Bound for Glory, This Train: Where The Rails Meet The River

The tracks run straight to the riverside in New Orleans. The crossing lights flashed red, the warning bells began to ring and an Amtrak engine slowly pulls into sight hauling behind it 17 vintage rail cars. Style from the 30s dragged behind the technology of the 50s into a rivertown that's still struggling with its place in the current. Slow, creaking wheels came to a stop, a whistle blew and a hoard of riders burst from the streamlined silver doors carrying every sort of noise making device ever produced over the last century. Digital sound boards, electric pedals, mandolins, keyboards, organs, slides, accordions, stand-up bass, banjos, guitars of all eras and functions and brass came streaming out like a disturbed multi-instrumentalist ant bed. The train was late, you see. Romance comes on an unreliable schedule, such are the realities of train travel. But at least they got a good parking space.

From fan pics on www.railroadrevivaltour.com

On April 21st, Old Crow Medicine Show, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros and Mumford and Sons played a show in Oakland, California, then jumped a train headed east. They played cities along the way, including Marfa, Texas, whose population doubled when Edward Sharpe's 55-piece musical collective crossed the town line. They had bar cars, dining cars, cars for equipment, cars for crew, cars rigged for recording and an open air "jam" car. It was Woody Guthrie's wet dream at a leisurely 45 mph. 

New Orleans was the final stop on the 8 day Railroad Revival Tour, and OCMS was up first.

"You can spend your whole life racing down dusty old railroad lines, but it's that setting sun you're chasing in a dark and rolling sky." - That Evening Sun, OCMS


Old Crow Medicine Show. They seem absolutely pleased with themselves. I know that's a comment that can cut at different angles, but I mean it as a complement. Every time they hit the stage, they do it with a dirty childhood smirk of a boy about to bring the ruckus.

I saw them for the first time from the balcony of the 930 club, and it wasn't until about 45 minutes in that I realized they didn't have a drummer. The percussion comes from boots on boards, palms slapped on the face of acoustic guitars or the vibrations along the skin of a banjo, creating a percussive harmony that organically springs from every song. We danced to beats we could only guess at and sang songs we didn't know, drank a hip flask of cheap rum and fell over into the hedges. Old Crow has a presence that makes you want to sing along even if you don't know the words, and that's nothing short of magic.

They've been doing it for over a decade. And even though I'm sure they have frustrations and feel the grind of the repetition, I have never seen them be anything but joyous on the stage. They're the locker room guys. They know what they do and how to do it right. They know they're lucky to be where they are, but have also watched those less deserving go further. They know there is somewhere worse than here. And it's that attitude that you need on a steel railed asylum that's got to roll for a week.

There's no warm-up, no build up. Just a short introduction, a brief high-pitched cry from front man fiddle player Ketch Secor and we're off. They're not coming off an acclaimed Grammy performance and you're not going to catch their songs backing up major advertising campaigns. But, OCMS knows they're about to kick your ass and make you like it. And, as always, it's nothing but joy. It's not a bad way to see the sun sink down over the city.

Alex Ebert doing...something. 

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes.  In the best traditions of Hootie and the Blowfish, there is no one named Edward Sharpe in this band. Theirs was a more measured method of taking the stage, which is only necessary in a production this big. Like most Americans, I know Edward Sharpe as the guys who sing the song from the NFL commercial, so I was curious. I'd heard good things and was with people who were genuinely excited about seeing this buzzed-up band.

It's not the look. At least it's not all the look. White boy, vaguely Eastern cultural bullshit like the shallow end of the unproductive corner of George Harrison's soul, dancing around on stage. Honestly, it wouldn't be a problem if there was something to back it up. But when you put on a show this empty, I'm going to fill it up with my skin-deep biases. They looked tired. They looked over it. It was like watching a hundred gears turning for no other purpose but to turn more gears. It was not bad, just flat. For the performance of the song that had gotten them here, Ebert half-ass hummed through the whistle intro and then finished by leaning against the piano and staring into the distance. What they did bring to the party was a red-headed girl sawing down hard on my favorite instrument, the rock accordion. More on that later.

I get it. I don't blame them. But they should take a page out of Crazy Heart's Bad Blake book of philosophy-- when a song's been good to you, you've got to treat it with some respect. Never complain that people want to hear something you've created, because the alternative is crushing. They limped off stage.

Mumford and Sons. Nothing short of phenomenal. I was expecting quiet, moody, Iron and Wine cry into your sherry kind of music. I'm not sure why, it was just what I understood Mumford and Sons to be. I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

They were melancholy soaked in gasoline. Moonshine with a Xanax chaser. It you ever slowed down enough to think about what was actually being said, you'd probably be pretty depressed...but that's all the more reason not to slow down. They tell you the sad truth of life with a smile on their face as they skip on down the road, and that's something you need when riding a rail car through southwestern America, watching above ground pools pass in trailerpark yards.

There's only one album, and from what I can tell, they faithfully rolled through it with a racing heart-- essential for bringing this style of songs to the stage. It's this thing they did, are obviously proud of and utterly amazed that they're able to put it out there in front of this many people.

Don't Carry No Hustlers, This Train. Then the flood gates opened. People poured onto the stage, trying to fit in somewhere along the line for the grand finale, a group jam of Woody Guthrie classic "This Train Is Bound For Glory." It was a mess. A big, noisy, glorious mess. Some spontaneous house party jam that never really exists anywhere else. Drums and horns, and British infantry hats, flat on the on the floor accordion duels. Even the random douchebag with the tambourine and the nightshirt seems to have a somewhat productive place in the ecosystem.

All the while, the train sat patiently smoking on the tracks, the right lights and dull bells of the crossing warning still ringing. 

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There Ain't No God In Mexico, Ain't No Comfort In The Cane

I generally believe something needs moving parts to have a soul. That would explain why my iPod still has a clickwheel. But sometimes, these electronical devices do something that makes me step back and rethink that theory...because Pandora smacked me in the face this morning with a sweaty, bearded Waylon Jennings belting out some Billy Joe Shaver lyrics in "There Ain't No God In Mexico."

I don't have an extensive record collection and despite my general luddite tendencies, I've never fully bought into the "it sounds better on vinyl" belief. I really don't believe it for music that was recorded on modern, digital equipment. But, I do lend some credence to the idea that things should be heard in the context of their own time. Music of the 50s, 60s, 70s was recorded with the intention of putting it on vinyl, with all its crackling imperfections. Listening to these albums this way is the reason to have a working turntable. To be able to hear the thing in all its non-remastered, non-digitized glory, the same way people heard it when it was first created, generates a connection to the era from which it came.

All this and more is why I own "Waylon Live" on vinyl. I mean look at the cover art. That's how babies are made, right there-- hairy-chested, mustachioed indestructible redneck babies whose piss smells like straight Dickel for the first three weeks of life. Just touching this album cover is not recommended for pre-teen girls, as it might accelerate them into premature womanhood and virgin pregnancies. I haven't listened to it in probably three years. But yes, Pandora, it's time to break it back out. I need some Waylon.

"Down the road a-ways I've heard said there's a new day comin'. Where the womenfolk are friendly and the law leaves you alone. Well, I'll believe it when I see it and I ain't seen it yet. Don't mind me, just keep on talkin'. I'm just looking for my hat."

Life In Central Time, And Other Moments Of Joy In a Lost Season

Central Time is God's time. Just spending time in the comfortable daylight where early isn't so bad and dark loses just a touch of its edge makes me feel like a more balanced soul. It's proof that the Lord resides somewhere in the strip of America between Chicago and New Orleans, riding his circuit in an '86 Fleetwood Fiesta with blue Astroturf flooring and a peeling "Eat a Peach" decal from the previous owner. Doin' deeds and eating gas station breakfast biscuits.

It gets a little white knuckle in the Fiesta on the Pig Trail, but I have no doubt he wheels it into Fayetteville on occasion. Once you peel back the ever-growing layers of four-laned strip mall build-up, you've got a core that is one of America's under-rated college towns. Aside from Ole Miss bringing along our Golden Flake early morning kick-off curse, this is the kind of weekend you should use to experience a gameday road environment for the first time. There's not an awful lot on the line, so nobody's chewing glass in anticipation. But, it's still an SEC West game, which  brings with it a certain level of intrigue and an enjoyable level of excitement. Energy without spilling over into meltdown.

Ole Miss/Arkansas games have a weird rhythm to them. It's a series that has a hard time finding its beat. Before the Houston Nutt shotgun rivalry was born, it was more like being set-up on a date with a girl who's lived across the street from you your entire life. We've got sort of parallel history, and it seems like there should be some kind of spark between us. It just never seems to catch. Even the Houston Nutt fire has started to dampen, and we've fallen back into our routine of nodding politely on the walk out to grab the morning paper.

Arkansas is a team with deflated aspirations of making the jump (they got double-bounced by Auburn, it appears) and is coming to terms with non-BCS success. Ole Miss is a team trying to find a foundation for whatever's coming next in moral victories and pride. What happens when they get together? A five hour teenage grope fest with Crimson and Clover playing in the background. The threat of electricity hanging in the air without a lighting strike ever actually finding the ground.

Other programs have rings of honor where they remember the greats from their championship teams. Ole Miss is quickly developing quite a ring of martyrdom. Great players who played their asses off stuck on bad teams. Upon induction, they will receive a pastel Vineyard Vines hairshirt and have their names engraved on the train tracks outside of campus. Jerrell Powe is earning his place in this illustrious grouping with his play this year, trying to pull whatever he can out of an underachieving defensive unit that was supposed to carry the team. However, being in the backfield on every down only means so much when there's no containment on any other part of the field. I don't know that Jeremiah Masioli will qualify with only one season. But as Rick Cleveland points out,  running for his life behind an offensive line of walk-ons while watching his former team compete for a championship is the steepest punishment for petty theft this side of Saudi Arabia.

But like I said, this was a day for small victories, including good timing to avoid the rain and the generosity of friends with shelter, whiskey and televisions. And a good Saturday night college town band with no cover charge at Grub's playing Gillian Welch's "Miss Ohio" featuring a male singer and a 3/4 time pace. And $2.50 beers and greasy late night food. And feeling amused superiority at the young novice drinkers puking doubled over trashcans with exposed undergarments...only to end up in the same position yourself later in the night.



And one guy in a studded black leather jacket, a portable amp and a worn guitar on the street banging out Ronnie James Dio solos, non-ironic mullet flowing in the wind, while drunken frat boys cheer and toss dollars in his case.

It doesn't matter if nobody's listening. Or if the people who are listening don't get it. It's all about keeping the faith. And that's easier to do in a good, Christian time zone.

A Circular Motion, Week 7: Columbus, Caminos and Cubans

Because if you stare into the great abyss looking for the future, what you're really seeing is the past, we preview this weekends games by looking back through History.com's "This Week in History."

McNeese St. at LSU (6:00 pm CST)/Columbus Stumbles Into The Bahamas (Rum Drinks O'Clock EST)

Relying simply on pure balls and blessed ignorance, funny-hatted captain with poor clock management narrowly staves off mutiny and desertion with unexpected success and exotic spices. Scholars debate whether he was ahead of his time or clinically insane.

MSU at Florida (7:00 pm EST)/Rommel Commits Suicide By Cyanide (3:35 pm Fuhrer Time)
A struggling superpower looks for a fall guy outside of the infalliable dear leader, who is genius and cannot possibly be the cause of the downward trend. A close assistant is singled out and done away with.


Iowa at Michigan (11:00 am CST)/Blind Man, Terrified Co-Pilot Set Land Speed Record (8:45 am CET)
Full of bravado, a man in the dark puts the pedal down. He has no idea where he's going, but he knows he's going to get there fast...and probably with his shoelaces untied. Beside him, a very nervous man holding a clip board screams encrouagement, because his life depends on this success.

California at USC (12:30 pm PT)/Charlie Rich Presents CMA Entertainer of the Year Award to John Denver, Lights It On Fire (8:38 pm CST)
A former winner on the decline looks around at where the industry is going. Instead of passing the torch, instead decides just to set the whole thing on fire by incincerating an award of questionable relevance. Then, goes to hang out with a monkey at a truck stop.

Arkansas at Auburn (2:30 pm CST)/William Jefferson Clinton and Hillary Rodhman Are Married (4:00 pm CST)

A marriage of shotgun convience erupts into turbulance/betrayal/lies/strange sexual advances/world domination.

BYU at TCU (3:00 pm CST)/The Republic of Texas Joins United States (2:15 am TEXAS TIME)

After breaking away from a small-time, dysfunctional association, a pissy group of white guys with inflated opinions of themselves come to the painful realization that maybe independence is not quite all it's cracked up to be.

Baylor at Colorado (5:00 pm MT)/In 1943, Italy Declares War On Germany (Sometime After Brunch CET) 
A weak ally with a deposed maniacal leadership jumps from a clearly sinking ship to join up with former rivals. They prove to be as worthless to their new friends as they were their old ones.

Ohio State at Wisconsin (6:00 pm CST)/The Cuban Missle Crisis Begins (8:30 pm Rum Drinks O'Clock)
Two beheamoths have a staring contest for what seems like weeks. Big talk and anxious build-up drags on into fatigue and resignation to death. By the end, everybody's just tired of watching and not particularly concerned if the world ends or not.

Ole Miss at Alabama (8:00 pm CST)/Young Hitler Survives Gas Attack In WW1 (11:42 CET)
Evil takes a knock from the old Empire, but is not finished off. Left alive, he later goes on a rampage through lesser horse-calvary states leaving bombed out cities, smoldering ashes and bitter defeat in the wake.

Iowa State at Oklahoma (6:00 pm CST)/Western Movie Star Killed By "Suitcase of Death"(8:45 pm CST)
Cruising the roads of victory, a successful Okie puts it into the ditch and is unexpectedly knocked off from behind by a blunt object projectile. Mourning Oklahomans agree the loss, while tragic, probably prevented what they foresaw as a slow, messy decline into booze, whores and dice games in the desert.




Oregon State at Washington (7:15 pm PT)/Car-Truck Hybrid 'El Camino' Rolls Off The Line (9:00 am CST)
Once with high hopes as the ushering in a new era of a struggling national brand, the hybrid struggles to live up to the hype. Once billled as "the most beautiful thing that ever shouldered a load," the stock keeps sliding into an object of ridicule and pity.