Last summer we kept and kept hearing about the arriving -no, the
horrific impending onslaught- of the cicadas, the ones that rear their bug-eyed heads every several years. But, at least in our backyards, they never showed their freaky faces. Sure, our pal in Bloomington, IN said they was ankle deep in their neck o' the woods -that his dog was fat on 'em...Well, I bring this up 'cause it's not
a lot unlike the new Dick Smith record "Woozy," y'know? But it's here now- squeezed out like a deep fried Halloween taffy- them orange & black
ones. Salted liberally. The fellers spent
a lot of time subterranean kicking these songs around. Yeah, they kicked 'em alright. Then they stuck pins in 'em. Put 'em on fire and sang other songs to 'em. Soaked 'em in lime juice and cilantro and shrimp and ate the shrimp. Stacked 'em up tall and fell into 'em to see where they'd land, then shot 'em from a slingshot. Shot 'em WITH a slingshot, gutted 'em and hung 'em in the shed, where they were lightly smoked using the labels of a great many Knob Creek bottles. By the way, this all took a few seasons or so to accomplish -by fan and by fire, humidifier and dehumidifier. And, we might add, it was both aided AND abetted by recent full time Dick Smith member Scott Stevenson who, it turns out, fans the fire with the best of 'em -not that we harbored any doubts. And Tequila Clowny Clown Clown stood at his post, like a murky beacon. And Scott brought the rememberer for when things got REAL murky. And then FINALLY it was time to stick them songs in cement and let it dry. So the full Band-O-Dicks was again assembled, formidable accomplices all. They said goodbye to their families, strapped on their waders and stopped by the liquor store. The fellers set up camp in the basement on a coupla chilly days and sticked them songs on tape. Well, ones and zeros actually. And then, risking scorn & shame, incarceration & divorce, and, worst of all- apathy- they released their greasy offerins' into the wild. Words & chords, grunts & whistles...
Which brings us up to right now...yeah, "Woozy" is out and available here, and it'd be silly not to get it...
NOW WHAT? Well, lessee...Nelson can't get his mind off growin' things and soakin' 'em in brine. Kuhn is sharpenin' all his knives with a stone. Ramont finds it easier to hide with the leaves back out. Stevenson went for a six-er and never came back. The Band-O-Dicks seem to be playin' everywhere with everyone, sons-o-bitches. But they'll all hook up on occasion to sing and dance, so check the dates page sometimes when you're at work. Hell- offer the fellers some huevos con carne and a place to squat and they might play at YOUR house...they will certainly stay too long...
Last summer we kept and kept hearing about the arriving -no, the
horrific impending onslaught- of the cicadas, the ones that rear their bug-eyed heads every several years. But, at least in our backyards, they never showed their freaky faces. Sure, our pal in Bloomington, IN said they was ankle deep in their neck o' the woods -that his dog was fat on 'em...Well, I bring this up 'cause it's not
a lot unlike the new Dick Smith record "Woozy," y'know? But it's here now- squeezed out like a deep fried Halloween taffy- them orange & black
ones. Salted liberally. The fellers spent
a lot of time subterranean kicking these songs around. Yeah, they kicked 'em alright. Then they stuck pins in 'em. Put 'em on fire and sang other songs to 'em. Soaked 'em in lime juice and cilantro and shrimp and ate the shrimp. Stacked 'em up tall and fell into 'em to see where they'd land, then shot 'em from a slingshot. Shot 'em WITH a slingshot, gutted 'em and hung 'em in the shed, where they were lightly smoked using the labels of a great many Knob Creek bottles. By the way, this all took a few seasons or so to accomplish -by fan and by fire, humidifier and dehumidifier. And, we might add, it was both aided AND abetted by recent full time Dick Smith member Scott Stevenson who, it turns out, fans the fire with the best of 'em -not that we harbored any doubts. And Tequila Clowny Clown Clown stood at his post, like a murky beacon. And Scott brought the rememberer for when things got REAL murky. And then FINALLY it was time to stick them songs in cement and let it dry. So the full Band-O-Dicks was again assembled, formidable accomplices all. They said goodbye to their families, strapped on their waders and stopped by the liquor store. The fellers set up camp in the basement on a coupla chilly days and sticked them songs on tape. Well, ones and zeros actually. And then, risking scorn & shame, incarceration & divorce, and, worst of all- apathy- they released their greasy offerins' into the wild. Words & chords, grunts & whistles...