theater of pain?
So, I was drinking to kill the pain of my drinking-induced knee injury when I decided it would be a great idea to check out this band, The Hurtin’ Unit.
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I’m a little bit Country… Iz a l’il soooouuulllllllll!!! |
Some background:
Way back in the twentieth century, at a mostly empty shitkicker joint in Buttfuck, Georgia, a certain Hank Williams was sippin’ bourbon with his good friend Mr. James Brown. At the only other inhabited table sat Ol’ Bill Monroe and an acne-scarred girl from Texas who called herself Janis. Bill was playing Janis with Southern Comfort and singing her sad mountain songs, with the eventual intention of making his way into her pants. Hank and James, amused by Bill’s transparent attempts at seduction and strangely aroused by Janis’ knowing eyes and wailing voice (she was a little drunk and had started to Sing the BluesTM), left off their conversation about mixing up country and soul (a pipe dream, they decided, “Who ever heard of country and soul in the same band?”) and moseyed on over to see if Bill and Janis would let them in on the fun.
Introductions were made, rounds were bought, and soon it was closing time. It was agreed that the party would adjourn to a little place Hank had on the river nearby (a tourbus, and a smelly one, it turned out). No one remembers much about the rest of that full-mooned humid evening, but about nine months later, a baby was born. A baby wearing a cowboy hat, playing a fiddle, doing the splits, and screaming blue, bloody murder.
The baby’s name was The Hurtin’ Unit.
Are they country? Oh yeah! Sad-eyed and blue as the kentucky grass.
Soul? Shit, motherfucker-these cats got more soul than Memphis.
Bluegrass? A touch of the jug.
They were, in fact, so good that, forgetting the fact that I was on crutches, I was moved to dance. I danced myself into a sweat. I whirled. I leapt. I sang. I jumped. I broke my crutches and injured my good leg.
I waited until the last set was over, staggered up to the stage, And said,”YERR TH’BESS’FUGGIN’ BAND I SEEN IN AGES ‘N AGES!!” I got a copy of the cd, went home, and listened to it. It was good — not as good as live, but good enough to cause my thumping, aching, abused foot to anger my neighbors into calling the police on me. Now I’m missing more time at work, my rent is late, I can’t walk, I need new crutches and I have this noise fine to pay. But I’ve found a good band-even though they get me in trouble.
The Hurtin’ Unit are mood music for a romantic dinner in the drunk tank. They are the houseband at a rodeo in Harlem. They are dissolute. They are crispy around the edges. They’ll break your heart, make you laugh, buy you a drink when you’re supposed to be on the wagon, and hit on your sister. They are the perfect band to dance to on crutches.
They are country soul.
They’ll be coming to your town someday. Be warned.
