Author: Sandi Sadar Šoba
Venue: Orto Bar / Ljubljana / Slovenia
Concert date: 04.10.2012
Attendance: 150
Ticket price: €18.00
No, they’re not wimps, and no, don’t expect glitter, neon and million-buck Armani creations to shine from the stage, but you can bet that Nashville rock’n’roll is relentlessly filthy and full of sexism. That’s not always a bad thing, and I never imagined I’d get a lesson in gender emancipation, even though the lineup of the American outfit Nashville Pussy is in fact split fairly down the middle into two symmetrical halves, at least as far as gender identity goes. It was precisely with the expectation of some dirty, relentlessly primal rocker boogie fooling around that plenty of pairs of ears forever hungry for good music made their way to Orto Bar to test their stamina, and let me say right at the start that the night met every expectation! How could it not, when the hairy beasts from Nashville already sold out the notorious Ljubljana club two years ago, and the return to the scene of the crime, a perfect fusion of sweat, glorious three chords, alcoholic haze and the unfeigned spirit of rock’n’roll, was promised by Thursday’s show too – a rerun, if you like, of a predictable script that, strangely, nobody can ever get sick of. And that’s exactly why heading out into the chill of Ljubljana felt more like a mission with a cause, and the outcome was, of course, clear.
Since time really is money, and there’s often a shortage of both, the main program kicked off sharp as a Swiss watch, and the Ljubljana crowd in an already nicely packed Orto got a truly one-of-a-kind surprise – unprepared ears got deflowered by the sounds of country, bluegrass and outcast pissing into the wind in perfect Southern style. Bob Wayne strapped on a guitar instead of a pistol, and with the headband and countless tattoos you’d expect a total metal stampede, but instead Outlaw Carnies and the hefty Bob serve up the kind of music you know from movies about Smokey and the bandits, and still there was no shortage of the smell of diesel fuel, clouds of oil fumes and scorched truck and pickup tires. Bob Wayne is a rebellious voice for tales of the Southern fun-loving, unruly soul that doesn’t give a damn about law and order, and instead of juvenile pointlessness, this time it’s bearded men with solid backbones and, above all, a pretty hefty musical pedigree doing the rebelling. Bob is an outstanding storyteller who, with his body of songs from last year’s album ‘Till The Wheels Fall Off, already his fifth, plus the records Bob Wayne & Outlaw Carnies, Blood To Dust, 13 Truckin’ Songs and Driven By Demons, weaves an excellent wreath of tales about drugs, devotion to Beelzebub, scorched pistols and the infidelity and murder that tag along with them, and the roar of eighteen-wheeled behemoths, an everyday thing on dusty American roads, is there too. The lineup is rounded out by the sound of an upright bass, handled – or at least until recently handled – by Jared McGovern, while behind the drums the grizzled Joe Mitchell confidently laid down the foundation, not hiding, nor able to hide, the long mileage, the wasted nights and the tooth of time, and on the left, rather disinterested yet superbly weaving in, is the excellent bluegrass guitarist Ryan Clackner, with the center spot reserved for the central persona who gives the band its name, soul and lyrical beauty – Bob Wayne in person. The guys, or rather men, would hardly be doing ads for shaving gear or lotions, but you have to admit that the fun soundtrack, in cinematic fashion, is vivid and above all straight-talking, and with stories written by life itself it’s impossible to say no. No bullshit, no posing either, and with a bit of stage madness and facial gymnastics you can win over any audience. Not even the proverbially frigid Ljubljana crowd, which only gets off on the names of stars on the front pages of advertising billboards, was an exception, as Orto got seriously into songs like Love Songs Suck, Fuck The Law and a tribute to the late, immortal Pantera with the song Driven By Demons. With such an outstanding show, in a mix of the legendary Johnny Cash sound and hillbilly bluegrass rednecking, only one thing was missing – the sound of the fiddle the band usually has, but since the recession puts precious few coins in pockets, the guys had to tighten their belts and drop the fiddle on an already crammed stage. Bob playfully wove each song into context, and the indispensable spice of the evening was the shout »Hellyeah!«.
Since every good thing has to end sometime, after a roaring ovation from the crowd and a 40-minute warm-up of the audience, Bob handed the stage to the techs, who got everything ready for the show by the seasoned tomcats from Georgia – Nashville Pussy. This Atlantic sleaze-rock missile of pure pleasure consists of the married couple of singer and guitarist Blaine Cartwright and his excellent counterpart, lead guitarist and wife Ruyter Suys, and alongside the old guard, whose third member is longtime drummer Jeremy Thompson, there’s also new blood – bassist Karen Cuda. After the breakup of the legendary Kentucky cowpunk outfit Nine Pound Hammer, I’ll be honest, I neglected Nashville Pussy a bit, but after almost fifteen years of ignoring them it became perfectly clear that this showcase of sexist lyrics and rock’n’roll glorification of drugs and booze was going to take root in my mind, the only question was how deep. After a good hour of setting up instruments, life breaks out on the stage. Long-haired, slightly catlike Thompson sits down behind the drums, next comes Karen, a bit sturdier but soaked in passion and love for music, strapping on her bass, followed by the drill-sharp blonde Ruyter, whose age you can’t pin down, at least at first glance, since she has the body of a twenty-year-old and a face that has seen plenty of wild parties, but since music, conviction and stage presence matter more than aesthetic judgments, then, as she slung on a gorgeous black Gibson SG, it was clear even during the prep for the start that the night was going to be hot and wild. Last of all, amid the roaring cheers of an almost jam-packed Orto, the cap-wearing, pot-bellied epicenter of raspy microphone abuse stumbles onto the stage, straps on his Gibson Explorer, and the party can begin. Six albums released so far serve up a sea of dirty sound that convincingly rests on the basic three chords, and apart from the standards of the debut Let Them Eat Pussy, very little has changed up to the latest record From Hell To Texas , because there’s simply no point in fixing something that works.
And Nashville Pussy work like a well-oiled concert machine of total debauchery. A stampede of high-octane noise blows the Ljubljana floor away without mercy, and from the first beat of I’m So High the attention of a good part of the audience is split between the two female members, who deliver perfect sound while with their charm and sexy magnetism giving the band total elan, since the male half of the group is more static and worn out. Blaine, with a raspy voice in a manner Lemmy pulls off with more authority, battles his way from song to song, and over the greasy guitar necks he washes down Jack Daniel’s and the rest of the booze stash. Still, there are no flaws. Nashville Pussy dynamically take over the whole stage and, besides the promised rocker debauchery, stack up an arsenal of reasons why I’m so sorry I systematically skipped them on their last tour in our parts. The rebellion with a cause set up by Bob Wayne is a few decibels louder this time, and behind the adrenaline riffs and wild rhythm hide both the soul and the basic postulates of rock’n’roll, which today’s youth, in all its artsiness and posing, only rarely manages to offer. Wrong Side Of A Gun thus shakes hands quite rationally with the druggie excess of She’s Got The Drugs, and instead of puritan preaching Ljubljana gets a glorious dose of corruption that only the hellfire of Hades will be able to wash out. Speed Machine contributes too, and Hate & Whiskey, and after the cocky Strutting Cock nobody disputes that Blaine is the king, since when he sings I’m The Man himself, many suspect that something muscular and indestructible is hiding in the bodies of the unstoppable devilish dames on the left and right of the stage too. Karen would fit just as well in some other band, and I really have to rack my brain to remember when I last got this much energy and uncompromising work ethic on bass from her male colleagues, let alone from representatives of the gentler sex. Ruyter is a story all her own. Besides the outstanding, refined and unfeigned guitar solos, where her fingers rub the neck of the horned SG so naturally, there’s so much power that she often snaps strings on her guitar and swaps them out, naturally and fast, while the rest of the band keeps up the rhythm. She can’t quite recreate Angus’s duck walk on Ljubljana’s claustrophobically small stage, but she visibly flirted with the audience in good spirits, in a tasteful and musically erotic way. That the party is only perfect when the right booze is in play is hinted by Blaine, who orders someone from the crowd to bring him a glass of straight, proper whiskey, but more glasses of beer than hard liquor went up in the air, so he cooled his sweaty face and bald head with a bit of beer instead, grabbed the mike soaking wet and, without any long-winded litanies, carried on with what he came to our parts for – to once again prove empirically that Nashville Pussy are in a class of their own, at least when it comes to concert fun. They don’t need glitter, heavy-duty spotlights or designer clothes. A smoky dive is enough, where they can crank their amps up to 11 and a dance that isn’t routine can go on. The perfect atmosphere is also boosted by already familiar standards, where an extremely primal cover of the song sung by Ike and Tina digs deep into your brain – Nutbush City Limits comes this time with a dose of adrenaline and forbidden substances, and Nashville Pussy push the pedal of their sonic hot rod to the max, since after some rather neat timing, during which Ruyter is left without yet another string, every member gets a proper turn in the spotlight, and after the last song of the night, Go Motherfucker Go, there’s nothing left to add. Ruyter snaps all the strings on her guitar and a continuation, even if anyone wanted one, isn’t possible, and the crowd is left without any real argument for why they shouldn’t succumb to the charm and conviction of the Atlantic quartet!
The promise that the night would be perfect was fulfilled to the max, and judging by the amount of sweat the local crowd left on the floor and in the air of Orto, it’s clear that Nashville Pussy are a safe investment for every rocker hungry for good music, since they more than repay both the money and the time you put into their night. With a ringing in the space between the left and right ear, many head off to the bar, and some with a steady stride into the chill of the night, since they could proudly admit that this Thursday everyone gave absolutely everything, and that this time Nashville Pussy wouldn’t be able to make purses out of the balls of those who’d only stand around under the stage, stealing space and air in an already airless Orto. All of us probably also promised ourselves that we’d see each other again soon, since the caravan will, let’s hope, stop by our parts once more, and then there’ll be at least one more fan under the stage, because I now count myself among them – and with a good, solid and concrete reason!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e34jpu3iK9c
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7zjz-7HCoFI
Setlist
BOB WAYNE:
- Till The Wheels Fall Off
- Get There When I Get There
- All My Friends
- Mack
- There Ain’t No Diesel Trucks In Heaven
- Devil’s Son
- Fuck The Law
- All Those One Night Stands
- Driven By demons
- Blood To Dust
- Spread My Ashes On The Highway
- Lovesongs suck
- Everything is legal in Alabama
NASHVILLE PUSSY:
1. I’m So High
2. Wrong Side of the Gun
3. Going Down Swinging
4. She’s Got the Drugs
5. Ain’t Your Business
6. Speed Machine
7. Come On, Come On
8. Hate & Whiskey
9. Strutting Cock
10. I’m the Man
11. High As Hell
12. Go To Hell
13. Milk Cow Blues
14. Why Why Why
15. Going Down
——– Encore ————
16. Nutbush City (Tina Turner cover)
17. Go Motherfucker Go
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