Shanty never wanted to be a star, but he
did want to make some kind of gut-bucket, bone-rattling, tooth-busting, hell-raising
noise. He grabbed a guitar, turned his amp up way past 11, and started wailing out
tunes about desperate men, fearsome women, and a world gone mad.
He spoke the truth, not giving a damn if anybody was listening, and found that he
connected with something ferocious in the souls of his audience. He got discovered and
soon found himself tearing up the floorboards of juke joints and blowing the roof off of
blues clubs.
j. poet, "CRAWDADDY MAGAZINE" |
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Big Shanty
comes on like a rip snortin’, fire breathin’ son of a swamp dog with whiskey
breath harsh enough to blister the chrome on a Harley and a black-and-blue attitude hard
enough to make strong men weak and weak men quiver. He’s got a guitar sound
that’s fuzzier than a bucket full of month-old bacon. He’s a night walker, a
trash talker, and a groove master with a grinding guitar sound that’s both dangerous
and thrilling. Born in the backwoods and raised on brimstone and moonshine, weaned on
tractor exhaust and hard work, and seduced by the primal power of the blues at an early
age, Shanty never wanted to be a star, but he did want to make some kind of gut-bucket,
bone-rattling, tooth-busting, hell-raising noise. He grabbed a guitar, turned his amp
up way past 11, and started wailing out tunes about desperate men, fearsome women,
and a world gone mad. He spoke the truth, not giving a damn if anybody was listening, and
found that he connected with something ferocious in the souls of his audience. He got
discovered and soon found himself tearing up the floorboards of juke joints and blowing
the roof off of blues clubs. He put out a couple of CDs and one of them, 2007’s Ride
With the Wind, which lifted a big middle finger to the powers that be, went viral thanks
to the internet. Real Blues Magazine named it the #1 Blues Album of 2007, and internet
blues stations around the world drank from his bracingly bitter cup. His thick, greasy
sound turned heads and got people all shook up. They began wondering just who this Big
Shanty character was. He may be the alter ego of legendary blues lover and promo man Dick
Wooley, or maybe not. But one thing is certain: He’s laying down some of the nastiest
blues-rock you’ve heard in a long time.
Things kick off with “Big Shanty, From Lower Alabama to Hollywood”, the story of
our hero’s journey from obscurity to the bright lights of LA. It’s a mellow
driving track with a tongue-in-cheek lyric, nice boogie woogie piano from Rick Phillips,
and some slashing guitar from up-and-coming guitar goddess Liz Melendez. Shanty sings his
own praises with a gruff grace and tongue firmly in cheek. “Love Train” is
steaming and frenetic, a simple groove that lets Shanty show off his slide guitar work,
while “Kiss the Eight Ball” is a funky rocker full of snarky sexuality with
sassy backing vocals by Melendez that adds plenty to the decadent ambience.
“They Say It’s Raining” tells the usual sad story of a man left alone to
wander the neon blasted sidewalks trying to mend a broken heart. The sound is thick and
distorted, a voice crying out from the darkness of a bottomless pit. Shanty’s vocal
is full of frustration and anger, and the guitars fall like a collapsing building.
Phillips adds some midnight B3 to “Walking Shoes”, another “broke down she
done me wrong” song with Chris Blackwell, his stinging leads darkening the mood even
more.
“Rolling Thunder” has a late night vibe, a slow blues perfect for driving down a
deserted, late night highway. “Can’t Hold Out” picks up the tempo for
another desperate groove; Shanty’s slide and Spencer Kirkpatrick’s shrieking
leads release some of the tension, but Scott T. Robertson’s drums keep up the
pressure. “Tybee Town” lets a bit of light into the picture. Shanty sings like a
young man in love and plays some delicious acoustic slide to complement the bluesy sitar
lines of jam band godfather Col. Bruce Hampton. Things close out with a protest song,
“Uncle Sam Go to Rehab.” Robertson’s drums and the twin guitars of Shanty
and Melendez give the track a raw, barebones feel. Melendez smokes while Shanty snarls out
his tale of woe. There’s nothing fancy on Sold Out…, just down and dirty blues
delivered with plenty of attitude and a devil-may-care energy that’ll warm up even
the coldest winter night. j. poet, "CRAWDADDY MAGAZINE"
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