The Gourds in a Nutshell
Or, they shoot Gourds don't they?
Or the Gourd Also Rises
Or Celtic Crawdad Gourd Festival
Or How Ya Gonna Act?
THE LONG NIGHT OF CUCURBITACEAE BEGINS HERE IN A BOX THE SIZE OF MY UNCLE'S BELLY. OH, IF YOU MUST KNOW THAT THESE GOURDS ARE THOSE WITH STRINGS AND SKINS AND SQUEEZEboxes AND SONGS TO BOOT, THEN IT MUST BE TOLD THAT THEY ARE THE HEROES OF THIS NON-STORY. AND a ONE AND a TWO AND a
the music comes from a sloppy hilltop, lips that know not wherefore, howfore or whatfor they be believing in the dangling participle of a dying tradition. Whatís more Ö.the bluebells of yester belie the underbelly of what it really is.
Many have attempted to personify, lablefly, quantify, verbalize and sanctify the concoction of musical quilts these here gourds have somehow knit together. In a saucepan of slow roasts they have conjured tempo's, tango's, waltzes, zydeco, old timey, two step, lowgrooved, long winded, short tailed, tiny, phat, stompin gizmo's of tunes tripped out of lonely, solid teeth and wet green earth. Bugs all bedazzled with this comic tear soaked golden throated close harmony caved in a corner with hat drippin' rain. Lo and behold lo and behold they was just lookin' for they lo and behold.
With obscure references to everything from desmond dekker, black adder, folk mythology, Oregon motels, baby gramps, Curtis Mayfield songs, Spanish poetry, u.s. currency, leadbelly, isopropyl alcohol, various controlled substances, sex, food, arachnids, insects, archetypal psychology, NFL, liquid gold, Sufis, preachers, old testament bible stories, mud, betrayal and masturbation's, The Gourds seem to let their music fry just long enough before they turn it over and brown it on the other side.
There is just absolutely no way to categorize this music, these songs, without tearing up the English language. On any given night, in any given bar, somewhere out in Eugene or Amarillo or Jacksonville or Lincoln. In new York city, Chicago, Dallas, San Francisco, Seattle or Austin. One can sit listening to a gourds show without a clue as to where in the hell it's gonna go. They are quilters in the true sense of the word. Scraps, fragments, leftovers, images strung together in a continuous scrabble of sheets draped over old wood like charm. This is first and foremost a music of joy. From there itís anybody's guess what the friggin' hell it is.
One thing is for sure though. They know what it is. But damned if these bunch of loblolly's can tell you anything about it. They just do what they do and it comes out all gourd-like and silvery and wood-like and watery.
