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 Crackpot
punkin’ countrybilly bluegrass, or grass-guzzling rockabilly blues, or
rock chomping blue movie crack smoking pot growing hillbilly hound dogging
country. From
Switzerland.
As you do. But of course how the hell else did Country music end up in
Tennessee but via the original shit-kickers from
Europe?
You gotta kick a whole haybarn full o’ shit to get across the Atlantic ah
guess. I wouldn’t have it any other way. And neither, of course, should
you. These songs are mini-epics set amidst wide open plains whether in
Montana or somewhere in your own dehydrated demented delirious dreamlands,
bean-tin belches sprouting like spur-shredding campfire farts powering
warped wagon-trains way out west for a hoe-down on the edge of the highway
to hell, highwater and hangovers...tales of dames, damn dames, damnation
and damned dames, drugs, drink n’ despair...yeah yeah yeah like every
lonesome and penniless cowboy wending his woe filled way to the ends of a
whiskey bottle brought down by the ways of women from Wyoming to
Withington. But Mr Zeno zaps right into the collective unconscious of each
and every cowboy dude in the world in a tradition true to Hank and Steve
Earle through to Eddie Spaghetti. And I’m sho’ as Hell sure that Hank
never did it this way. This is sinicious enough to send Jerry Lee to
Baptist church right away. Don’t try and stop him. Just let him go, while
you kick back with a bottle and let old Zeno kick up a storm.
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