this isn’t so much a review as a plea.  a plea to all you good, record buying folks.  i know you’re out there, somewhere, skulking probably in some foosty, indie shop, rifling through old vinyl and the umpteenth experimental stephen o’malley release.  it’s a plea to anyone who’s ever indulged jon spencer or bought something from fat possum; to anyone who’s ever wondered what the bastard musical offspring of an unholy communion between zz top and shellac would sound like; to anyone who’s ever found themselves alone and drunk on too-much whisky at three in the morning wondering just what in the hell is going on; to anyone who’d love to see what a james ellroy musical would be like.  this plea is to all of you, to stop whatever pointless activity you’re indulging in, and go buy some of p.w. long’s records, to go see him play live, maybe even to just send him a nice letter, a shiny gift or some money.  anything that’ll keep him making his records and singing his goddam songs.

i’ve been listening to preston wright long yowling and blustering for (an alarming) fourteen years in one form or another, from mule to reelfoot to p.w. long to young james long and i can, in all honesty, say this is the ultimate flawless distillation of his musical talents into one thirteentrack thirtyminute slab of polyvinylchloride and/or polycarbonate plastic.  then again i would say that about any of his albums, so maybe i’m not to be trusted.

god bless the drunkard’s dog was the first release for black diamond, southern’s tasty vinyl-only imprint.  it’s now out on cd.  it almost entirely consists of p.w. and taylor young (who also drums with those eponymous rowdies young james long) and it sounds like they’re locked in some metallic, guitar-mangling, skin-hammering rhythmic drunken brawl.  a bit like mule but slightly more restrained, slightly less chaotic.  a bit like leadbelly’s corpse fed through a power station.  it’s an album that set it’s stall out from the get-go, with jackie lake fairly rattling along.  the album only pauses for breath a few times along the way with a couple of fuzzy slow burners – bog, histrionica and the crooning indulgent misery of saskatune.

crazy tonight is full of bad-ass bluesy tribal drumming cramps-style, scat singing, and a clammy sense of some uneasy, dangerous fun, climbing up the walls, face down on cold tiles kinda vibe – “i’m fighting back and i know i’ll win but i just don’t know when”.  it’s one of thirteen highlights on the album.

owed (to the next life) is the best song the white stripes never recorded.  shake has the cocksure, sleazy, greasy vibe of a cheap strip club.  worst baby indulges in some undulating bass and hysterical rock.

(let ‘em) roll takes the genius essence of billy gibbons’ guitar work and does things to it that queens of the stone age can only dream of.  all nicely polished off with toby pipes excellent keys.  and in only three of your shiny earth minutes.

when not howling and growling long’s usually slurring and mumbling about something or other.  the lyrics sheet enclosed is in fact reinterpretations of reinterpretations of what various acquaintances, academics and accomplices think he’s singing.  certainly makes for interesting reading.  if you have the time, listen closely to the songs and you can get the bones, work it out (make it up?) from there, translating, digging out those dark little stories amongst the vicious electricity of his six-string.  it’s a typically amusing obtuse move from this wandering minstrel.  so if you can decipher nogales roses butcher knife girl tale, or the muffled howls buried underneath the clattering percussive 10am then you’re some kind of cunning linguist.  actually 10am might be about waiting for the liquor store to open.  strange how i relate…

when all’s said and done, it’s music’s primal urges, played with heart and guts and balls and if that’s not enough to sway you goddam people i don’t know what is.

label / purchase / his space

Reelfoot Lake, which is in the upper most western corner of Tennessee, was created by the great earthquake of 1812 along the New Madrid fault which supposedly caused the Mississippi River to flow backwards for a few days, which filled the lake.  It was always the place we went for Easter, Mother’s Day, and some birthdays to eat catfish through my years of living in Tennessee.

Years ago, we ate at a place called Gooches which was right on the water.  My Dad always joked that the glasses of water they served you were actually lake water that had been filtered and cleaned! After it closed, we moved around the lake to another restaurant called Boyette’s and that’s where we’ve been going for years now.  It’s right across the street from the lake’s museum and a nice walkway that puts you right out onto the lake.  You can’t go to Boyette’s and eat catfish without going across the street to take a walk along the water.

And that’s just what I did last weekend when my Mom invited me to go with her and her Sunday school class to eat at Reelfoot.  I was excited about going mainly just to snap some cool photos, and of course, to eat catfish, french fries, onion rings, cole slaw, country ham, green beans, and hush puppies!  All you can eat!

Here are a few of my best photos…

Not a great photo, but it was nice to watch him flying in across the lake.

Boyettes