Didn't 2011 suck? I mean, beyond whatever personal setbacks I might have, it just seemed like every time you opened a paper or turned on the radio, something else was going wrong. Whether it was dangerously violent weather, a new Daley, the rotating clown college of offensive Republican candidates or the fact that our government's single achievement was choosing not to destroy our own credit rating, there just wasn't much succor to be found this year. (And don't even get me started on Adam Dunn or the Cutler injury.)
So what does one do at the end of a year as monumentally soul-depleting as 2011? The same thing we do every year, go see Robbie Fulks.
You see, every year, Robbie, his band, his wife and few other friends put on a "Year In Review" show at Fitzgerald's, a friendly suburban restaurant/performance bar in Berwyn. It's a full band country rock concert interspersed with audience trivia games, humorous skits and musical numbers based on the year's events and any other tomfoolery the band might feel like engaging in. It's a glorious institution - fun, informal, raucous and incredibly well-executed.
Scott H. Biram. The man Just. Doesn't. Give. A fuck. And it shows. The so-called "Dirty One-Man Band" has been playing scuzzy Americana and bluegrass with a punk fervor and ethos since the mid-nineties, but he won his fame as a solo act with an old-fashioned mic and a hollow-body Gibson. This is a guy who built his reputation by surviving a crash in his truck, then performing from his wheelchair, IV's and all. Most of his music is aggressive and angry and heavily steeped in a Depression-era (and earlier) folk and blues tradition that used music was cheap therapy for life's crushing problems. His albums are mostly filled with tales of loss, desperation, deprivation, in short, the darker side of life.
But sometimes even someone like Scott H. Biram discovers a riff so magical and melancholy that even he can't help but crank it out, pen some fitting lyrics and then get the hell out of the way. When done right, it's a beautiful thing (see, "The Passenger") reminding us that great music is often compelling due to its simplicity. "Wildside" is a perfect example of that, a great intro to Scott H. Biram, even though it sounds little like the rest of his songs. It appeared on his 2009 Bloodshot album, appropriately titled Something's Wrong / Lost Forever and it manages to meld that glass three-quarters empty outlook with a sliver of hope and an series of power chords that would make most ax-men salivate. It's a song of optimism that pessimists can get down to and vice-versa.
All Music Guide describes Langhorne Slim as "a one man mixuture of The Cramps, Beck's early indie work... and the soundtrack to O Brother Where Art Thou" and I guess that description's as accurate as any. Slim anchors his songwriting in the well-worn, love songs n' rave ups territory to be sure. But he throws enough curveballs and heartfelt passion into his songs that I found myself hopping on the #74 bus on a Wednesday night to catch him at Schubas' larger sister-venue, Lincoln Hall.
Country music can be a tricky passion for the Stuff White People Like-crowd that so often frequents the mp3 blogs. One crowd feels icky about the Wal-Mart, plastic Nashville, Garth Brooks/Toby Keith-aura that many associate with the genre. There are others who risk censure for "ironic" appropriation of poor white working-class music that smacks of condescension.
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