Nashville Pussy
High as Hell (TVT)
by Jon Sarre
Bill Faulkner’s got nothin’ on these guys, but don’t ask why cuz I never read the chump, not even The Sound and the Fury, cuz my high school English teacher thought Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man was a better stream-of-consciousness read. Coulda been, but I never finished that book and, cuz of it, in fact, I’ve pretty much ignored anything stream-of-consciousness since. Thus, no Faulkner. Same goes for Tennessee Williams, who, although a Southerner like Faulkner, was not a stream-of-consciousness-type writer, not like it matters, as I never got around to him neither. Flannery O’Conner, nah, but she was termed “Southern Gothic” like the other two, but I dunno much about that either. Faulkner usedta live down in Oxford, MS, that’s definitely Southern, not sure about Gothic and I bet RL Burnside once cleaned his pool or mowed his lawn or somethin’, but that’s Mississippi for ya and where talkin’ (Nashville) Tennessee here…
Nashville. Can’t think of too many writers from those parts (does Al Gore count?), but they usedta have the Grand Ole Oprey down there, didn’t they? Mebbe still do, it’d be a shame if they tore it down to make room for a Christian supply superstore, all that history’d be lost, like the time Bob Wills brought his band up from Texas, complete with drums, cuz they hadta have percussion in Texas so the band could compete with the hurled beer bottles impactin’ off the chicken wire and accordin’ to mebbe Porter Waggoner or coulda been Farren Young (nah, definitely not Farren Young) the Powers That Be Oprey told Bob his drummer had to sit the gig out and well, Bob (whose grandniece I once was engaged to, but don’t take this as any indication of the truthfulness or accuracy of this yarn) told his band, “Pack it up, we’re goin’ back to Texas, boys!” That’s how they did things in those days. Farren Young, he coulda told ya about the way things were, but I’m pretty sure he’s dead, his wife, too (by his hands, I believe). Spade Cooley’s wife definitely perished by his hands (Spade’s, not Farren’s), but he was California country, different animal, same with Buck Owens, who’s, by all accounts, a genial and gracious old gent. I couldn’t see Buck beatin’ anyone’s wife to death, least of all his own. Speakin’ of old gents, Merle Haggard’s also a country sanger of the Californaiaie persuasion and makin’ a comeback I understand, courtesy of the guy who usedta guitar for Bad Religion (buy Epitaph). George Jones, he’s still Nashville, still alive, yup. Nudie the Rodeo Tailor is still dead (but by way of Hollywood). End of story.
Pussy. I got two cats. Two of ’em. One’s a boy, a tom cat. Only afeared of big dogs’n’speeding cars. Smart cat. The other one’s a girl, a small girl Siamese-sorta cat. Lap cat. Afraid of most everything, ‘cept birds and small stuffed animals. Mebbe you could call that smart, too (but you’d be reachin’).
Pussy. More pussy. Best I ever got? That’s hard to say, I tend to remember the worst vividly. This ex-girlfriend in New Mexico, for one, but she was rich. Before that, this skinny girl who grew up on a horse farm in South Hampton, Long Island, who claimed ridin’ nags her whole life threw out her leg muscles or some such bullshit. She was also rich. Then after her, this time I had a chance to deflower a virgin and passed on it. She wasn’t rich. I can be soft-hearted sometimes. I’m not rich, either. I have a cousin named Rich (Rich, not Dick, that’s my uncle’s moniker). I’ve never asked him what he thinks of this new Nashville Pussy album, High As Hell, but I’m sure he’d agree with me when I tell ya I’d rather listen to a Motörhead record. Any one of ’em.
(23 East 4th St . New York, NY 10003)
