Saturday 21 April 2007
Of the Weary Boys, local journalist and gadfly, Josh Caffery offers this assessment:
When I sit down at the table of traditional music, I don’t care if my dinner guests are well dressed, well mannered or even if they eat with their hands. The music at the core of the American heart is not proper fare for the dainty or squeamish. If you think you have the intestines to digest Bill Monroe, Hank Williams, Sr., Clarence Ashley or the Stanley Brothers, you won’t need your teaspoons or chopsticks.
When the Weary Boys sit down at that table with the great musical bounty of this land spread out before them, they roll up their sleeves and they eat like farm boys. They aren’t going to play with their food and indulge in fancy conversation. They aren’t going to bring tofu to the potluck. They are going to bring ham hocks, butterbeans and bourbon. The Weary Boys do not peddle a watered-down, cellophaned, prettified imitation of roots music. Their songs are not bubblegum popsicles that those with a casual interest or a misguided desire to be hip can suckle at and chew on.
Yes, they are Weary. They are weary because every day is Thanksgiving at their table. They are weary because they have eaten like men from the greasy roasted flank of the American musical soul. They may seem groggy, yes, but if you choose to sit with them, if you choose to break bread at their table, I will offer this one bit of advice: bring your appetite and leave the bean sprouts at home.