Frum the Hills

(Gas/Merkin)
by Jon Sarre

‘Cept for the fact that I don’t think it right to make fun of any group of people or nationality (tho’ that’s not sayin’ I’m not guilty of it from time to time, just like you), I’m also not gonna be one to cry ’bout reverse racism cuz of the recent spate of negative stereotypin’ of rednecks in pop culture a la the whitetrash nation’s answer to Karl Marx, Jim Goad. So then, for all of you liberals and crackers alike, here’s Frum the Hills, who probably ain’t, cuz they sorta overlook that guileless bad taste that drives Porter Waggoner to dress up like a human Xmas tree. Instead, they predictably go whole-hog Elvis as Snakehandler Jesus to all the truck drivin’-possum eatin’-intermarryin’-pig farmin’ sumbitches shootin’ out the teevee in the doublewide wit’ the satellite dish hooked up next to the Camaro on blocks. Y’know, ole Bubba Kettle who married his sister cuz his mammy was already spoken fer, but the travelin’ tent gospel preacher, he says Jesus kin heal them two-headed babies (“Praise the Lord!”).

Thing is, underneath all the hillbilly de-lux, these frat-boy lookin’ fellers play some pretty mean proto-bluegrass mountain music, kinda like twisted takes on the Scotch-Irish balladry which schooled the Carter Family. The five Frum the Hillers skillfully use their stand-up bass, guitar, skeletal drums, banjo, percussion (ya got yer washboard, jug, jew’s harp, can of nails, bongos, etc.) and the occasional bayin’-hound-in-the-distance harmonica, not to mention some well thought out harmonies. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that they sound nuts lotsa the time. Take “The Auction Song,” for example. It’s damn near perfect, structurally as well as lyrically. The obligatory hidden track is likewise great, kinda approachin’ Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, minus the piano, Wagnerian tenor’s voice and high IQ. Still, Frum the Hills may just be cool enough for Elvis to forgive his iconization on the album’s back cover.