Hank Williams III

I have seen the face of the Apocalypse. I have stood in the eye of the storm. I have been to the edge of the abyss, and peered over into the musical chaos of Son, of the Son of the man. You don't have to wait for the show to start to Know that you are in an all-together different place musically than you have ever been before. The crowd is a bizarre mixture of everyone from the most dyed in the wool rednecks to the heaviest leather clad metalheads. Every rank of hard core punk and every stripe of Country connoisseur is there. They are the faithful, and they are impatiently waiting for the dam to brake. When the lights at last go down and Hank Williams III takes the stage along with the "Damn Band," one might be tempted to believe in time travel. You are instantly transported from Pop Country Land to Honky-tonk Heaven. All poseurs, lightweights and Kenny Chesney fans are covertly led to the parking lot, where they are bludgeoned with the steering wheel of a 59 Cadillac, the storm has begun. III hurls several profanity-laden insults at his record label (Curb Records) and with a mighty down stroke of his pick'n hand, opens up a six-pack of wupass. The show is actually three distinct sets. The first is pure honky-tonk. A beer soaked journey to a smoke filled place where the ghosts of outlaws hang out. Waylon is in the room somewhere, having a PBR with Frank and Jesse James. Hank Sr. is here too, sitting in a corner with his cronies, smoking cigarettes, drinking whisky and smiling approvingly as he taps a toe. This goes on for an hour and by the end you are a country music fan, That's right Joe Slayer Fan, you now love Country music. Without a brake Hank storms into set number two. Set two is what Hank calls Hellbilly, its Rockabilly, really pissed off Rockabilly. It's the bridge across the River Styx. It will take you from the honky-tonk to a dark place, a very dark place. Hank and company spend the next twenty minutes kicking the living hell out of they're instruments. Imagine it as a cross between Carl Perkins and Ted Nugent. Hank and crew tear through the Hellbilly set like a pack of rabid dogs, and the walls that separate genres are destroyed. When it's over, two of the strings on III's acoustic weapon are hanging limp, beaten into submission by that darn pick'n hand. You are now given ten minutes to get some air and decide whether or not you will cross the bridge. You are warned about the gathering gloom, and those departing are thanked by III for they're time. It's time to go get a drink pal, you're going to need it. When the intermission is over you return to the room to find the atmosphere has taken a turn. It's like that uneasy feeling just before the first punch of a fight is thrown. You know something harsh is about to happen. With no introduction Hank's band Assjack takes the stage, and mayhem ensues. You have crossed the bridge, welcome to Hell. Hank has loosed his hair from under his cowboy hat and it is now being whipped about in a frenzy as that danged old pick'n hand now goes to work on a black Les Paul with a big glow in the dark Misfits Fiend sticker on it. A pit rapidly forms and punks, rednecks, metalheads and one reformed Chesney fan who escaped the bludgeoning become one. The next hour is an all out assault on your body, soul and mind. It's hard, very hard. It's so had that you feel every note as much as hear it. In point of fact Hank may not be the Angel of Death, but he most certainly is a distant cousin. When the storm ends you can hardly hear. Your head is ringing, your balls ache, and you're a rock fan. That's right Billy Bob, you now loves Rock & Roll. I was there I saw it all go down. I survived the storm, and as I stepped back from the edge of the abyss I caught the vision that will stay with me the longest. Hank and the boys were crouched on the edge of the stage shaking hands, bumping fists and handing out shirts. A sweat soaked fan handed III his full beer, Hank saluted the man by holding it high against the darkness. As he did, the backlights of the stage caught him in perfect silhouette. He downed it in three seconds flat.

-Rock

Farmer Jane

Farmer Jane had a bull, he was mean. She put a ring in his nose, and a sign on her fence that read "Beware of bull!" She did not give the bull a name, he was to mean for a name, so she just referred to him as that mean old bull. After several years of the bull ruling his field alone, farmer Jane purchased a beautiful blue ribbon jersey cow, and placed her in the field with the mean old bull. The bull sniffed the air and seamed quite interested in his new companion. He pawed the ground playfully, and pranced around as if to impress the newcomer. The mean old bull never looked so happy, or friendly. Farmer Jane had that mean old bull slaughtered that day, and enjoyed some of the best steaks she ever had.

-Shamrock

Blog

Porter felt an uneasiness as his feet sank into the stench ridden swamp. He had been warned by the old woman not to pursue the dark rider, but in his rage he paid her no mind. Porter would bring vengeance to the rider, and his evil master. He swore by things most fowl and unholy that if the Lord Blog were given to him in battle, he would renounce the crystal thrown which he had so ardently defended, and would give his own soul over to the demons, to be savaged for all eternity. Porter no longer concerned himself with the beauty of the holy city or his vows to the noble King. Revenge was now all that his heart desired, and It burned in him like a fever. The mighty warrior dropped to his knees, and the vile water of the forbidden swamp covered him to his belt. He drew the dagger, gifted him by the now dead princess and drew it across his bare forearm. As the flow pooled in his palm he mingled it with the filthy water and drank it down. With this final defiling act Porter once again purposed himself to the task. The dark rider would lay dead at his feet by moon's end. His bleeding corps befouled by the once noble warrior, and by the end of the next, the evil lord's armies would be defeated, they're bloated bodies strewn across the once beautiful land. Blog died on a cold winter morning in the courtyard of his black palace. Porter's sword had entered his belly and opened him like a goose at Christmas table. The King pleaded with Porter for a final blow to end the pain, but the vengeful Knight would hear none of it. He had Blog's black thrown brought out. Porter sat himself on it and taunted the fallen king, as he drifted from life. When the spectacle had ended Porter stood to his feet, and with a voice of thunder announced to the people, "I am your King!" I will reign from my black thrown! I will rule you in sorrow, and fill the land with my hatred! Your bread shall be my filth! Your bread shall be my filth!" Then softly as only to be heard by those closest to the thrown, "Your bread shall be my filth. I am your king." Then quieter still, as if afraid to hear himself speak it. "I am Blog."