass. Nashville sucks.

15. Montgomery Gentry. Coming on like WWE tag-team champions, this duo is rambunctious and rockin' with a couple of ballads to balance the bluster. Aug. 26 at Jackpot Junction Casino in Morton, Minn.

See Pro Wrestling reference above. All of these duo acts in Nashville are just twangy copies of Wham! You do the jitterbug (snap snap snap)...

Posted by Jack Sparks at August 5, 2005 5:17 PM

 

Twang Lives...

Filed under: Imported

"Well," I said. "All this white stuff on my sleeve is LSD."

He said nothing: Merely grabbed my arm and began sucking on it. A very gross tableau. I wondered what would happen if some Kingston Trio/young stockbroker type might wander in and catch us in the act. Fuck him, I thought. With a bit of luck, it'll ruin his life--forever thinking that just behind some narrow door in all his favorite bars, men in red Pendleton shirts are getting incredible kicks from things he'll never know. Would he dare to suck a sleeve? Probably not. Play it safe. Pretend you never saw it...

--From Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, by Hunter S. Thompson

Gregg Swedberg went to bed Sunday night, comfortable in the knowledge that his music director is too stupid to play, or even be aware of the band Drag The River. Which is the way things go in Mainstream Country Radio. The point I hammer home, ad nauseam, in this space is that Country music is many things to many people, and, comes from many strange and varied locales. When you work at a Mainstream Country Radio station, you stick your head into the sand, all the way up to your asshole, and buy the line that nothing is worth throwing on the radio unless it comes out of Nashville. Not only is Drag the River better as a band and a concept than anything coming out of Nashville right now, I'm sure they would overwhelm all those "Music City" acts with brute force, if not by smell. They drink before the show, during the show, and after the show; and like Dr. Johnny Fever, it just seems to make them stronger.

Chris Riemenschneider went to bed Sunday night, comfortable in the knowledge that Jon Bream had done a thorough cataloging of the lyrics of the last Mariah Carey album, but had never stopped to consider the 8 year odyssey of boozey road songs of regret and redemption that Chad Price and Jon Snodgrass seem to be able to churn out at will. There was a rough crowd at the Triple Rock Cafe Sunday night, and the two fisted out-state boys were shouting the words back at the band with bottles raised in the air, jumping up on-stage at roughly 2 minutes to 2, to slog through "Modern Drunkard" in perfect inebriated harmony, with guitar and pedal steel. Normally, a crowd with Asian chicks sporting tattoos in the shape of Texas, colored in with the pattern of the state flag, is Riemenschneider's gig. But, he's had enough of punk bands going country, so it's no wonder he misses the gems in the rock pile.

Ed Benson and Buddy Canon went to bed Sunday night, too fucking paranoid and stupid to give any thought whatsoever to anything but Big & Rich, and whether Faith Hill's bullshit attempt to go straight and play it twangy was going to bring the money rolling back in, now that Garth has retired to full time Dad-dom. While they spend every waking hour trying to squeeze any little bit of creativity in the genre through large product grinders with fine mesh dies, until there's nothing left but shapeless meaningless pulp that looks like the same shapeless meaningless shit they churned out last year, Drag the River charges around the country playing small clubs to rabid fans, most of whom are tangential travellers to the twang, having grown up worshipping at the altar of ALL as they charged their skateboards down the railings of the local public library. This tap into the vein of the demographic is organic and real, and their metamorphosis into Drag the River was a natural process that breeds lifelong loyalty, or repeat business...Ed.

Fuck them, I think. With a bit of luck, it'll ruin their lives--forever thinking that just behind some narrow door in all their favorite bars, men in skateboard shirts and Asian chicks with Texas tattoos are getting incredible kicks from things they'll never know.

Posted by Jack Sparks at July 26, 2005 1:43 AM

 

Away an bile yer heid

Filed under: Imported

From ESPN.com:

Colin Montgomerie shot 66, good enough to get him in the final group Saturday with Woods. But the Scotsman will start the round with four daunting strokes to make up.

He didn't even object to the premise that everyone is playing for second.

"I have to go along with that," Montgomerie said. "A lot can happen around here. But we all know if Tiger Woods plays the way Tiger Woods can play around this golf course, I'd have to agree."

Translation: Tiger Woods can eat a shit sandwich.

If this were a pro wrestling match, the announcers would be shouting, "these two men just don't like each other!"

The over-under on a piece of gamesmanship by Monty that brings out the New Zealand All Star Rugby player in Stevie and begins a succession of well-framed glares on ABC's bland coverage, is about hole 5 tomorrow. If Monty isn't in full red-faced ruddy anger by the time he gets his spikes off at the end of the round, tomorrow will be a complete waste. Get out of bed, I promise you it will be worth it. This man has acrimony against his American counterparts because of all that Ryder Cup bullshit, and, because he's never won the big one on his home turf.

I'm rooting for good TV.

Posted by Jack Sparks at July 15, 2005 4:12 PM

 

I don't need TV, when I have T. Rex...

Filed under: Imported

91. I Was Drunk, Alejandro Escovedo
There's only one Alejandro.

Throughout the first few songs of Alejandro Escovedo's set on Friday night at First Avenue, I kept thinking of David Bowie for some reason. This feeling that maybe Escovedo is the Bowie of roots rock kept weighing down on me. It's a goofy little comparison, but it just felt right. The music he allows to surround his lyrics is bendy and alien sometimes, while still feeling basic and rootsy. And his voice isn't really twangy when he sings, but it is when he talks. You get the feeling he could be anything at any time up on that stage, and each new song he played was different, but weirdly fit with the one before, as the night progressed. And Jesus, his voice...the man has Hepatitis C. You don't just take some Vitamin C and call it a bad mistake on that one. I was really worried that he'd have to limp through something up there, singing on heart and conviction, but good God was I wrong. Even if he didn't move and swagger too much, his voice crashed around the room, reintroducing himself as our weird ol' Texas spirit guide Uncle Alejandro, gone for awhile, but come back to visit. His rendition of "I Was Drunk," the 91st greatest Country Song of All Time, was outstanding, if not chilling in its desperation and tone. This is truly a masterpiece of isolation and pain, and it struck me for the first time what a brilliant move it was to never call out or record the name he's actually calling out in the song. It's all part of relating the pain and loneliness, and besides, it makes the song more universal in the end. Finally, he absolutely kicked my ass at the end, with a two song encore of "All The Young Dudes (written by Bowie--see? It wasn't just the dirty tap delirium and nausea that caused that thought)" and the Stones' "Sway."

Thu 07.21.05 Oklahoma City, OK Blue Door
Fri 07.22.05 Kansas City, MO
Sat 07.23.05 Kansas City, MO Davey's Uptown
Thu 08.04.05 Calgary, AB (CA)
Fri 08.05.05 Calgary, AB (CA) Night Gallery
Sat 08.06.05 Edmonton, AB (CA)
Sun 08.07.05 Edmonton, AB (CA) Gallagher Park w/ Edmonton Folk Festival
Fri 08.26.05 San Francisco, CA
Sat 08.27.05 San Francisco, CA 12 Galaxies
Fri 09.23.05 Austin, TX
Sat 09.24.05 Austin, TX Continental Club
Thu 09.29.05 New York, NY Irving Plaza w/ Jon Dee Graham, David Pulkingham & Matt Fish
Fri 09.30.05 Washington, DC 9:30 Club w/ Jon Dee Graham, David Pulkingham & Matt Fish
Sat 10.01.05 tba w/ Jon Dee Graham, David Pulkingham & Matt Fish
Sun 10.02.05 Philadelphia, PA Kimmel Center for the Performing Arts (Verizon Hall)

The people who live in the above cities are dumbasses if they don't go catch this guy's show when he comes to town. That's all we have to say about that.

Posted by Jack Sparks at July 11, 2005 3:11 PM

 

I Hate Lists part III

Filed under: Imported

As I sat under the newly arched, softwood ceilings of my favorite Minneapolis Mexican restaurant, El Mariachi, last night, enjoying my Chivo en Barbacoa, I realized that it was indeed Summer and that it was indeed time for me to vomit forth the 3rd Edition of my Top 100 Country Songs of All Time. Chivo en Barbacoa somehow roughly translates to slow roasted, spicy goat meat, and if you accompany it with frijoles refritos, a little rice, and the best shrimp cocktail in town, well gringo, it provides the fuel for the kind of feverish mind that likes to sit around and stir the Country Music pot.

Just to refresh some memories, this whole thing started 2 years ago as a sort of response, addendum, or tsk-tsking to one of the greatest pieces of Country Music literature ever written, Heartaches By the Number: Country Music's 500 Greatest Singles, By David Cantwell and Bill Friskics-Warren. Entertaining, thoughtful, and painstakingly researched, this is one of the freshest reads you'll run into on any bookshelf. All you guys can relate when I tell you that I keep my copy right next to the crapper. It might be Number 3 on the all time pantheon list of things to read on the throne.

Anyway, lists like this always cause feedback. To wit:

Jack,
I just sat down with a six-pack of Schell's beer and the computer (there's a contradiction for you) and pored through your top 100 list. Can't say that I disagreed with any of them and I embraced many of your picks. In fact, I loaded up my MusicMatch Jukebox as soon as I read "Heart of Gold" and started spinning Neil songs like I was DJ at the Turf Club.
But I do have to whine/bitch/complain about one omission. No Neko Case? I know she's a relative newbie, but I also know you're a fan (read your interview with the Bloodshot exec on your site) and held out hope as the list scrolled that I'd see "Set out Running" or "The Virginian" or damn near anything else she's belted out over the years. I'm listening to "Canadian Amp" right now and just got chills up and down the old backbone hearing her cover "Alone and Forsaken." It could be the fourth Schell's, but I doubt it.
Love your work, keep fighting the good fight and all that.
PD
Minneapolis
p.s. Think anybody at K102 would pass a word-association test if you said "Van Lear Rose" to them? They'd probably think it's some damn flower in Faith Hill's hair at the last CMA banquet. The fuckers.

What no Gram Parsons? Where does Return of the Grievous Angel fall if it's not in the top 100?!?
DEC

Jack,
Excellent list. Except you go all the way to #82 before you get to a Townes Van Zandt song; and then you don�t go with �If I Needed You�. And where the hell is �Wichita Lineman�? For shame. Otherwise excellent (if slightly flawed) list.
JN

Down here in Oklahoma I get to thinking 'the lights are out' but then I came across your list and 'hello' there is hope, was especially gratified to see Terry Allen. In fact am driving to Ft Worth on the 19th to see him in person for the second time. The man doesn't tour much.
Keep up the good work.
PW

I was surprised that you didn't list one of David Allan Coe's song particularly his ode to Hank Williams, "Ride". And for the record, I am unfortunately a glutton for Pure Prairie League and "Amy". Can't think of another song that I love to sing along too...
other than that...loved your list.
MD

That's a great list. Gotta believe, though , that Lone Justice's "Don't Toss Us Away" is missing only because you are not familiar with the song. One listen (or a hundred) and you will add it to the list.
JMS

Jack,
Looking at last year�s list, which is a great list, there were a couple of songs I thought might be there but weren�t. If they are there and I missed them, I apologize.
London Homesick Blues � I only saw �Up Against the Wall� on there by JJW. I think that �London� and perhaps �Jaded Lover� rank higher for me on his list.
The Road Goes On Forever � I love Gringo Honeymoon as well and I suppose that �Road� is a cliché among REK fans but I gotta say that everyone who I play this song for goes insane. I�m going to see REK Sunday at some Indian casino picnic ground north of San Francisco on Sunday. I�m hoping for a good time!
Thanks again for the entertaining reading.
BB

Jack,
I don't just sound like Jimmy Buffet, I AM Jimmy Buffet, and I got one sexy tractor
Kenny C

Jack,
C'mon, Love us! We're edgy, we put a black guy and a midget in the act just like Kid Rock, just like Warner Brothers records told us to do. C'mon fella. Get on board the peace and love train and join the Muzik Mafia. We're really alternative man. I mean, I know one of us wears designer clothes the other a cowboy hat, just like Brooks & Dunn, Montgomery Gentry, Trick Pony, and Wham! But really, we're DIFFERENT! Love us!
B & R

As you can see, when you comment on Country Music, the responses come fast and furious, from all corners of the globe. Luckily, being a heavy hitter, I'm immune from criticism, or even accuracy. That being said, the criteria for this list is pretty simple: the song has to kick some ass. But, with that in mind, realize that there are country songs out there that I might think are number 142, so if they aren't on this list, it just means they didn't make my Top 100. As you can see, I do read my email, so if you have a Top 100, send it to me, I'm always interested in other folks' thoughts on the subject. Without further ado...

Top 100, 2003, Edition 1

Top 100, 2004, Edition 2

Jack's Top 100 Country Songs of All Time
1. I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry, Hank
2. Folsom Prison Blues, Johnny
3. Love's Gonna Live Here, Buck Owens
I'm going to do things a little differently this year, because I can. For my money, 3 men irreversibly changed the genre. Hank Williams modernized it. Johnny Cash personalized it. And Buck Owens electrified it. If there were cute graphics and org charts and crap like that associated with this list, these 3 men would be at the top, and everyone else would be flowing out from under them, with sharp cutbacks and squiggly lines in between. That's not to say that I'm ignoring everything that came before them in a chronological sense; rather, I think these 3 men did more to shape and finely tune what we think of as country music than most of the stuff that came before them. So if you have your banjo in the back of your Honda Hybrid on your way to the bluegrass festival, don't send me an angry email about all the hillbilly jugband stuff, I don't think I'm making all that outlandish of a statement. As for the songs themselves, they embody 3 very different themes and stories in the Genre. Williams' song is the ultimate pastoral cry of isolationism in a post-WWII overly industrialized world; Johnny's song is the ultimate song of personal suffering and regret; and Buck's song is the kind of misery-laced, in-your-face dance number that made honkytonks blossom like wildflowers for a short time in this country.
4. Walking the Floor Over You, Ernest Tubb
This is a terribly desperate song, which belies it's soft sweet recording. It's a beautiful example of a simple idea, made more complex through a highly skilled recording. Tubb was literally walking the floor over his wife who had temporarily walked out on him.
5. Crazy, Patsy Cline
I moved this song way up this year. Patsy Cline's recording is certainly a home run, but the song itself deserves this high of a ranking. Willie hit the bull's eye 3 times in 1961 with 3 of the most important and beautiful songs ever written in any genre. "Crazy" is such a little throwaway lyrical idea, too, very sparse and simple. But the multilayered recording makes it explode and seer your noodle with the pain and regret of the author. Unless something has changed recently, this is far and away the most played song on Jukeboxes in the history of America.
6. Dead Flowers, Rolling Stones
A lot of people in Country Music did booze and pills and heroin. So there ought to be a song in the Top 10 about that. Five honkies from England put the tonk back in things.
7. Together Again, Emmylou Harris
I don't know if my metaphor holds, but Emmylou has a kind of musical Virgin Mary quality to her when it comes to Country. Luxury Liner, Elite Hotel, Pieces of the Sky, these records helped SAVE country music during a very strange period; they held their own against the first ripples of a growing tide of commercialism, and have served as beacons for anyone seeking a source of inspiration for some authenticity and meaning in what they're doing...in other words Kenny and Shania have never listened to them.
8. Loving Her Was Easier (Than Anything I'll Ever Do Again), Tompall Glaser & the Glaser Brothers
Here's another one I moved way up, mostly because of the song. This is an amazing poem, thick with well used language and beautifully rendered in a chorus of Marty Robbins-esque vocals by the Glaser Brothers. If you put a gun to my head, I would tell you this is my favorite Country Song of all time.
9. Portland, Oregon, Loretta Lynn
Garth Brooks got out because he had too much money, his former marriages was in a shambles, his kids didn't know him, and there were probably days when he didn't know himself; but I also like to think that he got out on some level because he saw cannons like this pointed at the side of his boat. After Cash and Rubin created the masterpiece that was the first American Recording, it was only a matter of time before a few more classic-current hookups happened that produced fireworks. In five years, Van Lear Rose is going to be on everybody's list of all time greats, especially if clowns like Gregg Swedberg aren't just talking out of their asses about going after the suburban housewife as Country's core demographic. Loretta has always been the Country Joan of Arc for the modern housewife, true to her man and family, but not afraid to take a swing at the son-of-a-bitch, or the whore that led him astray, if she has to. This tune with its bombastic guitars and rhythm, and deceptively tame storyline, re-serves the notice that Loretta laid on everybody a little less than 40 years ago: mamma just ain't to be fucked with.
10. Blue Suede Shoes, Carl Perkins
Mystery Train aside, people really DO get into shouting matches about Carl Perkins. He's one of the first guys to take one for the team on a personal fame level, even though he probably had more talent in his pinky than about 90% of everybody he ever worked with. There are probably only 3,459,286 recordings of Blue Suede shoes out there, but, his is the only one where the guy singing it really means it, every word of it. This is a sweaty, bloody song, and it's Perkins' sweat and blood on it.
11. That'll Be the Day, Buddy Holly & the Crickets
It's hard to believe that West Texas Mysticism is best embodied by a skinny kid in a dark suit and horn-rimmed glasses, but that's just the way things are. You have to go sit in an old beatup truck at a gas pump at a station in Lubbock to truly appreciate what an absolute freak this man and everything he did truly were.
12. It Wasn't God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels, Kitty Wells/The Wild Side of Life, Hank Thompson/Great Speckle Bird, Roy Acuff
13. Lovesick Blues, Emmitt Miller
Every list like this needs to meaty historic bullshit in it. There are some east coast jazz snobs who think all of country music is just one song re-recorded 6 million different ways. They point to 11 and 12 as their proof. Midwest and Deep South Country snobs point to 11 and 12 as the primordial veritas of Country in American history.
14. Help Me Make It Through the Night, Sammi Smith
Read what Cantwell and Friskics-Warren wrote about this song as they ranked it Number 1 all time. It's hard to add much to that, besides the fact that I like Willie Nelson's recording much better. Kristofferson, if he was anything, for a few years at least, he was the Country voice of the social and sexual revolution in America.
15. Knoxville Girl, The Louvin Brothers
He takes the woman he loves down to the river and kills her ass, and they sang it in soaring two party harmony, and roughly 3 gazillion people cover each year at State Fairs and folk festivals around the world.
16. Blue Eyes, International Submarine Band
The source of alt country has always been the competing stream of young people who stayed dialed into edgy rock and/or roll while picking their little hearts out to their favorite old timey records. The pioneer of this ethos was Gram Parsons, and "Blue Eyes" is the signature tune of a disaffected and disenfranchised, yet happy culture of hillbillies who picked it out their own way on their own terms.
17. Don't Think Twice, It's All Right, Bob Dylan
Dylan this, Dylan that, yada yada yada.
18. Screen Door, Uncle Tupelo
We had about 9 years in there when we all had jobs and mountain bikes and a cold case of beer in the fridge. Everybody had a little more respect for each other and their differences, and there wasn't some bobble-headed puppet in a suit telling everybody what was right and what was wrong. Then all hell broke loose on or about Tuesday, September 11th, 2001. Oh well.
19. This Land is Your Land, Woodie Guthrie
We had about 9 years in there when we all had jobs and mountain bikes and a cold case of beer in the fridge. Everybody had a little more respect for each other and their differences, and there wasn't some bobble-headed puppet in a suit telling everybody what was right and what was wrong. Then all hell broke loose on or about Tuesday, September 11th, 2001. Oh well.
20. Blue Yodel (T for Texas), Jimmie Rodgers
The singin' brakeman, yada yada yada.
21. He Stopped Loving Her Today, George Jones
What I really love about Nashville is things like the tribute to George Jones on PBS a while ago, where all the little shits trotted out and told the man to his face how much they loved him and appreciated his music and how much it inspired them, then promptly sang everything reading the lyrics off of teleprompters. What bullshit. You're telling me you can't remember the lyrics to this song? "He said, 'I'll love you, til I die...'" This song ought to make you feel uncomfortable about your own mortality and make you screw the cap off of a GOOD bottle of wine and climb into it, never to return. Give me the lawn mower keys baby, I'm drivin' to town.
22. Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain, Willie
Nashville STILL hasn't figured out what to do with this recording. It's STILL treated like a great big anomaly. Five million copies, scratching their heads...
23. Hello Walls, Faron Young
A pristine example of why jazz singers dig Willie, his poppy Blues hillbilly schtick that translates across all borders. Young's lunch-pail vocal adds just the right everyman quality this song needs.
24. Ring of Fire, Johnny Cash
June loves Johnny, yada yada yada.
25. Coat of Many Colors, Dolly
I vacillate on Dolly. On the one hand, you have one of the most important songwriters fo the 20th Century, especially from the feminine viewpoint. On the other, you have one the biggest preachers of the cult of "Success," akin to an Amway salesman, on the level where as long as YOU'RE happy and YOU'RE making money, nothing else matters. I'm oversimplifying things to make a point, obviously, but a lot of these phoney baloney Barbie Dolls singing about disabled kids and mascara in Country these days chant the mantra of Dolly like it washes them of all their sins, when the very obvious counter is that they haven't plumbed any of the depths her songwriting has. Whatever.
26. Stand By Your Man, Tammy Wynette
Burning bras, peace, love, dope, women's shelter, yada yada yada.
27. Sing Me Back Home/Mama Tried, Merle Haggard
You know I took Bruce Springsteen out of this year's list because something was bothering me and I figured out that he and Merle represent a lot of the same things in American music. When you see the two of them do it, you can imagine yourself doing, singing the same words about the same stuff. They represent us, whoever we are; you just get the feeling they'd blend in in your backyard barbecue. Bruce doesn't belong in a Country list, Merle does. Merle is Country's Bruce, Bruce is Rock's Merle. These are big epic tunes of simple men gone wrong bemoaning their loss of place in life's line, not at the front, not at the back, somewhere in the middle.
28. Husbands and Wives, Roger Miller
Roger Miller was so damned genius he could repeat two phrases twice, wrap it in some music, and blow your head off:

Two people lonely
Lookin' like houses
Where nobody lives

Blam! Just stop and paint that picture in your head. Nine words! Nine words!
29. Lookin' Out My Back Door, CCR
I first heard this song as a kid when my oldest brother would play it for me on his record player. Everything it meant to me then always comes flooding back over me when Dude gets his car back in "The Big Lebowski." The Cohen Brothers should be given a medal for that scene.
30. El Paso, Marty Robbins
This isn't a country song, it's an aria in the middle of an opera written by Verdi or some other dead Italian guy. The three greatest male voices in Country Music history were/are Ken Curtis (aka Festus), Larry Gatlin, and Marty Robbins. I'm not joking when I tell you if this song comes on my radio on a warm summer day when I'm tooling down the highway in my little pickup, I damn near drive off the road, howling at the passing traffic. Think about that cowboy singing "I, Pagliacci" at the cows in those old Texaco/Metropolitan Opera commercials.
31. Me and Bobby McGee, Janis Joplin
Recorded just before she died, the first time Kristofferson heard it, he started to cry and told the guys in the studio, "she did that to me on purpose."
32. There Stands the Glass, Webb Pierce
33. Always Late (with Your Kisses), Lefty Frizzell
You don't have to listen to a whole lot of Pierce and Frizzell music before you realize that country has ALWAYS been about boozin' and fuckin'.
34. I've Got a Tiger By the Tail, Buck Owens
One of Country's greatest failings of the last 40 years or so is that Nashville has never had an answer for the combination of Buck, Don Rich and Doyle Holly when they were tuned up and plugged in and pouring kerosene all over everything. As loud and as fast as you want it. It's kind of like, no matter what Metallica does, Led Zeppelin still did it just as loud and creepy as anybody wanted it. The difference is, there hasn't been a Metallica for Country.
35. Good Hearted Woman, Waylon Jennings
(imagine you're standing in some 3 acre sized bar outside of a minor Texas city, blue jeans and boots soaked in beer, peanuts, and vomit, shouting over the music) "Man!.....shit....Waylon....fuck...Man...fuckin-A man...fuckin' A Waylon..."
36. Your Cheatin' Heart, Hank Williams
My favorite story from the American Masters bit on PBS was the story where Hank was laid up in his bed because of his back and he was getting drunk and shooting a pistol randomly out into the house. It's the kind of story I carry around in my pocket so I can bristle when some Nashville shit heel reminds me that it's a business. "Music is a business," they say. Yeah, I know you now.
37. I Never Go Around Mirrors, Lefty Frizzell
I just love this song. The ultimate Country self-deprecation song.
38. When You Say Nothing At All, Alison Krauss & Union Station
The reason Alison and Union Station get standing ovations when they perform at all the awards shows these days is because they're better than everyone else there.
39. Windfall, Son Volt
Number 38. Here's where I make my point about all this phoney baloney shit that I do on here and on the radio. Right now, the money grubbing losers in Nashville are trying to sell us a bill of goods called Big & Rich under the guise of the whole thing being an edge to embrace the edginess of hip-hop, punk, grunge, whatever. It's all pretty sad and ad hoc, mind you, but it's an attempt nonetheless. The point is, they had a very natural and organic opportunity back in the 90's with the music of Jay Farrar in both Uncle Tupelo and Son Volt. The man was and is a real bridge between the musical types and cultural phenomena, and they flat out fart-fuck missed it.
40. Old Dogs, Children, and Watermelon Wine, Tom T. Hall
I'm going to quote myself from last year, I can't do any better:

39. Old Dogs, Children, and Watermelon Wine, Tom T. Hall
About five minutes after I posted the last bit of the list, last year, I was fucking embarrassed by the dearth of words on Tom T. Hall. He's another one of those artists who's enjoying a renaissance of his work right now, and the chief reason is the bedrock truth and reality to the things that he wrote. I've written about this part of Country music that's been lost by pursuit of demographics and meaningless record sales, but it's a simple idea: unique experiences, when written about thoughtfully, evoke common experiences, that play to common emotions. I don't know shit about old dogs, I hate children, and I've never drank watermelon wine, but somehow, I know exactly what he's singing about. Fuck you Kenny Chesney.

41. The Ghosts of Hallelujah, The Gourds
I put this here last year as a big middle finger to tradition and the old guard. I think something they've done has to go somewhere on this list. They get labelled as a jam band all the time, which really chaps my ass. I defy you to find albums full of 18 minute mandolin fugues in any part of their catalogue. This is a beautiful, up-tempo, hillbilly, faith song of sorts. Hallelujah brother!
42. Great Balls of Fire, Jerry Lee Lewis
Pure, unadulterated, devil music. Hallelujah brother!
43. Illegal Smile, John Prine
John Prine is probably the King of indirect mention on this list. There's probably 20+ places on this list where his direct influence is part of the song listed.
44. You're Still On My Mind, Byrds
Another close call where Country could have embraced something a little different and simply didn't.
45. Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town, Kenny Rogers and New Edition
I think it's a rule, or a law, or an actual Amendment to the United States Consitution, that you have to sing this at top volume, drunk, somewhere. You don't just flip this on at a Sunday brunch or Wednesday afternoon tea party, say.
46. Pick Me Up On Your Way Down, Charlie Walker
I think this is the best honkytonk dance song ever. Charlie Walker is vastly underrated as a singer.
47. Up Against the Wall Redneck (Mother), Jerry Jeff Walker
Hillbilly hippies cling viciously to their visions of the man from upstate New York who reinvented himself as a Texas Hobo singer. As such, their favorite song is always his best song. I have a great weakness for most of the performances on Viva Terlingua, but I just don't know how you say anything he's ever done is better than this performance. Maybe better is the wrong word; maybe imprinted on the genre's conscience is the proper phrase. He wrote "Mr. Bojangles," but I'm fairly certain that he spent the next twenty years of trying to perform it by falling off the stage into the front row. This is a song one can sing drunk.
48. If You've Got the Money I've Got the Time, Lefty Frizzell
We'll go honkytonkin' and we'll have a time, bring along your Cadillac, leave my old wreck behind, if you've got the money honey, I've got the time.
49. Galveston, Glen Campbell
HERE is a GREAT example where Country embraced something different. Desert southwest psychedelia, cleverly masked in the songs of Jimmy Webb, peformed by a hillbilly guitarist by way of Los Angeles. Give it to me baby. See, what I'm talking about all gets back to a seemingly disconnected place: Nat King Cole recording "Nature Boy." It was a massive gamble and a crazy overlap, but hey, we're all smart people, we can handle a little musical stimulation, give it to us!
50. Heart of Gold, Neil Young
The first grunge album, a fantastic Country record, a beautiful song. I love the chord crescendo married to the harmonica.
51. Me and Billy the Kid, Joe Ely
It was just my way of gettin' even, with the man who shot my horse. August fucking 10th baby, August fucking 10th!
52. I Ain't Never, Webb Pierce
My friends ask the thunder what's wrong with me.
53. Hey Good Lookin', Hank Williams
Let me tell you something, the girl in this song gets nailed in the end. I hate being crude adn sexual sometimes, but Lord all Friday, if the shoe fits. This is the wolf in Chuck Jones' "Little Bad Riding Hood" getting lucky.
54. Sixteen Tons, Tennessee Ernie Ford
Country Music is filled with this Saturday afternoon Walt Disney Cowboy puppet shit about coal mines and rootin' and tootin' all sung in an almost omniscient baritone. This song has a sort of gritty realism that sets it apart, but be careful you don't divorce it from the pile of bullshit underneath.
55. Sing a Sad Song, Merle Haggard
This song should bring a tear to your eye. If you can get a hold of a live version, it will.
56. Flowers on the Wall, Statler Brothers
I swear to God this song got recorded and on the radio before anyone knew what it was about. This song would NEVER get made today, especially by the Statler Brothers.
57. Absolutely Sweet Marie, Jason and the Scorchers
Another opportunity missed. What's the count at now? Three, four?
58. Postcard, Uncle Tupelo
This song really describes some of the simmering aimlessness in my age group. Confusion and sensory overload, intertwined with loud, grungy guitars and ethereal pedal steel.
59. Lyin' Eyes, Eagles
And yer smiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiile is a thin disguise...c'mon, we all like the Eagles. It's okay.
60. Farewell Party, Gene Watson
The ultimate Country self-pity song.
61. Detroit City, Bobby Bare
I don't say much in this blog at the end of the day, but Bobby Bare's kid really made me consider a theory. If we kooky, hipster, doofus alt country kids are anything, we're the children of the men who by day made the cars, and by night, made the bars.
62. Before the Next Teardrop Falls, Freddy Fender
I think pure immigration numbers, and inroads by acts like Los Lobos and the combo group Los Super Seven is going to inject a whole of Tejano and Conjunto into the Country into the coming years. So Big & Rich are probably going to have to switch their midget to a Mexican one at some point. Freddy Fender is a GIANT of American music, if for no other reason than he was always just Freddy doing Freddy stuff. The best part of this song is the Spanish language part. He feels more comfortable singing those words and they're the ones that get you in the gut.
63. Coal Miner's Daughter, Loretta Lynn
Do you get that Loretta Lynn represents everything that is strong and real about women in this world and that all that shit coming out of Nashville represents just that, a bunch of shit? Lewis Grizzard wrote reams about how it's okay to ogle the "flat-bellies," but at some point, they just weren't real anymore, but somehow we all forgot that.
64. Suspicious Minds, Elvis Presley
There's no denying Elvis a spot somewhere on this list. I think we all hold hands and hold our breath that this was his truest and purest Country moment. I can live with that.
65. Behind Closed Doors, Charlie Rich
If you don't like this song, there's no hope for you.
66. Concrete and Barbed Wire, Lucinda Williams
You just have to get to that first "konkreet and barb'd wore" to get it.
67. Oh Yeah, Poco
A destroyed opportunity. I can't for the life of me understand what happened here. So much promise, so much waste. Oh well. Stay with the early stuff.
68. La Despedida, Terry Allen
This album changed the way I look at Country music. There's no reason to compromise with those dogs from Nashville. We don't need their shallow lies about change and innovation and this and that. It's all blah blah blah when you listen to shit like Kenny Chesney, then get yourself a heavy dose of Terry Allen.
69. Pocket Full of Gold, Vince Gill
Vince Gill is one of those Nashville guys who gets a pass because he can write, he can sing and he can choke the shit out of a guitar. And, he made the very honorable move of getting the hell off of that CMA Awards Show.
70. Hands on the Wheel, Wille Nelson
"...and fishin' for whales..." A mystery to Nashville still.
71. If We Make It Through December, Merle Haggard
I'm pretty dumb. I never really thought about this as a Christmas song until I started hanging around my friends in Trailer Trash, but it really is. It's a fantastic example of fear and hope.
72. Kiss An Angel Good Mornin, Charlie Pride
Charlie Pride is no less important than Jackie Robinson or Rosa Parks. He took great risks and bore a great burden. This song is simply fantastic from start to finish. If you aren't shaking your ass at the end, you're dead.
73. Lucille, Kenny Rogers
In a bar in Toledo, across from the depot. You know it, go on.
74. Tear-Stained Eye, Son Volt
Jay Farrar, yada yada yada.
75. Guitar Town, Steve Earle
Here's a situation where Nashville actually did try to embrace something a little different, and the vehicle let them down. That's not to say that Steve Earle didn't produce exciting and vibrant music when given the opportunity. But, had he lived just a slightly cleaner lifestyle, he might have kicked up some real dust.
76. One Road More, The Flatlanders
Just a good hippy country song. Embrace it man, embrace it.
77. Hot Burrito #1, Flying Burrito Brothers
Gram Parsons, yada yada yada.
78. Uneasy Rider, Charlie Daniels Band
I reached out and kicked ol' Green Teeth right in the knees. I think I wrote before that it's amazing how different Charlie Daniels appears to be from this version of himself. Oh well.
79. Amarillo By Morning, George Strait
This is a real goddamned rodeo song.
80. I've Been To Georgia on a Fast Train, Billy Joe Shaver
Thank God for Billy Joe Shaver. He belongs in his own Hall of Fame.
81. White Freightliner Blues, Townes Van Zandt
Everybody in Country Music spent 30-some years saying how great Van Zandt was without ever really giving him a genuine opportunity at the big time. Then he was dead.
82. Elmo Lincoln, Jack Ingram
A fantastic bit of storytelling.
83. I've Always Been Crazy, Waylon Jennings
Waylon's ultimate song of flawed indifference.
84. Little Ramona (Gone Hillbilly Nuts), BR5-49
Another opportunity missed, then recaptured, then fucked up.
85. Drive (For Daddy Gene), Alan Jackson
Here's a great example of what Country music does well. It takes a simple idea and builds a complex web around it, then leaves you with nothing more than an after-taste of that simplicity.
86. Laredo Rose, Texas Tornados

Crumpled bills on the dresser
Father confessor
Knows the wages of sin

87. El Cerrito Place, Charlie Robison
Charlie hit the ball out of the park on his latest album with this song. It's everything "My Hometown" was, with about ten more layers. He might be the most underrated Country songwriter living today.
88. Lucille, Fred Eaglesmith
Convert to the religion of FRED.
89. Indianapolis, Bottle Rockets
Boy, did I ever get some shit for criticizing the Bottle Rockets recently. This is one of the greatest Country songs ever. It speaks of desperation and cars and roads and America and it's fantastic.
90. Gringo Honeymoon, Robert Earl Keen
There's only one REK.
91. I Was Drunk, Alejandro Escovedo
There's only one Alejandro.
92. Passenger Side, Wilco
More of that aimlessness of Generation X going on here. Brilliant.
93. La Grange, ZZ Top
I've never been sure what to think of ZZ Top. You just know deep down inside that there was a period of time when being around these guys was a serious of life or death decisions.
94. Amos Moses, Jerry Reed
Any song that has "alligator bait" in it gets my vote.
95. Good-Bye, Good Lookin', Robbie Fulks
Another opportunity missed, number 6? Fulks' virtuosity and irreverance could have added so much.
96. Amy, Pure Prairie League
I'm going with the email above. Bustin' Out was a fantastic album and there's a blinding combination of lyrical and musical talent on this song.
97. Backsliders Wine, Michael Martin Murphy
I've rediscovered this tune in the last year or so. What a great song about booze and regret.
98. Tampa To Tulsa, The Jayhawks
A terrific terrific tune.
99. Where the Devil Don't Stay, Drive By Truckers
Hopefully, this is a song that serves notice that things are going to change soon. This is all the bombast of Lynyrd Skynyrd, coupled with the thoughtfulness of Waylon, Willie, and Tompall.
100. Play a Train Song, Todd Snider
The greatest song about trains that's not about trains ever recorded.

Posted by Jack Sparks at July 7, 2005 8:34 PM

 

You're out Tom...

Filed under: Imported

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

Posted by Jack Sparks at June 25, 2005 2:21 AM

 

Groucho had a line about this...

Filed under: Imported

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).

Posted by Jack Sparks at June 23, 2005 10:24 AM

 

And the home of the brave...

Filed under: Imported

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.

Posted by Jack Sparks at June 22, 2005 11:18 PM

 

An Open Letter to Bettman and Goodenow...

Filed under: Imported

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.

Posted by Jack Sparks at June 20, 2005 1:46 PM