Sharp Blessed Men

Sharp Blessed Men

by Don Allred
October 30 - November 5, 2002 Issue 44

Sharp Dressed Men: A Tribute To ZZ Top
RCA
The Charlie Daniels Band
Redneck Fiddlin' Man
Audium/Blue Hat

The Charlie Daniels Band
The Ultimate Charlie Daniels Band
Epic/Legacy


Hooks-laden, woman-(ec)centric (not too intimidatingly enlightened),
unimpeachably Texan, yet too dang messin'-with-the-boogie for some (especially re CD
mixes of hallowed vinyl), the ZZ(aftig) Top legacy is a good bet for
Pop-Goes-the-Country's dude rodeo. Recent (if not Late) Hat has a lot of
rock-metal-blues in its closet—on its sleeve, even. With generations of lamination having
been sandbagged by Soggy Bottom Boys (O Brother, indeed), what the heck. Thus,
NashVegas ubersuit Joe Galante and ZZ's personal mogul Bill Ham hereby negotiate
Sharp Dressed Men: A Tribute to ZZ Top.
None of the resulting tracks are bad, but some just aren't greasy enough
(duh), and where my girls at? Didn't dare hope for Madonna in her albino Muff
Daddy chaps, lookin' for some "Tush." But imagine Dixie Chicks, strapping on
"Cheap Sunglasses" to go out and meet the masses. Or Dolly P, Shania T, ooo-wee
(Babeh).

Howsomever. Montgomery Gentry's "Just Got Paid" is sung and played with a
surging tension. These solos ain't nobody's "breaks." They got paid today;
somebody's next in line: "Black Sheep Black Sheep have you any wool? Yes I have,
three bags full." Perhaps overly encouraged by the dogged drama of his hit "I'm
Tryin'," Trace Adkins has lately sung schlockier stuff with too tight a jaw, as
if resisting it, or trying to chaw into something worthwhile after all. Here,
he discovers an awesomely euphoric tension: This is where he belongs! In the
temple of "Legs."

The way ZZ told it, the suave "Jesus Just Left Chicago" disappeared into a
sweaty little guy "Waitin' for the Bus." Hank Williams Jr. and his Bama Band
milk the medley for big bottom kicks, and maybe that little guy would too, if he
could. Hank III's "Fearless Boogie" is a Top-notch cartoon, with his Elastic
Man twang scrolling and tumbling all through the locoweed locomotive-breath
beat. Willie Nelson's Western Swinging along, thinking out loud about a certain
someone who makes nice to him just 'cause "She Loves My Automobile" (no
complaints).

But the best thing about tribute (or any) albums is the (rare) Billy Bragg &
Wilco Effect: when people you've written off suddenly rise to the occasion.
Several flare-ups here, but the finale kills. Courtesy of none other than Alan
Jackson, who's usually so humble that he apologized "for humblin' you to death"
at a recent awards ceremony (and thus got us again!). But as soon as he
launches into "Sure Got Cold After the Rain Fell," we know he's going to honor one
of the most unfiltered, plain-as-the-water-on-your-face ZZ ballads ever. And
you can't get too humble if you're gonna be that plain. See, right in the eye
of this dust—it's a hoedown. YEEEHAWW—OBrotherland Security busts a mood!
Unforgivable! An outrage! Ah, but then, then: Alan starts singing again, right
through each and every sinus cavity in his head (how many are there?),
out-countrying these faux-po'-mountaineers, squeezing every bit of blues out of
bluegrass, riding and guiding that fickle fiddle down into the cold's groove, the
rain's groove. These notes can't break, they can only bend some more.

Speaking of fiddles, and guitars for that matter, why isn't Charlie Daniels
on this thing? There's a very metal-fistic "Sharp Dressed Man" on his '98
Tailgate Party, and the Charlie Daniels Band certainly helped unroll the Interstate
of pop-rock-country crossover. The CDB hitched a surefooted, rollcalling
(own-namedropping) "The South's Gonna Do It Again" (do what? "It"? Mercy!) to the
otherwise often unwieldy new Southern Rock bandwagon. "South's" stitched a
"Symphony Sid" jitterbop riff through Allmanesque flow, showing even Les Brers
how to get real concisely gone for a change!

But Chazz doesn't just run up a musical flag or lay out a picnic blanket
(although that pre-ZZ beard's a sparkling white napkin, across his
crimson-cowboy-shirted belly). No, the good licks speak in many tongues, especially to each
other. His latest, Redneck Fiddlin' Man, is a bit off its feed, fave rave "My
Baby Plays Me Just Like a Fiddle" notwithstanding. Yet even Redneck's
thinned-out dancefloors do sometimes get prowled by cinch-gutted riffs (shades of his
ol' Volunteer Jam/talk-radio buddy Ted Nugent), and coiled/"laidback" ones too.
The latter bring to mind '75's supposedly glazed "Long Haired Country Boy,"
talkin' blues, cash, and other trash (he's still with us, on the well-named
Live Record: Now he'll "tell a joke," not "take a toke," but one's as dry as
t'other).

On The Ultimate Charlie Daniels Band comp, whole flotillas of crap, like
"Simple Man" and "What This World Needs Is a Few More Rednecks," get an answering
salvo from the angry world-populism of "American Farmer," the multikulti
mini-saga of "Talk to Me, Fiddle," a brief-lived fiddle-and-mandolincarnation of
the ever elusive (Persian-fairy-tale-named) "Layla," and the "multi-colored
junkyard" expanses of "Honky Tonk Avenue." Which leads to a "Funky Junky," for
more crass sand in your pearl, Merle.

Not bad but certainly nationwide, Charlie's got all this stuff he has to
carry around. Stuff he sees from the stage (as in "All the world's a . . . "),
while insatiably touring. (CD's 1971 s/t debut album started out as mellow as his production clients the Youngbloods' Elephant Mountain--but soon enough, his guitar was clawing its way across that roadmap on the cover.) Maybe that's what he really kneejerks (and sometimes
headbangs) against. 

(Whereas ZZT can abrasively embrace a kind of stoic hedonism, paying the cost to be the boss, the tosspot, whutever, with "Beerdrinkers and Hellraisers" fueled up for default damage

-- and then there's the gear-grinding "Lowdown In The Street": some of the people in that one are still too close to my windows, mirrors, other apertures. Usually, of course, they maintain their cool, playing the blues life card, as close as the Zig Zag Tops Rolling Papers ever get to a church bulletin.)  

Also on Ultimate is "Trudy," in which a sweet, green
gambling table detours into an avalanche of details. After which the narrator's
attention span is equally split between the distant Trudy and a certain missing
high roller. Our boy can't sort this out, but he done, son. So the music rocks on
through his cell block, and into the jigsaw skies.

Meanwhile, Rev. Dylan's old sideman Bro. Charlie just keeps
rebuilding some jigsaw soapbox, planing and playing over all its creaks and leaks.
Sometimes the spirit finds its own level, even so. Like on 1999's Road Dogs, where
rapneck-grabbing powerchord purgatory finally exhales "The Martyr." This
song brings the legend of Cassie Bernall, who supposedly said "Yes" when asked "Are you a Christian?" and
was then killed at Columbine---a story since refuted by survivors---which could have made for the most horrendous (or mere) musical
kitsch. Instead, he imagines her last moments, quietly reminding me of a "mushroom
cloud" we were shown in school (actually more like a rose, in that case). A
rose in this case slightly dampened by proximity to "Wild Wild Young Men," his
first whiny scolding ever.

But not his last. Tighter than Ultimate, early 2002's Live Record's
band-as-fiddle dynamics ultimately clunk into the (studio) rant "This Ain't No Rag,
It's a Flag" ("and we don't wear it on our heads."  Better check your
current audience, CD). Less snarlin' than gnarlin', "Rag" gets drowned out by
"The Last Fallen Hero" 's solitary drum on Redneck Fiddlin' Man (parade's end,
but no rest). "Amen," sez the fiddler, sawing a blues out of "The Star Spangled
Banner." And, on How Sweet the Sound 's (2001) Elvis-brushed hymnbook, Charlie D.
tends to send us way up yonder in a (Woody G.-echoing Millennium's) minor key. And that's alright now, Mama.
It's the gospel truth.

.