Still reading rock critters on country music. Why? you ask. I guess,
because like a pile of green manure as big as Everest, "it's there."
Anyway, found this gem, in that gem of papers, the Village Voice.
STEVE EARLE AND THE DEL MCCOURY BAND: The Mountain (E-Squared) With
bluegrass "more comfortable all the time," the sometime country-rocker
turns in his strongest and loosest record of the decade. But bluegrass
isn't what it is it's too comfortable. I was so impressed with how the
music moaned and shivered and flapped around in the wind I wondered how I'd
ever overlooked McCoury's outfit until I played their new CD, which is just
as clean and tight and anal as every other spoor of Bill Monroe I've ever
swept out the door. Slurring like a moonshiner who's been on a mush diet
since his bird dog died, Earle rowdies up McCoury's sharpsters till they
turn all hairy and bounce off walls. And though the songs are less
literary, more generic blues and breakdown, "pinko folk song" and
"real-live-bad-tooth hillbilly murder ballad" literature is Earle's
critical selling point, not his artistic strength. He's a singer first. A
MINUS
Christgau, who else?
Nevermind the insult to Mr. McCoury -- Earle is a singer first? Hell's
bells. Give this man my hearing aids.
--Cheryl Cline
