It seemed oddly appropriate – and perhaps a bit disconcerting – that I was preparing myself for an act featuring the undead the night before Memorial Day. But what the hell, if Wal-Mart can exploit our fallen heroes to sell lightbulbs, I certainly wasn’t going to let tact stand in the way of my good time at Turn Table.
As the band and company hauled in piece after piece of blood-and-guts-covered gear, an elaborate backdrop that read “Dead Dick,” and a smoke machine, I began to wonder what I had gotten myself into. It was Sunday. I was tired. It was hot. I was feeling slightly less than rock and roll. But this show was happening. And I was here. So I adjusted my wild stallion and lightning bolt muscle tee, tightened the laces on my Docs, and strapped in for what promised to be one helluva night.
Local rockers Porchlord opened the show with their brand of what I endearingly refer to as brat punk – full of raucous energy and unchecked aggression – with the occasional thrashing burst of metal sprinkled in. The foursome debuted a few new tunes, some of which could use a bit of tweaking, but all of which abounded with high energy and just the right amount of angst, a la NOFX and Bad Religion, serving as the perfect compliment to chugged beers and shuffling sneakers. And the older songs they churned out had most definitely been improved since I last saw them. These guys are getting tighter and more confident with each show they play and are the local leaders in a genre that isn’t being explored nearly as often as I’d prefer. Keep your peepers peeled for upcoming gigs. You’ll dig it. Promise.
Following a brief intermission, including randomly offensive conversation with belligerent patrons, Dead Dick Hammer and the TBA Band took the stage in full zombie attire. These fellas are certainly a spectacle to behold, almost becoming campy horror cartoon versions of themselves, and staying fully committed to their respective characters to the end. But don’t let the kitsch distract you – they are seriously bad ass musicians. Thumping out a sound that’s been described as punk-billy, psychobilly, and just plain hillbilly rock ‘n’ roll, DDH delivers a truly unique listening experience that is only punctuated by the costumery – not dependent upon it. Dick Hammer sings with a hint of Danzig and a potty mouth sure to make even ladies of the night turn a bit pink, and what he does to his guitar is equally vulgar and sex-fueled. The rhythm section thumps with violent precision and props up the twangy, screaming guitar licks with indelicate ease. These ghoulish cadavers are far from lifeless, and have sculpted their very own strain of rockabilly fun with a kind of tongue-in-cheek sex and gore. This is not a show for the modest, but then again, neither is this blog, so I think we’re all clear. Take a gander at their tour line-up and get your zombie loving ass to a Dead Dick Hammer party ASAP.
Following a spectacularly playful Friday evening at Bowling Green’s new favorite dive, Turn Table Bar & Grill, I scurried through a shift at my weekend day job – where I pretend to be an average, pleasant, decent person who definitely isn’t suffering from a hangover – stopped home just long enough to throw on my Prince tee and David Lee Roth-esque leggings, and headed back out the door to the perfectly hip and crazy delicious White Squirrel Brewery for the long awaited return of the Dead Broke Barons.
The Barons aren’t your grandad’s Americana/Bluegrass band. They’re soulful, they’re rock n roll, and they’re damn funky. With songs like “Jolly Rancher Shank,” “Dirty Thirties,” and “Hillbilly Heroin,” Dead Broke Barons breathe an air of youth and cheeky humor into Appalachia’s oldest musical genre. Abounding with two and three part vocal harmonies and an ever-revolving instrument designation between front men Shane Johnson and Seth Pedigo, one fast forgets that there are only three fellas on stage…and they’re not even plugged in! At one point, bassist Hunter Colson had just applied superglue to his blistered, bleeding digits for what must’ve been the fourth or fifth time, only to jump right back into furiously plucking away at his gorgeous blond standup bass for one last tune. These guys expertly combine humor, tradition, and some very serious talent for a recipe that’s always fun, refreshing, and never, ever boring.
And now it was time to switch lanes. Dramatically. I swigged the last delicious drop of my brew and headed out for ye old pub just in time to behold the incomparable, unparalleled marvel that is Patson: One Man Band.
Armed with a honey-toned electric guitar, a complete drum kit, a couple microphones and a whole lotta awesome, Patson’s sound is one that – thus far – has only been achieved with at least two musicians working together. If you close your eyes (careful not to stumble, those drinks’ll get right on top of ye) cognitive dissonance will not allow you to acknowledge that all of this full, raw, complete sound is created at the hands, feet, and voice of just one man. All at the same time. All live. His style is naked, sludgy, and a little bit violent, but never ever messy. His timing is impeccable and his passion for his art form emanates from the stage over onlookers like a balmy, hazy cloud of chaos. The solo spectacle finished an energetic, almost hypnotic set with a Melvins cover that – don’t tell anyone – I might’ve enjoyed even more than the original. If ever you have the opportunity to lay eyes and/or ears on this fella, don’t let it pass you by. You can thank me later in the form of beer and/or cash.
To wrap up the evening – and consequently a fantastic weekend – was a task left to the not-quite-metal, not-quite-psychobilly, whatever the hell you wanna call ’em, Outhouse Etiquette. This hyper masculine foursome with a penchant for cheap booze and nameless women never fails to energize their crowd with their own brand of foot stomping, head banging, hip shaking rock n roll. They’re offensive in the way your fun, drunk uncle always is at family barbecues and, like that uncle, it’s damn hard not to love ’em. Each member lends a unique element of badassness to the concoction, from the heavy pounding of drummer Doc Chapman, the stylish strumming of guitarist (including steel) Cody Meek, the string plucking and thumping of bassist…um…New Guy? and the growling, writhing and picking of front man/vocalist/guitarist Rob Needles, Outhouse Etiquette is a cocktail that might get you laid, it might get you laid out…hell, it might even do both. Not necessarily in that order.
Although I only managed to drag my sorry heap to two different venues this weekend, I feel fairly successful in my endeavors. My toes tapped, my head banged, my booty shook, and my belly was filled with the best damn chicken and waffles around (thanks, White Squirrel) and comparatively tasty beers. And now I’m left to fantasize about what next weekend shall bring…
The dismal realization that I can NEVER attend a show on a Thursday night reached its pinnacle when Heron & Crane, Frozen Frames, and Hear booked a Thursday show at Tidball’s May 5th.. I want to see all the Heron & Crane. All of it. And I’d heard only great things about Frozen Frames and Hear. So yeah, bummer.
But as fate would have it – or some such cliche – the live show gods gazed down upon me, witnessing my anguish, and chose to be merciful and kind. They, along with a scheduling change, blessed me with Heron & Crane and Full FrontalSaurus at Turn Table Bar & Grill on Friday, May 6th. Those beautiful, fictional bastards.
Heron & Crane delivered an energetic, dynamic performance replete with an expert blend of older, more recognizable tunes and some very exciting newer ones. Vocalist and guitarist Collin Hancock, while markedly mild and modest socially, displays a smooth confidence on stage and his voice resonates with a powerful sweetness that’s damn hard to describe in word form. And those other two. Goodness gracious. David Stites (bass) and Riley Finwood (drums) are a funky little match made in rhythm section heaven.
Your average pop/indie rock group of kids from down the street offer up fun, danceable music that gets stuck in your head and keeps your hips bouncing even when you’re too drunk to consciously keep time. Sometimes, they’ll play a song or two that sounds cool, but tries too hard with odd time signatures and pisses all the cute girls in short skirts off because they couldn’t follow it even sober.
But this gorgeous trio is anything but average, and they’ve managed to align the absolute best possible marriage of the two – deliciously danceable, infinitely interesting, provocatively engaging, and just enough good solid rock to keep the patrons locked in for the full length of every performance. Seriously guys, go see this band.
Next up, the ever charming, crazy fun foursome that is Full FrontalSaurus. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon exactly what sort of night one hoped to experience and how many witnesses were welcomed into the debauchery, Turn Table was a bit sparse Friday evening. But you wouldn’t have known it from the full throttle energy of FFS’s performance.
Front man Jared McKinney turned up, tossed himself all around the small wooden platform, and belted out each song as though he were playing to a packed, enthusiastic house, and I couldn’t have been more pleased. Because the folks that did show were there in full support of these guys and ready to rock and roll, and what we received was nothing short of bad ass.
Keyboardist Cindy Darst was on point (as always) and shed her usual cool stoicism for a bit of grooving and shaking. Were it not for the obnoxiously bright Bud Light sign glowing just above her head, I might have captured and immortalized her energy in the form of a grainy iPhone photo. But alas; thwarted. Stupid sign.
Bassist and newest member of the mighty lizard pack, Cail Knight, seemed to feast on the rest of the band’s enthusiasm in tandem, flashing a grin of delight now and then, all the while keeping in perfect rhythm and filling out the driving, spirited arrangements of each song.
Drummer James Thompson thrashed with a precision that veiled completely the moment an overzealous stick left his hand during “So Even After”. It wasn’t audible. There wasn’t a single beat missed. But if you were discerning enough to witness it (and naturally I was), you might’ve thought you were watching a video played in reverse. The stick left, immediately returned, and went right back to thumping drumheads and cymbals in perfect time. Madness.
Indeed, Friday night served up a lively, zoetic, energizing heap of “holy shit, that’s good!” along with a reasonable number of yeasty beers. And I still had Saturday to look forward to.
Ho. Lee. Shit. A full day’s work at the office, one incredibly long, incredibly beautiful night at the bar, yet another full 8:30 a.m. – 5:30 p.m. day at the other job, and now, at 6:00 p.m., here I stand, at the ready, in the glow of the Bowling Green sun on hallowed ground – Tidball’s Live on the Lot.
Let’s do this.
First things first – this hangover ain’t gonna kill itself. I made a beeline to John behind the bar inside, snagged a Purple Haze, then back out the door to Rony at the Shogun truck to score myself an elusive Katsu burger – a panko breaded, deep fried burger patty topped with crumbled bacon and pure magic (and served with fries, of course) and sat down to take it all in.
Fully fueled and feeling relatively indestructible, I was prepared to soak in the blissfully foreign sounds of Seek. These alt/indie rockers incorporate the beautifully peculiar sounds of the clarinet (played by the lovely Melissa Larsen) into clean, easy listening radio friendly jams. The vocals were ultra crisp and not a single thing about the set could be described as “sloppy.”
Now becoming increasingly certain that I was, in fact, not going to die from lack of sleep, I refilled my little plastic cup and perched on the stoop along the bar’s outer wall just as Owensboro natives Roadside Giants (pictured) jumped into the fire. Self-described as Americana/Roots music, Roadside Giants are not the band your hipster friends came to Tidball’s to see. Twangy and all-American in every way, they added a uniquely Kentucky brand of rock-n-roll to Saturday’s outdoor line-up, complete with a smoke machine for added emphasis.
Locally grown indie foursome 8 Track Love (pictured) were the next to grace the outdoor stage, and what a lovely note on which to set the sun. Poppy, daydreamy, and perfectly 90’s-esque, 8 Track Love are like that really cool looking vintage couch in your basement that you just melt into each time you sit down – but with a presumably more pleasant odor.
The final outdoor performance was dispensed at the hands of Brad the Dad (Schultz) and Novus de Vetus. If I’m being honest, I was caught somewhere between my second and third winds at this point, so I was only able to catch a couple of his tunes before seeking refuge on a seat inside the bar, but what I did hear was indeed good old fashioned guitar pickin’ and Brad Sr.’s unmistakeable, driving vocals. Nothing not to like.
As the night sky grew black and the air cold, it was time to meander permanently indoors where The Reneaus (pictured) were already set up and checking sound. Each time I experience this group, I feel like I’ve stumbled upon some wonderful secret. Theirs is a sound that’s difficult to convey in text; simultaneously ethereal and assertive, heavy and fragile. Velvety, luxurious vocals blend with distorted, sumptuous, often bluesy strings, popping percussion and haunting keys in a way that is both incredibly sexual yet somehow entirely innocent. You want to witness this. Trust.
Next up, local favorites, and one of the hardest working bands in BG, Fat Box (pictured) took the stage to funk things up a bit. Combining blues, jam, funk, jazz, and just about every other musical adjective in between, played on damn near every rock instrument you’ve ever seen (guitars, horns, keys, and an enviable percussion collection) these guys never fail to deliver booty shakin’, foot shufflin’ fun. Just don’t be that guy…you know the one…he’s always front and center before the stage doing that one stupid dance he always did at Phish shows that omits both rhythm and style. Yeah. Just don’t be him.
Drawing the extraordinary weekend long event to a close might have seemed a daunting task – to anyone that’s not Morning Teleportation, that is. Such an impeccably perfect, reverberant period at the end of this run-on sentence. Psychedelic, dynamic, elevating, kaleidoscopic and gorgeous, Morning Teleportation transport their audience to places otherworldly and provide them comfort in their foreignness.
With my sleep gauge teetering ever so close to empty and my beer gauge struggling to stay within bounds, it was time, yet again, to drag my tired frame to shelter and drift into beautifully surreal dreams about the many perfectly exquisitely odd goings on I’d witness this weekend.
I’d become a new fan, solidified myself as an old friend, and drank in every last drop of life experience my body could handle in such a small timeframe.
Tidball’s Live on the Lot 2016 had been, in a word, perfection.
*Special thanks to David Downing and Andrew Pearson for the lovely photography.
For so many Bowling Greenians, Tidball’s Pub is the place to go for the best live music, the friendliest staff, and the longest bathroom lines. It’s our sanctuary when the mundanity of adult life weighs too heavy on our quavering shoulders; a respite that far surpasses the brief consolation of a shot or a beer. And one weekend out of every year, the fellas at that home-away-from-home pool their seemingly infinite resources and throw the biggest party you’ve ever paid so little to attend. They call it Live on the Lot.
Thursday night, the trigger was pulled by local four-piece Plastic Friends, delivering up a heaping helping of 90’s drenched rock-n-roll that was joyously devoured by all those in attendance.
Following Plastic Friends, smoking hot Nashville badasses The Dead Deads (pictured) rattled the walls of the little concrete box donning all shades of purple in homage to our beloved Prince and turned men to mush and women to…well…mushier mush? Holy shit. I want to be The Dead Deads when I grow up. A beautifully arranged cacophony of metal, punk, and straight up rock, these femmes put on one helluva show. Every. Single. Time.
Closing out the inaugural night were local lovelies Thee Japanese School Girls. What can I say about these guys that I haven’t already? Their energy is interminable, their songs get tighter with each performance (and I’m guessing a great deal of practice), and they are, in general, wholly impossible not to love.
Friday was the first of two nights that kicked off outside in the bar’s parking lot, complete with a schmancy new stage, courtesy of The A-Frame, and an impressive beer selection.
I arrived right at 6:00 p.m. with the full understanding that – although the first act was slated to go on at that moment – live shows are very rarely punctual, so I’d have plenty of time to swill a couple draft beers before diving in to a new musical experience.
Having made the arduous trek from Chicago to the Bluegrass State, V.V. Lightbody poured velvety folk sugar down on the sun drenched patrons planted before her. Armed only with an electric guitar and a mic, the smoky warmth of her voice floated atop the balmy resonance of each strum in harmonious coalescence. In a word, lovely.
Local stompers Outhouse Etiquette were interrupted by our fickle earth mother after only a few tunes when she decided – selfishly – to water the plants. Just when the boys really started kicking, the sky opened up for an unanticipated shower and cut the set short. Maybe she didn’t appreciate their ultramasculine brand of humor.
Louisville KY Dead heads Electric Garden (pictured) finished up the outdoor portion of Friday’s festivities with some very tight, palatably psychedelic jams.
Once the inebriated herd were ushered indoors, All Deeds Done offered up their fresh, hip brand of 80’s poppy new wave, and co-owner John Tidball was nearly swallowed up by a wave of appetent patrons.
Quite possibly the highlight of my entire weekend came on the gorgeously modern reggae grooves of Nashville natives Roots of a Rebellion(pictured). Complete with about 17 members – OK, there are only six – these guys are most definitely no joke. Perfectly danceable, unfathomably on point, and sending out the most positive of all possible vibrations, Roots of a Rebellion have breathed new life into a genre that is all too often emulated but not recreated. I’m making it a point to witness this loveliness again in the very near future.
Buffalo Rodeo (pictured) followed with their brand of ultra-romance in one of the best sets I’ve seen them perform to date. Vocally and musically, it was dreamy, opulent, and skillfully executed.
Aware of the madness that was to draw the curtain on this profligate evening, I decided it best to step outside for a breath of untainted air and give my brain a moment of semi-silence. Perched upon the lightpost just outside the front door, I had settled into a pleasant inner dialogue when, “Hey! Is that fanny pack legit?” shattered my calm.
“Um…I mean…it is a fanny pack. A real one.” I was a bit confused by the question.
“That’s fuckin’ rad.”
And back inside I plodded to plant myself front and center, primed to drink in the unwholesome debauchery that is Pizza Riot.
Pizza Riot are everything I should hate but they’re just so damn good at doing it. They’re noisy, obnoxious in the most endearing way, undeniably, raucously fun, and delightfully vulgar. Each time I witness their incorrigible lunacy, I’m reminded of why I first fell madly in love with the Sex Pistols, and similarly, they’ve got a damn good drummer. Disclaimer: it is outright impossible to stay sober at a Pizza Riot performance. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
As daylight drew closer and the music came to a necessary but regrettable end, I wobbled up the road a ways, clumsily transferred my beer-soaked carcass into pajamas, and fell heavy into bed. Seven a.m. was gonna come early.
*Special thanks to David Downing of Yellowberri for the lovely photography.
Despite any feelings – positive or negative – you may have for psychedelic teddy bears or scarlet begonias, most of us can agree that the Grateful Dead unified our culture in at least one overwhelmingly successful way…they brought us 420.
That’s right. It’s not a police code (in any state) for smoking marijuana. It is Hitler’s birthday, but what the hell does that have to do with anything? It’s also the date that Albert Hofmann first deliberately used LSD, but that’s just a coincidence. No, my precious little stonies, 4:20 is simply the time that happened to be the most convenient for a group of California high school delinquents to meet up and partake in the smoking of illegal shrubbery, and members of the Grateful Dead delivered the slang to the masses.
So, now that you’re properly educated on the terminology you’ve so recklessly been employing all these years, let’s get down to the meat of things.
On Wednesday, April 20, all you herbal enthusiasts will find no shortage of celebratory events to attend in and around our lovely town (where, by the way, marijuana is still illegal. Yes, even on 4/20.)
My home away from home, Tidball’s Pub, is playing host to super stoner-friendly indie/reggae rockers Floralorix, trippy, melodic pop rockers Feltod Mavous and the Joyful Sound, and crazy fun jazz/rock fusion jammers York. This is basically a dream lineup. Painfully and impeccably appropriate for a Mary Jane Day celebration. Mellow, fun, infinitely interesting and engineered for plenty of foot shuffling and booty wiggling.
BUT just when you thought you knew exactly where to have your DD deposit your patchouli-soaked, emerald-scented sack of bones, Turn Table Bar & Grill went and scooped up Thee Japanese School Girls and The Morning Sons. Dammit. The Morning Sons are guaranteed to groove you. They’re smooth, sludgy, and just poppy enough to ensure you’ll wake up humming their choruses in your clouded state. And TJS is just a damn good time. Really. Never boring, never reticent, rarely clothed, you can’t not enjoy a TJS set, despite your best efforts to do so, you cynical jerk.
Maybe you’re not even in Bowling Green, though. Maybe, by some magnificent stroke of good fortune, you’re an outsider who’s stumbled upon this page in search of great sounds and good times with which to celebrate your personal discovery of mind-altering foliage. If that’s the case, and if you happen to inhabit the purlieu of Owensboro, KY, I’ve got you covered!
Two bands you’ve maybe never heard of are playing a venue you’ve maybe never visited, but stay with me on this one. I’ve not let you down yet.
Heron & Crane, a delightfully engaging trio whose every verse balances danceable poppiness with dynamic metamorphosis, and Full FrontalSaurus, an insanely energetic, provocative post-punk foursome will provide you with all the 420 feel-goodness your freshly-baked little heart can consume.
Ron’s Garage, 706 Crabtree Ave., Owensboro, KY, will serve up this tasty little slice of BG bedlam Wednesday at 6 p.m.
Also, stay tuned for Tidball’s Live on the Lot this Thursday through Saturday. Good things are happening.
For those of us who enjoy a toxic beverage from time to time, it’s not unusual to develop a certain sentimentality for one particular watering hole. Maybe it’s the first place you bought alcohol legally. Maybe it’s where you first experienced your favorite band performing live. Maybe you met your soul mate there. Or maybe it’s just a place whose atmosphere and staff are so inherently familiar that it instantly and forever feels like home.
For me, that sentimental watering hole is Tidball’s Pub.
Plopped smack dab in the center of Bowling Green, that little stack of cinder blocks emits a warmth for me that can only be understood by those who share it. Fortunately for Tidball’s, that’s not a small number of folks.
I realize I’ve been writing a whole lot about shows at Turn Table (like this one, and this one, this one, too, and even this one) and really, I’m fine with that. They’re the up-and-comer, the little guy, the new kids on the block, so I’m happy to offer them what little publicity and patronage I can in ensuring that they stick around a while.
Still though, I couldn’t help feeling as though I was committing some form of bar adultery in doing so. It’s not as though Tidball’s needs any help getting people in the door. They’re nationally – maybe even internationally – known these days (see?), and they’re masters at coupling the right acts on the right nights. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had somehow abandoned them, or at least that it would seem that way to an outsider. So, naturally, it was time to go back home.
The night opened with the undeniably fun and unmistakably clever sounds of Heron and Crane. Simultaneously groovy, poppy, danceable and infinitely interesting, the super tight three-piece delivered a set complete with three brand new tunes that left everyone there – myself included – wanting more…but in a really good, Seinfeld kind of way, not a really disappointing, Sopranos kind of way, y’know? Anyway, yeah, I can’t wait to see them again. And again.
But wait, there’s more!
Pujol was scheduled as the creme in Saturday’s Oreo, but word has it that one of the fellas came down with a groove inhibiting illness at the last minute, so local boys All Deeds Done filled the spot, instead.
Reminiscent of Pretty in Pink style New Wave, the young trio transported the audience to a time that exists only on screen, and comes complete with warm fuzzies, dangerously tight jeans, and super edgy hair.
The night was wrapped up in a pretty little package and topped with a studded leather bow by Bowling Green faves Full FrontalSaurus, an energetic post-punk band with a dash of hardcore who, as individuals, seem not to take much too seriously, but, as a band, are tight, on-point, and thrash with thoughtful precision. From each of the band’s four members – including one insanely cute keyboardist – emanates an unmistakable beam of personal gratification, which is swiftly returned by those who have planted themselves as close to the stage as the bar’s rules allow.
Tidball’s is my home for a number of reasons. Jeff and Roger never fail to greet me with gentle sarcasm and warm hugs. John and Jarvis are generous hosts, always at the ready with words of welcome. It’s dark. It’s usually cold. It’s full of an uncomfortable blend of creatures – some familiar, some whose reason for coming I can’t help but question. And there’s always, always a band worth paying five bucks to hear. Quite often, it’s worth a great deal more.
If I don’t make it back next weekend, you can be certain I’ll be in attendance for the annual Live on the Lot series April 21-23, and you’ll be hearing all about that one. But don’t wait to read about it, lame-o, go to there!
Once in a while, life introduces you to a true mad man. An outlaw. A marauder. And occasionally, good fortune allows you enough time with him to catch a glimpse of the beauty and vulnerability that lies within.
It was Friday, April 1, 2016. Things were slow at the office, and I knew I was in for a long night, so I decided it best to sneak a brief intermission on my sofa. Just as my heavy eyes had finally succumbed to the siren song of the sandman, my phone buzzed and I was jolted back to the tangible world. The message – from my good friend Allen of the Turn Table Bar & Grill – read, “Interview. NOW.”
So, context.
Weeks earlier, Allen, bursting with excitement, reported to me that Jesco White and Joe Buck had just confirmed performance dates at the bar. Upon learning that it would be Allen’s (obliging) duty to entertain the Dancing Outlaw prior to his late night appearance on stage, I offered a desperate plea to arrange a meeting with him. Confirmation was not received until 3 p.m. the day of. Because awesome.
“Interview. NOW.”
I shook the slumber from my frame, gathered my most necessary accoutrements, and started out the door with excited trepidation and little knowledge of my destination.
Armed only with a camera, two Blue Moon beers, and shrinking confidence, I was warmly greeted at the door by the most fascinating character I will have ever encountered in my neophytic career – The Dancing Outlaw, Jesco White – and ushered into the claustrophobic, smoked filled, distastefully decorated motel room.
Jesco and his wife, Alida, offered affable grins, warm handshakes, and a seat on one of the two full size beds, and immediately I was captive. A prisoner of congeniality and charisma.
Alida enthusiastically shared with me the tale of how the two met (at one of his performances after Alida saw the film The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia and set out to find him), fell in love (when they spent an entire weekend together following the performance), and subsequently were joined in matrimony a mere 56 days after their first meeting.
Periodically, Alida would stand in front of her husband and apply with gentle affection a layer of balm to his parched lips, sealed with a tender kiss.
“She takes care o’ me,” Jesco said.
She certainly seemed to be his biggest fan, finding great delight in recounting tales of Jesco’s unending antics and sharing video after video as evidence.
One night, Alida recalled, she was roused from her sleep by a shower of table salt rained down from the hands of her husband. She’d had a bit too much to drink earlier, and was apparently snoring loudly and in varying octaves, giving her attentive beau cause for concern. Certainly these sounds weren’t those of his beloved wife. These could only be the sounds of a demon who had possessed her body and must – of course – be exorcised. With salt.
You’ll be pleased to know, Alida’s soul is no longer in danger. I think.
When the topic of his many “‘ventions” came up, Jesco was eager to divulge.
“I’m a insane genius,” he boasted.
Jesco proudly detailed creations including a helicopter fashioned from a spherical Coke bottle (that actually hovers), a banjo built from a cookie tin, a toy baby bottle, soda can tabs and string, and a UFO complete with flashing lights.
Now, I realize that on paper these items sound childish or amateur, but I saw them, and I can assure you an intense amount of planning, imagination, and ingenuity went into each and every one of them. These were functioning machines. And they were cool as hell.
Another one of the Outlaw’s prized inventions relies almost exclusively on the imagination of the individual wishing to reap its benefit. He calls it, “the poor man’s joint.”
Now, if you’re not from the south, and/or you’ve never partaken in the dried, rolled, and ignited variety of inebriation, this idea will be lost on you. But hey, give it a whirl anyway, yeah?
The next time you’re aimlessly cruising one of our burg’s many long and winding country roads and you happen upon the unmistakable stench of an unfortunate skunk, bring your fingers – thumb and forefinger pinched – to your lips, inhale as deeply as your damaged little lungs allow, hold that breath until you fear unconciousness, and exhale. That’s it. A perfectly harmless, and perfectly legal, poor man’s joint, complete with authentic bouquet.
Both Jesco and Alida graciously offered drinks, anecdotes and full-blown entertainment for the entirety of my three-and-a-half-hour visit. They were hospitable hosts and instant friends. Genuinely pleased to share their company and their buzz.
I waited patiently for the right moment to ask for an interview. The last thing I wanted was to kill the casual, social vibe of the room by pretending to be a professional. But as these things often tend to go, that moment never really came.
I was enraptured in engaging conversation throughout the afternoon, peppered with poetry and song, but when it came time to wrap things up and head out for a bit of grub, Jesco had found his happy place – and it did not involve answering questions.
Nevertheless, I wrestled the camera from its pouch, aimed it at my freshly inspired subject and pressed “record.”
What I did not receive that day was an interview with a man for whom I had prepared a profusion of interrogative questions.
But what was bestowed upon me that fateful day of fools was an experience. An encounter with a man whose greatest pleasure is derived from the smiles of his audience and whose kindness and generosity are unparalleled.
As a writer, I might’ve hoped for a more traditional consultation. But as an Appalachian, I couldn’t have asked for a more enchanting, intoxicating adventure.
Jesco White is cut from a cloth whose factory shut down many years ago. Never again will there exist a creature so entrancing, so absurd, and yet so very humble and kind, and I am grateful for having been provided the opportunity to bask in his maniacal glow even if only for a moment.
“All I want’s good, honest dancin’ and people to enjoy theirself.” Jesco White, The Dancing Outlaw
This Friday, April 1, Turn Table Bar & Grill will attempt to contain within its four walls two of the most savage, unconstrained characters ever to wander our terrestrial sphere.
The son of a man once called “the greatest mountain dancer in the U.S.,” Jesco White certainly had some big (and noisy) shoes to fill in his father’s passing. For the past forty years, the “dancing outlaw” has strived to make his daddy proud, performing in venues and on screen across the nation. Besides his trademark Appalachian footwork, Jesco is known for his outgoing, playful, and impossible to subdue persona, spitting sharp, witty one-liners like bullets from a gun whose trigger seems to always be engaged. A bit of a minstrel in his own right, one easily overlooks his many mispronunciations and swiftly gets swept into a strange abysm of nouns and adjectives where fact and fiction seem to be interchangeable.
Along with the Dancing Outlaw, Turn Table’s stage will host legendary hellbilly and Kentucky native Jim Finklea, better known to his cult following as Joe Buck. Having contributed his many talents in various ways to acclaimed psychobilly punk rocker Hank Williams III, Finklea has emerged as a solo artist, touring as “Joe Buck Yourself,” where he furiously plunks on an acoustic guitar, stomps a bass drum pedal and shouts bellicose lyrics to songs titled, “Evil Motherfucker from Tennessee,” and “Devil is on His Way.”
Hometown boys Outhouse Etiquette round out the lineup with their own brand of shit stomping, beer guzzling, hyper-sexed backwoods rock – a sound the band calls, “music to violate your parole to.”
This is probably not the show to bring your Gam-Gam to, but if it’s debauchery you’re after, you shan’t be disappointed. And feel to buy me a beer or three while you’re there.
“How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! How art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations!” Isaiah 14:12
Our little chunk of bluegrass Heaven has, in recent months, developed a newfound love for the grit, pain and raw sexuality of traditional blues and soul music.
Artists like Otis and Mo’ Pie of Bowling Green and Justin Kalk of Nashville are lending an element of youth and freshness to the genre, and old school blues rockers, like local legend Kenny Lee, are crooning to greener ears by way of the Kentucky Blues Society‘s jam series.
On Friday, March 25, I ventured out to our music scene’s newest underdog watering hole, Turn Table Bar & Grill, to drink in the fresh but familiar stench of The Morning Sons.
Drenched in sex, booze and psychedelia and dusted with a bit of surf punk, the markedly adept ensemble (Tanner Elias, Ben Carter, Kevin Willoughby, and Josh Griffin) delivered heavy, sludgy grooves propped up by sharply pointed verses and distinctively Kentuckian vocals.
The boys’ Bandcamp bio states, “…we decided it’s time to make the music we want to listen to but isn’t out there.” And that’s precisely what they’ve done. An amalgamation of what I can only assume is a taste of each members’ favorite sounds, The Morning Sons blend blues with indie rock, surf with stoner metal, acid rock with rockabilly, and fun, carefree youth with jaded, cynical old age to create a sound that is both familiar and wholly unique.
Local favorites, Thee Japanese School Girls, finished out the night with a high energy, hyper-positive, straight up rock-n-fucking-roll set littered with profanity, philosophy, and just good old fashioned fun. Front man Lucas Goularte was down to his skivvies by the end of the set – presumably because he had given away all of his worldly possessions to a delighted congregation – and only a scarce few patrons remained propped haphazardly upon their barstools.
Once again, Turn Table Bar & Grill had managed to breach my sense of adult responsibility and hold me captive in the keep of cheap drink and enticing sound. Well played, sirs.
**Night of the Living Dead Poets Society opened the evening. My only notes for the trio were as follows: “Sloppy, punky, upbeat nerd rock. And one spoken word poem.” Good times.
Siren in a Shipwreck 