COWSLINGER DELUXE
BY THE COWSLINGERS
BY THE COWSLINGERS
Surprises, man. Sometimes they suck to all hell. Like this one
time The Duke bent over to pat the bobbing-head of wandering
pigeon, and the motherfucker took a bite out of three knuckles.
I didn’t expect that right there. That surprise falls into the
“unpleasant” category, I believe.
Then there’s the other kind, like when you find a load of loose
guts flung around the house when you get home from work, but
then, no, the wife just felt like getting all Damien Hirst and
Modern-Art with regards the decorating.
That right there is a pleasant surprise, albeit one followed with
probably some alimony payments or some such in the near future-
time. “I can’t be sleeping with a woman what throws liver round
the television set”, you might say.
The cover of Cowslinger Deluxe by cowpunk rabble-rousers The
Cowslingers is fairly unspectacular. It imitates one of those
boxes of corn or whatever folks eat in the “south”, and looks all
homemade and so on, and suitably “rural”. Within this humble
package, though, lies what can only be described as a “Hell of a
pleasant surprise, is what”.
Being something of a fan of the Americana, of the Alt. Country, I
was assuming that this here release might involve a fair dose of
the fiddles, banjos, balladry and so on, possibly in a rather
haunting manner like that woman Welch from the Oh Brother, Where
Are You soundtrack.
A glance over the song titles causes me to assume that maybe
these fellas will be a bit rowdier than Mrs. Welch, maybe more in
keeping with folks like those Bastard Sons Of Johnny Cash and
all, the folks what do the country with as many sneers as steers
and so on.
However, nothing prepares The Duke for the fact that track 10 is
a ditty by the name of Drink, Fight, Fuck. Could it be, ponders
The Duke? Could it really, really be true? A quick glance at the
inlay reveals that all those dreams within mine skull are indeed
valid.
“GG Allin wrote Drink, Fight, Fuck.”
Let’s not get over-excited folks. I mean, come on, The Drive-By
Truckers had the song about The Night GG Allin Came To Town. But
did they cover one of his songs in a ridiculously melodic fashion
with the steel pedals and the fiddles? Not that I know of, is the
answer.
So, chances are, if the record was as a load of old dung flung
carelessly across the public highway, I would’ve just ranted
about the inspired nature of such a cover version. But no. The
record is fantastic, genre-hopping with aplomb and grabbing a
reach-around from any number of disparate sources, yet the sound
remains unified throughout.
Work Privilege kicks things off, being a roaring ho-down
concerning the downright inconvenience of drink-driving charges.
It’s a balls-out affair, although in the metaphorical sense, and
not the sense of the fella what wrote Track 10, wherein most
likely balls would indeed be visible and then, I dunno, a shit or
two might get flung around the studio.
It doesn’t say so in the press release, but I’m guessing these
Cowslinger types kept their trousers on throughout the recording
of the record.
It’s fair to assume they may have had a cheeky brandy at times,
though. A man could feasibly expect to fall down, puke over his
shirt and suddenly find great aunt Teresa unutterably attractive
just on account of listening to these here songs about the ale,
the malt, the “liquor”.
Cheap Red Wine, Bloodshot Eyes, and, of course, Drink, Fight,
Fuck are only the tip of the soused-to-all-Hell iceberg.
Whistlin’ Bob, for example, a track what brings to mind Dylan’s
recent pre-war-swing type adventures on Love And Theft, has a
chorus about “I’m so drunk, don’t know where I’m goin’” and “I’m
so drunk, don’t know where I been.”
There’s more than yacking about the drink, though. Sometimes
other drugs get a mention, too, like when the narrator of I Got
Time “smokes all Bob Marley’s dope.”
Incidentally, he also “got real soused at Belushi’s house.” I Got
Time, in fact, is a whirlwind of pop-culture references and hard-
livin’. He even catches up with none other than Felini whilst
sailing around on Jackie O’s boat. I don’t know if they discussed
what the hell Satyricon was about, and it’s never really
elaborated upon.
Maybe some more clarity, Cowslingers. I mean, was this before or
after 8 ½? Did you tell him off for Roma? What gives, Cowslingers?
Oh, shit, no time to worry about that, though, we’ve got three-
chord punk mingling with the line-dancing stomps in the form of
Cheap Red Wine.
Then there’s the bluegrass tomfoolery on evidence on Oh, The Wind
And Rain.
In fact, this record is as consistently inventive and playful as
London Calling or Life Won’t Wait, and yet clocks in at barely
half-an-hour.
The only criticism I could possibly concoct was; How the hell did
all this go on without The Duke’s knowing?
These cats have at least eight albums under their belt, including
the likes of Off The Wagon And Back On The Saddle and Americana A
Go-Go, and yet this, the latest, is the first time mine ears have
been blessed with their wonder.
They evoke nothing less than the piss-drenched boards of a truck-
stop saloon offering only industrial strength beer and whiskey
what they use to clean the cum from the urinals. It stinks of the
stale cigarette smoke hanging heavy in the motel room one finds
oneself in on a hungover Sunday morning, eyes red and weeping
amidst a bruised, swollen frame.
It is by turns filthy, drink-sodden, stoned to high heaven and
tripping on some satanic concoction bashed together from
mushrooms, acid and tractor diesel. At times, the melding of
country and discordant punk brings to mind the folk-punk genius
of The Pogues, even if nothing here can hope to reach the majesty
of Rum, Sodomy And The Lash.
There are songs that you’ll be convinced you’ve heard on a
thousand country-music stations, songs that you imagine you’ve
stood in awe of a thousand times hitherto, drenched in phlegm
whilst those melodies and gravel-caked vocals wash over you like
some noxious oil. But no, these here are fresh plucked from the
minds of the folks what made the record, with the exception of
three numbers adapted either from traditional sources, or from
such esteemed writers as Mr Allin.
The title evokes memories of Burrito Deluxe, the second and final
release from Gram Parsons’ Flying Burrito Brothers, and like Gram’
s bunch of long-hairs, The Cowslingers take a musical form seeped
in our conscious for as long as anyone cares to remember, and
make it sound like no-one ever attempted a slide-solo before.
I’ll be looking for some of these folks’ earlier dabblings, and
if you feel like checking out something extraordinary, then go
ahead and join me, man.
(Please note – all offers to “join The Duke” are made in the
spirit of solidarity, and do not refer to any physical
invitation. The Duke accepts no responsibility for any damage
caused to you or others by any foolish attempt to make good on
this hypothetical suggestion.)
Thanks folks
Drop The Duke A Line Via Electronical Email
time The Duke bent over to pat the bobbing-head of wandering
pigeon, and the motherfucker took a bite out of three knuckles.
I didn’t expect that right there. That surprise falls into the
“unpleasant” category, I believe.
Then there’s the other kind, like when you find a load of loose
guts flung around the house when you get home from work, but
then, no, the wife just felt like getting all Damien Hirst and
Modern-Art with regards the decorating.
That right there is a pleasant surprise, albeit one followed with
probably some alimony payments or some such in the near future-
time. “I can’t be sleeping with a woman what throws liver round
the television set”, you might say.
The cover of Cowslinger Deluxe by cowpunk rabble-rousers The
Cowslingers is fairly unspectacular. It imitates one of those
boxes of corn or whatever folks eat in the “south”, and looks all
homemade and so on, and suitably “rural”. Within this humble
package, though, lies what can only be described as a “Hell of a
pleasant surprise, is what”.
Being something of a fan of the Americana, of the Alt. Country, I
was assuming that this here release might involve a fair dose of
the fiddles, banjos, balladry and so on, possibly in a rather
haunting manner like that woman Welch from the Oh Brother, Where
Are You soundtrack.
A glance over the song titles causes me to assume that maybe
these fellas will be a bit rowdier than Mrs. Welch, maybe more in
keeping with folks like those Bastard Sons Of Johnny Cash and
all, the folks what do the country with as many sneers as steers
and so on.
However, nothing prepares The Duke for the fact that track 10 is
a ditty by the name of Drink, Fight, Fuck. Could it be, ponders
The Duke? Could it really, really be true? A quick glance at the
inlay reveals that all those dreams within mine skull are indeed
valid.
“GG Allin wrote Drink, Fight, Fuck.”
Let’s not get over-excited folks. I mean, come on, The Drive-By
Truckers had the song about The Night GG Allin Came To Town. But
did they cover one of his songs in a ridiculously melodic fashion
with the steel pedals and the fiddles? Not that I know of, is the
answer.
So, chances are, if the record was as a load of old dung flung
carelessly across the public highway, I would’ve just ranted
about the inspired nature of such a cover version. But no. The
record is fantastic, genre-hopping with aplomb and grabbing a
reach-around from any number of disparate sources, yet the sound
remains unified throughout.
Work Privilege kicks things off, being a roaring ho-down
concerning the downright inconvenience of drink-driving charges.
It’s a balls-out affair, although in the metaphorical sense, and
not the sense of the fella what wrote Track 10, wherein most
likely balls would indeed be visible and then, I dunno, a shit or
two might get flung around the studio.
It doesn’t say so in the press release, but I’m guessing these
Cowslinger types kept their trousers on throughout the recording
of the record.
It’s fair to assume they may have had a cheeky brandy at times,
though. A man could feasibly expect to fall down, puke over his
shirt and suddenly find great aunt Teresa unutterably attractive
just on account of listening to these here songs about the ale,
the malt, the “liquor”.
Cheap Red Wine, Bloodshot Eyes, and, of course, Drink, Fight,
Fuck are only the tip of the soused-to-all-Hell iceberg.
Whistlin’ Bob, for example, a track what brings to mind Dylan’s
recent pre-war-swing type adventures on Love And Theft, has a
chorus about “I’m so drunk, don’t know where I’m goin’” and “I’m
so drunk, don’t know where I been.”
There’s more than yacking about the drink, though. Sometimes
other drugs get a mention, too, like when the narrator of I Got
Time “smokes all Bob Marley’s dope.”
Incidentally, he also “got real soused at Belushi’s house.” I Got
Time, in fact, is a whirlwind of pop-culture references and hard-
livin’. He even catches up with none other than Felini whilst
sailing around on Jackie O’s boat. I don’t know if they discussed
what the hell Satyricon was about, and it’s never really
elaborated upon.
Maybe some more clarity, Cowslingers. I mean, was this before or
after 8 ½? Did you tell him off for Roma? What gives, Cowslingers?
Oh, shit, no time to worry about that, though, we’ve got three-
chord punk mingling with the line-dancing stomps in the form of
Cheap Red Wine.
Then there’s the bluegrass tomfoolery on evidence on Oh, The Wind
And Rain.
In fact, this record is as consistently inventive and playful as
London Calling or Life Won’t Wait, and yet clocks in at barely
half-an-hour.
The only criticism I could possibly concoct was; How the hell did
all this go on without The Duke’s knowing?
These cats have at least eight albums under their belt, including
the likes of Off The Wagon And Back On The Saddle and Americana A
Go-Go, and yet this, the latest, is the first time mine ears have
been blessed with their wonder.
They evoke nothing less than the piss-drenched boards of a truck-
stop saloon offering only industrial strength beer and whiskey
what they use to clean the cum from the urinals. It stinks of the
stale cigarette smoke hanging heavy in the motel room one finds
oneself in on a hungover Sunday morning, eyes red and weeping
amidst a bruised, swollen frame.
It is by turns filthy, drink-sodden, stoned to high heaven and
tripping on some satanic concoction bashed together from
mushrooms, acid and tractor diesel. At times, the melding of
country and discordant punk brings to mind the folk-punk genius
of The Pogues, even if nothing here can hope to reach the majesty
of Rum, Sodomy And The Lash.
There are songs that you’ll be convinced you’ve heard on a
thousand country-music stations, songs that you imagine you’ve
stood in awe of a thousand times hitherto, drenched in phlegm
whilst those melodies and gravel-caked vocals wash over you like
some noxious oil. But no, these here are fresh plucked from the
minds of the folks what made the record, with the exception of
three numbers adapted either from traditional sources, or from
such esteemed writers as Mr Allin.
The title evokes memories of Burrito Deluxe, the second and final
release from Gram Parsons’ Flying Burrito Brothers, and like Gram’
s bunch of long-hairs, The Cowslingers take a musical form seeped
in our conscious for as long as anyone cares to remember, and
make it sound like no-one ever attempted a slide-solo before.
I’ll be looking for some of these folks’ earlier dabblings, and
if you feel like checking out something extraordinary, then go
ahead and join me, man.
(Please note – all offers to “join The Duke” are made in the
spirit of solidarity, and do not refer to any physical
invitation. The Duke accepts no responsibility for any damage
caused to you or others by any foolish attempt to make good on
this hypothetical suggestion.)
Thanks folks
Drop The Duke A Line Via Electronical Email
