By Lauren Wise
By Troy Farah
By Troy Farah
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Lauren Wise
By Anthony Sandoval
By New Times Staff
By Chris Parker
These two albums prove that your arms are never too short to shake hands with the upper management of Hillbilly Heaven. How else do you explain the spirit of Buck Owens' majestic late guitarist Don Rich entering the body and fingers of the Derailers' crackling twangmaster Brian Hofeldt? How else could Wynn Stewart's whompin' California honky-tonk sound so permeate the being of lead singer and principal songwriter Tony Villanueva?
Critically overlooked since relocating to Austin, Texas, from Oregon a few years back, the Derailers are finally getting the recognition they've self-effacingly earned night after night at Austin's venerable local roadhouse the Broken Spoke.
These two recent releases showcase the core trio's joyous harmonies and Buck-ed up songwriting in two vastly different settings. Those who hanker for a raw-and-ready slice of the country pie will cast their vote for Live Tracks, a crashing, 14-song set of the band's stage favorites like "Big City Blues," "Lies, Lies, Lies" and "Jackpot," laid on fast and informal in Austin radio station KUT's Studio 1-A in October 1994.
Ex-Blaster Dave Alvin lends a helping hand as producer of Jackpot, a slicker, more stoic affair which includes new studio recordings of all of the aforementioned tunes, plus a grab bag of newer ballads like the haunting "Desperate Ways."
When viewed against the chilling backdrop of Garth and Wynonna, both albums are mighty compelling alternatives to the washed-out mainstream-country thang. Jackpot will make you smile. Live Tracks will steal your honky-tonk heart.--Kevin Roe
The Derailers are scheduled to perform on Thursday, April 18, at the Rockin' Horse in Scottsdale. Showtime is 8 p.m.
The topic of love has been drawn and quartered in the annals of pop over and over again. Few contemporary songwriters can put a fresh spin on the pieces, but Dublin, Ireland's Gavin Friday does so with twisted brilliance.
Set in Dublin sometime in the 21st century, Friday's new concept album Shag Tobacco presents garish, cinematic close-ups of various love junkies who've been struck by Cupid's poison eros. Friday narrates their tragic stories in hushed tones over trancey, tantalizingly slow grooves. Dabbling in the cabaret stylings of Jacques Brel and Edith Piaf, the ex-Virgin Prunes front man also gives a nod to Bono, with whom he grew up in Dublin.
Most of the gender-bent characters who stumble through the piss-and-beer-sodden streets of Friday's futuristic world are based on real folk, such as the washed-up drag queen Mr. Pussy, who hosted the floor show in Friday's now-defunct cafe. Others are horribly real stereotypes, like the self-sacrificing suburban housewife who takes herself out with a bottle of Valium.
Tragic as this Eurocabaret may seem, there's plenty of room for celebration as well. Consider the highly danceable "You, Me and World War Three," an ironic commentary on the end of the world, when the need for love is at its most urgent and "there's no time to be blue." Also vivid and excellent is "The Last Song I'll Ever Sing," which comes from the perspective of a dying man who joyfully seizes that tacit moment just before death, when priorities come crashing into clear view.
At times, Friday seems content to hold his subject matter at arm's length, such as the pretentious "Caruso," in which he tosses out coy Eurotrash phrases like "Oh Dada, Oh Dali, un chien de Lou Lou." Other times, he submerges himself in the tracks, like on the jazzy, languorous "Shag Tobacco" (slang for a postcoital cigarette). "You're my amphetamine, you're my lover," he whispers, revealing his own addiction to amour.
Dignified even when he's most vulnerable, Friday is clearly an artist of uncommon depth and honesty. File this one under best unknown albums of the year.--Leigh Silverman
Cigar Store Indians
Cigar Store Indians
Over the boosterish course of its rise to the top of the slick New South heap, Atlanta has nearly shed its cultural Southern accent--a trend that's most painfully obvious in the mind-numbing blandness of the city's country-music scene. But it's so easy to beat up on the fast-food country stylings of favorite sons Travis Tritt and Alan Jackson that you can miss out on the thriving neorockabilly and honky-tonk scenes.
Alongside such local notables as the twang-happy Vidalias, Redneck Greece Delux and the Delta Angels, the Cigar Store Indians are a long-overdue blast of hook-heavy, rockabilly stomp. Front man Ben Friedman (a familiar rocker about town) crafts exquisitely hummable honky-tonk rave-ups that twitch and soar, thanks to Yoakamesque harmonies and the stuttering lead guitar of Jim Lavender.
Songs like "This Town Ain't Cool," "Pinstripe Suit" and "Crazy About You" don't cover much new lyrical ground, and the Indians veer a little too close to the Pulp Fiction zone on a couple of moody, minor-key surf send-ups. But these minor grievances are easy to forgive when you're zooming around on a sunny afternoon, screaming along with Ben and the band, cranking out a phat air-Telecaster lead and wondering how much the ticket is for steering with your knees.--Kevin Roe
In most cases, listening to new music by Eighties synth-pop stars is like waking up with a decadelong hangover to hear what fools we made of ourselves--how could we have listened to such a thing?
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