They might not have been particularly Flash, and they definitely weren't Metal (metallic, yes) and it wasn't so much Suicide as going out all guns blazing, musically at least. For, ladies and gennlemen, tonight we are gonna take a little rail ride to a little bar out there on the highway, oh yes and bet yer ass we is, open up some whiskey and be regaled by not only the Greatest Bar Band in the world, but one of the finest Rock'n'Roll bands there has ever been. Oh, and you guessed it, as ever, for these Flash Metal entries, also a vastly under-rated and ignored bunch of hellhounds (literally, as we shall see), heels, and heartbreakers. For tonight, and tonight only, we are in the company of The Georgia Satellites, four renegade roots rockers awash in a land of poison and motley crews of hair metallers, in a world out of time and in which they didn't give two types of shit; why would they? - They were juiced on the loudest boogie, the hardest liquor, the toughest fucking roots, the leanest, meanest cuts of prime rib-eye rock, runnin' right off the rails they were ridin' in the best boots, well dressed to give you a good hidin'. And to cap it all off they were spearheaded by a definite contender for damn dan dandiest songwriter of his generation along with rhyming Simon's Paul Westerberg and Jason Ringenberg - Mr Dan Baird, step forward and take a bow sir. Oops, mind your hat doesn't fall off, now - and the fluid, expressive guitaring of Rick Richards, at turns languid as a long Laphroig, pretty as the picture of a forces sweetheart to a trench bound grunt; at others as convulsing and jittery as a jump-starting speedfreak in a rundown Dodge trying to evade the cops after a robbery, and at others as snarling and nasty as a trapped tiger in the Tampa Bay heat. Underpinning these two flash cats was the overlooked-of-the-overlooked razorwire sharp rhythm rollers Mauro Magellan and Rick Price who provided a chaingang clanking backbeat that could blow bridges too far with nonchalant James Dean ease. Magellan living up to his piratical moniker, sounding like he's blissfully bashing some sailor's head in with a rock, Price exact and precise mirroring melodies and marauding in and out and over drums and guitar lines alike whilst remaining as solid as the now bloodied rock in Magellan's hand. No regular root-note routine's for this guy, no sir, not less needed. So we got there all the constituent parts of the finest boogie machine yet known to man. All they need is another shot, bartender Sally, if you'd be so kind.

Jumping up like the very devil prophesied by Robert Johnson through the pavement cracks from the dusty, bloodied, spit 'n' sawdust boards of the underground Atlanta scene circa 1985, from the ashes of The Woodpeckers (Baird) and The Hellhounds (the other three), The Georgia Satellites seem like they're gonna be eternally pegged as those one-hit-hicks-who-did-the-song-with-the-yodel-in. Whooaaa. A big WRONG there, people. For, tonight, that all changes. The song in question may have been a huge hit way back in 1986, and gladly would have caused many hair metallers to grimace in pain as they try to resist scratching their heads in bemusement 'less it mucks up their coiffure; and helped the resulting eponymous debut album sell! sell! sell! while the record label wankers - well....so at least enabling two more Satellites records to be left for posterity, but thankfully, and quite blissfully, there's more, a lot more to the story than that and a cover song from a schmucky 80's movie.

For the Georgia Satellites megalithic megaton explosive Countryfied Rock'n'Roll still sizzles to this day, as though it's in the half-life of a radioactive hiccup and dribble of spittle that fell from some metaphorical old dead drunks lips one day and seeped into the dry Georgia earth to take root, rock the boat, rampage around (and around) then continue to ricochet and reverberate. 

Anyway, let's first, as is my wont, venture back to that fortuitous dirk sharp quirk of fate when I did come across the Satellites. I remember seeing them, rather bizarrely, on TV (yes, in England!) doing, I think, 'Battleship Chains'. I'm pretty sure it was from the Montreaux Rock and Pop Festival which used to be broadcast during school summer holidays, and I used to watch it with my sister. I distinctly yet alsovaguely recall being kinda 'Huuuuuh, wow!', moreso as they were billed with shite like (I guess anyway) Curiosity Killed The Cat and Billy Ocean and others such like.

Fast-forwarding a mere matter of months and a chance announcement was heard that our venerable flower of all culture, the BBC, was deigning to broadcast a concert of these sons of the South...sitting there in bed late of a night, aged about 11, I taped this gig, sound turned down on my little stereo, but trying to get it to that finely balanced precipice between being loud enough for me to hear but not too loud to wake my folks along the hall. Twas an exact science let me tell you. Mission accomplished, this tape was a treasure for a good long while. When it's said that live records are just contract fillers or only for those who were there at the gig (I had a Black Crowes tape from radio of a gig I went to as well, not the same as this Sats tape at all. Barely even registers) and so on that is very likely true and secondly quite possibly bullshit. For this tape, I believe from the Town and Country club in old London town some hot early summers eve in 1988 is precisely that, a scorcher. More than that, it cemented a desire, a need, for mayhemic, maelstromic, rootsy Rock'n'Roll that a couple of months later still was to be the grounds that held the tree that The Dogs D'Amour pissed up, and that early AC/DC and 'Appetite For Destruction' had laid the foundations for. This tape kinda lays the criteria too for what I want(ed) in a Rock'n'Roll band. They seemed to have an effortless, exuberant, infecting interaction with each other and man, if we - me and my chum Max, weren't in thrall to those Southern accents - 'Oh you sound lahk furgin Geowgiaa down here, oh maaa goodness...'

C'mon let's sift through the evidence. Simply, they are both pretty damn excellent, but I always felt 'GS' to have some storming moments plus a few farts of filler, (albeit such storms shadow over the few weaker moments), whereas 'Open All Night' has a couple of covers on but the only thing that could be considered filler is 'My Babe', which turns out to be a nifty sunny little number, with a jaunty jam sesh tacked onto the end. Sure, covers, such as with the New York Dolls 'Too Much Too Soon' are a sure sign of a band in disarray and turmoil, but take a looksee at what the Sats here do to 'Whole Lotta Shakin' (well, see above, but not quite so unbridled been a studio cut) and Ringo Starr's 'Don't Pass Me By' which they turn from an old age pensioner pedestrian on mogodon wheezing lollop into a nimble footed James Brown twisting, turning dance in the streets, every crack of the rhythm whip like a drained tequila glass slammed down in wild abandon. On 'GS' a few tracks stand out like Stonehenge, or Teotihuacan, towering above all the others on the album. What we get is a three pronged attack, just to get all Patton-esque on your ass. The first tentative strike introducing itself quite amiably, albeit with a sarcastic, stray cat struttin' stare and a bad-ass disposition - listen to that Telecaster - in the form of the whopping hit single 'Keep Your Hands To Yourself', a super slinky tune lifted straight from the version on the first EP 'Keep The Faith' (which I used to have but have since long ago criminally lost. It importantly contained this along with two of their weakest songs, re-recorded later - 'Red Light' and 'Crazy' - and a disappointing run through of George Jones 'The Race Is On', in comparison to the version on the live tape. And two other songs I can't recall now, one mighta been 'Six Years Gone' in retrospect, but, whatever...) which is constructed on the chassis of Randy Delay's auto plant pressing machine drums, allowing Rick Richards dizzying Cadillac careening thru crack-whore back alley jungleland guitar runs to ooze out every which way. Seems that all the component parts of the band were introduced on this very track, (except them being dismissed as mere goofy hillbillys), what with Dan Baird's persona of cheeky Southern gent, mixing a splash of naivety with a splish of humble 'who me?' innocence and a splosh of knowing tongue-in-cheek (yet tongue-tied) sly, grinning-old-devil-glint-in-eye bravado charm – Chuck Berry in the guise of an 'innocent' farmhand, oh god.

And the drums. Man, The Satellites drums. Jeez, and I know if you've not heard much of this bunch then you'll be 'Drums, who cares man?'. True, but furccck, the drums. Now, I don't know if they stumbled upon this by accident, it was their engineer, original drummer Randy Delay's own style or what all Atlanta based drummers aspire to (I checked on live tape and Magellan's drums knock you for six too - must be inthe water) but The Satellites drum sound is so huge it hurts. Pulverizes you. Take the intro to the main attack in our three pronged devil trike attack system, that of 'Railroad Steel', it's just pure unadulterated violence! And it's fantastic. Like a fucking teenaged T-Rex smelling the Bistro gravy and running home for its dinner. Unrelenting. Stomps on your guts like AC/DC could only wish for. Pure good-natured thuggery. Plus, like many a Satellites ditty you can dance to this. It's punk-upped delinquent 18-wheeler-running-off-the-road energy enabling you to swing your partner by the hand and all the way round Saturn, man. That and it's fellow follow up bastard bruiser 'Battleship Chains', possibly as near to the real Rebel Yell that we're gonna ever hear these days. Just listen to that chorus for full-throated effect. Maybe something of a no-brainer to some, but it has a nifty turn-around lyric, and what's wrong with a big hunk o' dumb fun? It's pure brawlin', bleedin' bucket o' blood bar band mayhem. Like the wrecking crews at Psychobilly gigs who think they've had a good gig when they've smashed their head open and bust a rib or two on the edge of the stage.

There are, of course, other flag unfurling glories on 'GS' but that ain't as widely held their 'glory days', the point here. Sure, we have the Replacements-rattlesnaker from Mr Richards (as with his namesake, he tends to sing one per album, also to great effect) 'Can't Stand The Pain', taking it's place in the pantheon of songs using the riff from 'Memo To Turner' (see also Mr Izzy Stradlin's 'Train Tracks', ey ups, played by one Rick Richards!! oh, and surprise surprise The Black Crowes 'Stop Dragging My Heart Around') actually a sad, tremulous, tear-stained track wrapped as with a Rocka's wont in a speed and alcohol blur, but which only delays the comedown betrayed in the ensuing majestic 'Golden Light', featuring some lovely, longing, keening guitar.

I always thought 'Over and Over' was pretty weak. Yeah, different rhythmically and a pert and perky little number for sure but that and the lumbering 'Nights of Mystery' disappoint, and that's not changed in the ensuing 15 years I've had the album. '...Mystery' starts off well enough, a lonesome, reflective pluck on the ol' banjo but it's the soundtrack to a logging festival or some such, or the aftermath of one, being played by knackered lumberjacks. It just drags on lifelessly for too damn long...asleep at the wheel; an AC/DC type bagpipe-eqsue solo and a guitar breakdown in the middle while Dan hurriedly writes some more lyrics for the last bit don't do much to help either. And this is proven by the engineer fading them down to concentrate on Rick Richards who'd got bored with proceedings and started playing Sir Rodney's 'Every Picture Tells A Story'. The acoustic segue flourish between 'Nights of Mystery' and this closer is a highlight of the whole album, definitely the best bit about '...Mystery', anyway. It definitely provided a splash of cold water on the face for the others anyway as they deliver a suitably Satellited version -thuggish, rolling like a pirate ship on the high seas, relishing the sea spray, ably and amply showing the belief, sass and swagger they had right from the start, besides the version of 'The Race Is On' on '...Faith', in covering tracks that could be deemed almost sacrosanct. Maybe to yer general 'bar band', mister, but not to these cats. Cos they do it admirably well, captain.

'Open All Night' triumphs in this demolition derby by sheer overall classiness; streamlined sleek 'n' slinky songs that come bursting to the brim, no, full, nay overfuckingflowing with a certain sunny feelgood factor, moreso than 'GS' by a country coupla highways or so. On this record too we get even more of an interplay between Dan and Rick's guitar's, which, even if you're a non-musician, just rounds things off, bringing tensions and just simple listening pleasure to the max. For all the fabled fantasticalness of The Stones twin guitar sound it's hard to beat this record, alongside Izzy's 'Ju Ju Hounds' album, 'Appetite' and The Black Crowes 'Southern Harmony...' album for sheer playing around. And play around sho' 'nuff n' yeah they do, elastic riffs that could ably do the Charleston ricochet around the scattershot salvos of guitar licks sharp and searing as shrapnel while the rhythms roll relentlessly on like a Panzer division sweeping all before it.  But fuck that, really. It's all down to the songs, baby. And what songs - the title track opens the bar and we immediately get a warm slap on the back from Dan's naughty schoolboy character, after the ladies again, right out of his mind yet still able to keep a straight face, as he admirably does on raunch rawk boogie belter borne from pure Southern heat 'Down and Down', cast seemingly in the role of someone with a dominatrix girlfriend who gets a bit out of hand, as it were, featuring lines that always made me laugh - 'Take it on faith baby, Won't you take it on the run, take it any way you want to honey please put down that gun'.

'Sheila' is just absolutely exquisite. A rapturous paean to the lass in the street, in the shop, wherever - yup, almost like an elder brothers take on The Replacements 'Customer' - a lovely, beguiling little smalltown tale and therein lies the beauty. No pretensions, no bullshit. Simple story, simple song told simply and endearingly. Wonderful. Also aptly reinforced by some precise, perfectly weighted solo work from Mr Richards. I said it was expressive, right? Well, this here is the soundtrack to the tilt-a-whirl tumbledown, gutchurning stomach lurching rushes of luurvvve, lust and longing. On a similar tack, tho kinda more leering than sweet, is Dan living out a kind of Huck Finn role in 'Mon Cheri', just out for a wee stroll wherein he by happy chance comes across a purty lil girl 'her skirt rolled up so I could see she was French'. As on pretty much everything The Sats did the tempo here is perfect showing how with a few 'bar' band chords and melodies they manage to still fit the music to the mood of the song, creating the right feel and atmosphere. The slow gait of the rolling rhythm just puts into mind walking along a country lane, past whitewashed walls and cherry trees.

As said above there is a great summery feel to this album. 'Sheila', 'Dunk n' Dine' (which used to confuse the hell out of me till I went to Birmingham where they had a Dunkin' Donuts store, was like an epiphany -'aaaah this is what the hell they were on about') and 'Baby So Fine' especially all seem to be tailor made for pure cheesy 80's story videos interspersed with live clips, dreamlike sequences, running around after each other, a bit of swooning, racing around in convertibles...or maybe it's just me dreaming on dreary winter days in England. 'Baby So Fine', with its pneumatic drill drum beat is a surefire hurtling down the highway track, which is pretty indicative as it is about jumping on a plane to see his good lady after a good long while. And so it can only be accompanied by Richards guitar weaving in and out of the white lines, criss-crossing his, locking and intertwining occasionally before shooting off on the wrong side of the road again with a happy go lucky twinkly solo, as fast and pitter-pattering pretty patterned as Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, at times almost sounding like the high, tense, staccato notes on a piano. 'Dunk 'n' Dine' is just pure 180% proof good time jumping off haystacks doubleshots of Faces spirits, again planting pictures in your brain, sounding as it does like ketchup splodges and chili sauce being squirted onto burgers in some greasy off road dive, each mouthful washed down with coffee and petrol fumes. 

'Well It Never Came To Much Anyway...'

I'm With You Man I'm Just Moving On

Nowhere But Forward To Fall.

I Hear An Old Familiar Sound...