Releases by hambone

I remember thinking this when a music producer friend asked me to join him at a Hambone show the coming Friday night. “He’s this white kid that sounds like an old black dude,” my cohort continued trying to convince me to attend. I wouldn’t consider myself a strict rule following purist when it comes to real country blues because I do have a soft spot for Johnny Winter and you don’t get any whiter than that, but if you ain’t dead and black you ain’t blues by my standards. I slaughter my sacrificial goat at the alter of Muddy, McDowell, Hopkins, and House, and I’m listening to Scott Dunbar while writing this. I remember thinking if I go to this club and hear this snot nose white punk bastardize my afore mentioned religion somebody will get cut long and deep. As is my producer friend’s modus operandi he didn’t show for the gig so I introduced myself to Hambone over a few shots of bourbon then grabbed a seat so I could observe Hambone play “the blues”. What I witnessed was pure spastic musical exhibition. He perches behind a crappy pawnshop kick drum and hi-hat and begins pounding out neanderthal beats that most drummers are to sophisticated to bother with, and all of this rhythmic chaos is happening almost independently while he hammers mercilessly on a beat-down telecaster and howls vocals from someplace further down and much darker than the anatomical proximity of the human gut. What I hear is as rich as it is dangerous and unorganized; his telecaster rings like the proverbial bell yet is thicker than a toxic mercury laden river bottom. He isn’t replicating or parroting blues standards like most of today’s Beal Street hacks, he is channeling blood-gritty sounds from a backwoods juke long past. This shit ain’t for the tourists it stinks like body odor and puddles of cheap booze on the floor of a last chance bait shop. Hambone’s trance stems from North Mississippi and old school punk, innate grooves that make you move even though you don’t know why, and his song writing “style” doesn’t give a shit about conventions or polish. Hambone doesn’t lie about where he came from or where he’s going. He was born during a blizzard in Indianapolis in 1983 and raised just North of the city for most of his life. Yes, he is white and he is young. He came from a middle class family. He has never been on a chain gang, in a razor fight, sold or bought anything at the crossroads, or been poisoned by his “ol lady”, he’s not even “fixin’ ta die”. By these standards he should have no right to play blues influenced music, right? That question doesn’t matter because Hambone doesn’t play the “blues” it’s something else entirely. The Stones are guilty of all of these same crimes and yet when their influences pass through the Glimmer Twins’ filter the result is something equally beautiful and violent, it’s bluesy but it ain’t the “blues.” What was my lesson learned? It’s that the artist will show you the reality of the music, which trumps “authenticity” because being “authentic” in today’s blues genre is the biggest fat joke in the world, what sounds good is good. Drink your drink, forget everything you think you know, and hold on for dear life because Hammy is at the wheel. The advantage of being a one-man show is that Hambone sometimes plays multiple gigs per day and has shared the stage with greats such as Curtis Crawford, Tab Benoit, Ronnie Baker Brooks, Duwayne Burnside, The Legendary Shackshakers, and many many more. He continues touring the country and flicking off record companies while afflicting his musical stylings on the unsuspecting, shell shocking them until their skulls are melted and they are believers, and yes you will be one too. Fucking Hambone. Everyone thinks he’s crazy. He doesn’t care. Tonight a goat dies at the alter in the name of Hambone. Read more on Last.fm. User-contributed text is available under the Creative Commons By-SA License; additional terms may apply.