Th’ Legendary Shack*Shakers’ Swampblood
Now, you have to be careful when going down there, ‘cause much like
Rudderville or Kingfield, folks ‘round these parts get a might touchy if they
don’t know you. If you’re drivin’ too nice or too new of a car, the ‘shiners
might toss a few rounds your way thinkin’ that you’re a Revenue agent or some
other sort of Federale. Tales say that the swamp is haunted by the ghosts of
several Delta bluesmen that gave up thriving careers and settled down right
here, working as farmhands in the nearby tobacco fields. On Saturday nights,
they’d get together with cigar-box guitars and harmonicas and they’d sing.
Somebody would drag some sort of scaly critter out of the swamp and cook it up
for dinner, washing down the dubious feast with some clear, vicious,
foul-tasting liquor.
If you have a mind to venture out into
that neck o’ the woods, I’d suggest that you first make sure that you’re
driving the right kind of car…nothing too flash or too Hollywood, and
certainly nothing made by the flan-factories of Detroit after 1980. Maybe some
sort of early-70s Mopar, like a Charger or Satellite, preferably one with a
few well-earned rust holes, missing chrome and a dirty old sock stuffed in the
gas nozzle. Nobody down around the swamp will look at you twice, especially if
you’re rattlin’ Swampblood, the latest-and-greatest from th’ Legendary
Shack*Shakers, out of your vintage quad sound-system. With the Col. J.D.
Wilkes as your co-pilot across these perilous killing fields, you’re assured
of getting back home alive and kickin’.
Feedback-whipped howls and
nancy banjo-pickin’ comprise the brief instrumental “Dawn,” sounding right at
home surrounded by hanging vines and cypress trees. It’s the perfect-fit intro
to “Old Spur Line,” Swampblood’s kick-off tune and as nasty a slice o’
greasy redneck funk as you’re likely to hear these days. The Colonel’s vocals
are slightly echoed in the mix as he spits out this cautionary tale of
traveling into places that you shouldn’t oughta. The band shuffles along, a
minor thunderstorm behind Wilkes’ haunting vocals. “Hellwater” begins with an
authentic Tony Joe White guitar lick, David Lee channeling the spirit of John
Campbell as he picks out a familiar poke-salad riff and Wilkes belts out a
song about the wages of sin.
Appalachian Hillbilly Hoedown
Properly warmed up by this time, the Colonel and his instrumental army take
Swampblood up a notch; “Easter Flesh” sounds vaguely Middle Eastern in
flavor, with circular riffs and martial rhythms, Wilkes’ up-tempo vocals
bringing some sort of nasty Biblical judgment to the poor unfortunate souls
who resist salvation. The title cut takes us further into the murky water than
we’ve ever been before, the song a raucous, compelling number with manic harp
work and fire-and-brimstone lyrics sung in a possessed voice. Lee’s trebly
fretwork fuels the song’s instrumentation, a rhythmic assault that is as dense
as the morning fog on the bayou.
From this point,
Swampblood descends further into alcohol-fueled madness, each
performance proudly wearing the sweat and fervor of a backwoods preacher as
the Colonel puts his boys through their paces. “Cheat the Hangman” is like a
runaway freighter jumping the tracks and diving headfirst into a muddy river
while “Born Again Again” is an old-timey spiritual with a jug-band soul and a
church-pew heart. “The Deadenin’” proves that it’s not nice to fool with
Mother Nature, the song an environmental anthem that has Wilkes’ howlin’ at
the moon while the band kicks out a wily, smoke-tinted and disturbing
soundtrack behind the Colonel’s gnashin’-and-wailin’ vocals.
There
are several more gems hidden in Swampblood’s grooves that will tickle your
imagination, like “Jimblyleg Man,” an Appalachian hillbilly hoedown with spry
fiddle playin’ and plenty o’ words about some sort of wicked sprite, an
imaginary evil like the chupacabra down in south Texas or West Virginia’s
mothman. “He Ain’t Right” is a rockabilly rave-up that reminds one of Hasil
Adkins. “Angel Lust” has a jazzbo sound that kicks your ears like Professor
Longhair jammin’ with Cab Calloway while Brett Whitacre’s tribal drumbeats and
tasteful fills play along nicely with Mark Robertson’s muscular upright bass
as Wilkes’ swinging vocals take up any remaining slack. Whitacre adds the
accompanying patterns behind the Colonel’s mighty potent
stream-of-consciousness rant “Preachin’ At Traffic.”
Swampblood finishes much like it started, with the somber crosspatch
“When I Die” leading into the fading hill country banjo-maul that is “Bright
Sunny South.”
The Reverend’s Bottom Line
Swampblood is th’ Legendary Shack*Shakers’ fifth studio album, and if
the band never evolves into world-beaters, they’ll always deliver exactly what
you’d expect them to: a combustible blend of roots-rock, honky-tonk country,
electric blues and retro-rockabilly. Yeah, they may be a throwback to a
simpler, highly-rocking time, and hopelessly out-of-step with today’s musical
trends. But as the Colonel says, “I dream in sepia, mono and Beta” – as
defiant a statement of Luddite fist-shaking as has been committed to tape. I
wouldn’t expect th’ Legendary Shack*Shakers to headline the Pitchfork
Festival, but if I ran into them at a cockfight, I’d buy ‘em a mason jar of
whatever they wanted to drink… (Yep Roc Records, released July 16th, 2007)
Review originally published by the Cashville411 website, 2007
Buy the CD from Amazon.com:
Th’ Legendary Shack*Shakers’ Swampblood
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