It’s a cold night in Missouri. The first frost has fallen outside, sugar-coating the Saturn and the grass and windows outside. I Love the cold and I’m glad to have winter gripping me. I fear that Rowan is woefully unprepared but years of traveling through different climes has given me the foresight to pack my winter coat.
And with the cold comes the glory of coming in out of it. After a long night, first playing the Blue Fugue in downtown Columbia and then moving up the street to play Jeff Wheeler’s radio program till 2 in the morning, the exquisite thawing that’s coming within Firedancer’s tiny, warm home is sublime. I can feel it working the edges of me into mush already, a welcome fatigue that might even signal sleep for a change.
I don’t know though – the Hooten Hollers still have me kind of riled. They were the reason I wanted to stay out late. Hell, they make me want to get up to all SORTS of things that aren’t good for me. I was blown away when I first met them over a year ago on a night when they hadn’t even settled on a name… now they’re practiced and well-oiled and still every bit as raw, passionate, the ferocity that pours off of them is like nothing i’ve ever seen. They remind me a bit of White Hassle’s instrumentation with the wild-eyed frenzy of Gordon from the Violent Femmes, fired from a cannon and through the mid-section of a drunken rockabilly band and right into the Sex Pistols in the midst of a cocaine binge.
Quite simply, one of the best things out there. Period.