- First things first: There is no more room in the United States for even one more Father Chode or Father John Misty or whatever the fuck the newest know-it-all trippy sensitive white yuppie songwriter rehashing the ’60s is called. Will the bros and rich kids please stay the fuck out of country and folk music, for crying out loud? You have fucking ruined it beyond all repair with your literary allusions and private-school educations and insecure fake tough-guy shit. Don’t come back either. You aren’t funny or tough or witty and you are clogging up the inboxes of all the booking agents and critics with your reverb-drenched non-singing guitar-noodling ass horseshit and creating more traffic on the roadways while “going on tour.” Find another way to get laid. Have your dads get you a job at the firm or whatever boring stupid fucking shit he does to make sure your bitch mom can fuck around all day at yoga and shopping and “aligning her chakras.”
The never-ending music-critic circle jerk is such a pathetic display of self-delusion and nepotism and classism it makes me fucking sick. The pecking of all these Mac keyboards pumping out all of this worthless bullshit could power 10 thousand Higgs bosons and probably propel us into space and off this radioactive waste dump permanently. “Can you get us in free/ my girlfriend and me/ We like the songs but we hate to pay. Can I have your guitar/ can I ride on your car/ can you give me a role to play?” If you don’t know that Leon Russell song you should, but you were probably listening to Bob Dylan for the 10 thousandth fucking time. I ain’t no motherfuckin’ critic and you better not call me one or I will beat you to fucking death with your special-edition marbled vinyl of “I Love You Honey Boo Boo.”
- Fuck Bob Dylan. His rant directed at songwriting god Tom T. Hall and his glorious song ‘I Love’ was incoherent and stupid and factually inaccurate. Merle Haggard is one thing, but Tom T. fucking Hall? You ain’t doin’ that fuckin’ shit. Stick ‘That’s How I Got To Memphis’ in your pipe Bob and smoke it and then listen to ‘Mama Bake A Pie’ and shut the fuck up. The fact is that there are about a dozen country singers with songwriting chops equal to Dylan’s without half the hubbub surrounding them and he knows it. One of them’s name is Billy Joe Shaver and his songs have twice the heart Dylan ever had. Bob hasn’t made a great record since “Time Out of Mind” anyhow, and that album of standards he just released, “Shadows in the Night,” sucks so bad it makes “Together Through Life” sound good. Old Bob will be at the Lyric Opera House on April 11, so get your tickets early because everyone will want to go so they can bitch afterward about how bad it sucked. I don’t know who is more disappointing live, Dylan or David Allan Coe.
- The 9:30 Club in Washington, D.C. recently hosted hot-shit singer Sturgill Simpson. By now I’m sort of sick of hearing about him too, but his show was pretty good despite him being sort of completely unintelligible as a frontman. At least 50 percent of the garbled mush coming out of his mouth sounded like a 52-word pileup on the syllable superhighway. However, his band is really good and the show was fun and I will see him again.
- And (second-to) last but not least, I produced an album’s worth of songs for my friend and hero Zane Campbell who lives in Elkton, Maryland. It’s out now. That’s right, I’m promoting my own shit. He can and will out-sing, out-write, and out-perform every single one of you motherfuckers and your favorite shitty songwriters and his album is better than all of yours put together. If you don’t believe me listen to that shit on Spotify for free and then you don’t have to worry about contributing what little money you have to something worthwhile. We won’t see another Zane for about a thousand years so take it in, bitches.
- I recommend getting drunk and stoned, dancing, and singing along to these fine albums: Bob Dylan’s “Another Side of Bob Dylan”; Gary Stewart’s “The Essential Gary Stewart”; Billy Joe Shaver’s “Storyteller: Live at the Bluebird”; Tom T. Hall’s “Storyteller, Poet, Philosopher”; Tammy Wynette’s “The World of Tammy Wynette”; Leon Russell’s “Carney”; Linda Ronstadt’s “Heart Like a Wheel”; Dolly Parton’s “Mission Chapel Memories: 1971-1975”; John Martyn’s “Bless The Weather”; and Blaze Foley’s “Live at the Austin Outhouse.”