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LEGENDARY SHACK SHAKERS



Last Updated: 11/22/2009

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City: NASHVILLE
Country: US
Signup Date: 5/18/2005

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Saturday, December 05, 2009 
Attention Dirt Daubers fans, Order your copy of their self-titled debut CD, just in time for the holidays! Simply Paypal $15 to merch@jdwilkes.com and the miracle of their mountain music madness will be yours. Don't delay time and supplies are running out! Photobucket
9:24 PM 
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Wednesday, September 09, 2009 
Just got back from 7 shows in Holland...must say it was a very fun tour.

Started at a fest in Delft, then a club in Tilberg...a VERY fun show at the Melkweg in Amsterdam, a rowdy gig in Rotterdam...do all the Dutch psychos live there? let's see, Utrecht...a rainy, windy fest on an island called Vlieland (sp?)...and the last night was a fest that included Hank3 and the mighty James Hunter.

Our deepest thanks to all the fine folks who came out to the shows, our driver and best Dutch buddy, Big Frank,our promoter, Bertus and special thanks to Sven Wilhem for help with the bass, medical supplies and photos!

Can't wait til we go back again next Spring.
-Mark.
9:44 PM 
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Wednesday, August 19, 2009 
As much as I hate to do this (for fear of being thought a pretentious ass) I'm posting the lyrics to our songs, by popular request.  Due to the verbosity of these tunes, I'll only be posting a few at a time, one record at a time until they're all up. (Well, the good ones at least.)

Regardless how much I eschew such displays of ostentation, I'd pit these songs up against any so-called "singer-songwriter"'s... say, any number of those disheveled/bearded nerds with "credibility" to spare.  I labored over these words.  I think you'll find they stand on their own merit.  I'll also follow up each tune with the story or folklore that inspired it.

Here goes...

THE DEADENIN’ (Burke Holder’s Deadenin’)

Breathes there a man with a soul so dead
His faith is not shaken nor stirred
By the black swamp-blood that beats within these words?
Deep within the mighty bog oaks
Burke Holder never spoke
A word in prayer ere he harvested his trees,
As the bleeding sap soaked the fallen leaves.

Doubling back before his deed was done
He left scars in the bark like rings.
He’d hacked their knotty hides to smithereens.
He turned to face the sun
But their shadows overcome
Like the broken fingers of an up-jumped, beaten slave
Growing tighter till his heartlight choked away.

Keeping God up all night, begging for mercy
No mercy was all he found.
Strange angels sang while curtains fell around.
“Simple Stewardship you’ve failed,
Blast the lumberhorns of Hell
While buzzards bray their rackety refrain.
This man has made no mark, he’s left a stain.”

O come all ye hunters who follow the gun,
Beware of your wasteful ways!
Or soon you’ll be lyin’ in the clay of the earth you hate.
For those who enter his haunted woods
Lose their way, it’s understood;
Emerging in the morning to a new dawn’s early light,
But a whole, damn live-long year has passed them by.

Timber!  Dark Timber...in the wilds of the Deadening.

This story comes from my friend Layne Hendrickson, a Marshall County, Kentucky blacksmith and local historian, of sorts.  He related to me a tale involving a local lumberjack who went to "ring" his trees so as to kill them, come back later and harvest them (it's easier to chop them down once they're already dead.)

Well, the trouble was, he himself died before coming back for his lumber, leaving the dead forest standing there, all spooky like.  And it still stands there today, in all it's creepy, enchanted glory... I'VE BEEN THERE!

And so, as the story goes, if you enter the forest, you'll most assuredly get lost and be forced to spend the night.  The next day, come morning light, you'll finally find your way out.  But once outside "The Deadening" you'll find that it's not just a day later, but an entire YEAR!

These are the stories that keep me going.  I could write about this stuff till the day I die.


SWAMPBLOOD

Way down in Toxarcana, I was ten years old,
In a fever dream, dark night of the soul.
Well, 'twas brillig and the slithey toves
I bid the world good-bye by the dead bog oaks.

Drop down in the Swampblood
I'm washed in the Swampblood
I'm washed in the blood.

Dusty bibles lead to a dirty south.
He's sittin' with a toadstool rotting in his mouth.
In a clearing where the bras hang down from the trees,
He's cappin' a coffee can full of teeth.

Down Doom's Chapel Raod, past his great grandma,
She says "turn 'im loose, or I'll call the law."
He says "There's no testimony without the test,
What we do with our own is our own damn business."

Drop down in the Swampblood
I'm washed in the Swampblood
I'm washed in the blood.


Apart from the nonsensical Lewis Carroll reference, here is a story loosely based on that time one autumn day as a kid when my pals and I packed around with some strange homeless guy on a bike.  One by one, my friends abandoned me as I pedaled on alongside this idiot man-child, exploring parts of the woods I'd never been to.  At sunset, we came to a clearing filled with garbage & clothes... encircled by the bare trees.  Then he turns to me and asks " You think I'm gonna kill you now, don't you?"  Suffice it to say, I took off on my bike never to look back.

"Swampblood" supposes what might have happened had I stayed.


EASTER FLESH

Thrust your hand in the hole in the side of the LORD
Feel his Easter Flesh and bone.
Be reborn in the blood, the burghundy flood,
The haemoglobin ebb and flow.

How his hallowed bones ache, they rattle and quake,
Beggin’ “Brother, reach out your hand!”
His broken heartpump it bleeds, it seethes and intercedes
On behalf of the otherwise damned.

So vomit your lies, like the thief at his side,
How His skin, it hangs not in shreds.
It’s just sad, you see, you and the Saduccees
Deny His Easter Fleshly bread.

“A hypocrite, an idiot, a Judas Iscariot!”
The victory song demons cheered.
But be now set free, sip his blood and eat
The Easter Flesh that’s fed the centuries.

The thorns in His brow made clear to you now
As the scales fall from your eyes.
So kick down the door, Doubting Thomas no more.
Join the saints to meet Him in the skies!

Vomit your lies, like the thief at His side,
How His skin, it hangs not in shreds.
It’s not fair, you see, how scribes and Pharisees
Deny His Easter Fleshly bread.

This is just another one of those overtly-gory Gospel songs inspired by the passion plays of yore.  Other such hymns include "There is a Fountain Filled With Blood" or "Nothing But the Blood."  They are all beautifully written and earnest.  I tried to capture the spirit of that old time era of florid yet horrific hymn-writing.  Mine's a tad more over the top, but then again so are our modern-day "Passion" plays.



OLD SPUR LINE

The Devil’s in the details,
And your reverend’s into retail.
Your soul’s alone in this world of stone, you’ll find.
So what can you do,
You weary Wandering Jew?
Well, every dirt road leads to the South for ya this time.
Yeah, they all lead home.
But not the ramshackle tracks down Sheehan Bridge Road.
Don’t go pokin’ down that crooked Old Spur Line.
Yeah, tread ye not down the dirty rotten Old Spur Line.

Two railroads diverged in a yellow wildwood.
It’s raining meat, poppin’ dents in your hood.
It’s a mortal coil of blackjack vines.
Blurred around the edges hangs a red-soaked sky.
Dry-rotted, woodenteeth-like ties
Suckin’ up the muck in the trenches down the side.
Tread ye not down the dirty rotten Old Spur Line.

Hear the greasy, greasy grandma
Bowin’ on a bonesaw.
She says “Do as thou wilt shall be the whole of my law.”
She crosses her "I"'s... And she dots her teas. 
She'll poke ya with a stick while yer swingin' in the breeze.
Well, ya heard what she said.
Ya got rocks in your head?
And her banjo’s tuned to f#DEAD.
Don’t go pokin’ down the crooked Old Spur Line.

See po’ ‘Rithmetic, the crippled dog run.
He puts down three and he carries the one.
And Deacon Snitch paintin’ pants on the thighs
Of the little naked pigs on a barbeque sign.
People ain’t right in the head down there.
Do a quick about face for ye best beware.
Tread ye not down the crooked Old Spur Line.

Trek down the track and it’s at your own peril.
The fields are all fallow and the beasts are all feral.
Dead cows in the boughs of the Live Oak trees,
Left there to rot when the water recedes.
No progress is made and the buildings tumble down.
And the only thing that grows are the gullies all around.
Don’t go pokin’ down the crooked Old Spur Line

Here's just your average, typically-Shack Shaker-y assemblage of low down blues lyrics, wallowing in the muck of western Kentucky's toxic boglands.  Regarding the line about Deacon Snitch: this one's from "News of the Weird."  An actual charismatic preacher demanded that the nude cartoon pigs on a neighboring bar-b-q sign be given pants to hide their nakedness.  True story.  
Just one of the many features to avoid down the "Old Spur Line."

PS: a "Wandering Jew" is another term for a traveler or gadabout.  There is nothing racist implied.  It's also the name of a flower.

HELLWATER

Hell or highwater, Baby Katy Gray.
Hell or highwater done washed her away.
Hell or highwater in the troublesome creek,
Like Baby Moses in the reeds, can’t ya see what I mean?
Ya gotta Row, ya gotta Wade, ya gotta give til it bleeds.
‘Cause higher Hellwater is the last thing ya need.

Hell or highwater, Speedy’s floatin’ away.
1937 must be Judgement Day.
Hell or highwater, Holstein on the porch,
And not enough sense to swim the hell on home.
Hell or highwater suckin’ down the sink.
Just jiggle on the handle til the guilt goes away.
Ya gotta dive like a duck, dogpaddle or plunge.
Higher Hellwater’s got ya on the run.

Hell or highwater or the welfare line.
If the good LORD’s willin’ and the creek don’t rise.
Hell or highwater, three hots and a cot,
Case quarter change and Katrina Cough.
Hell or highwater, it’s the sludge o’ sin.
A color TV and a bottle o’ gin.
He wants your nose in The Book, drop down on your knees.
It’s higher Hellwater, honey, if you please.

This one's part murder ballad, part hymn... but all cautionary.  Katy Gray was an infant who was drowned in the Massac Creek by her parents, in a fashion not unlike the way baby Moses was abandoned in his little wicker boat/crib thingy.

A cow was also famously stranded on the upper balcony of a Lowertown Paducah building during the 1937 flood.  There exists a postcard that actually documents this.

The rest of the song tries to delve into the imagery surrounding the notion that "flooding" is a cleansing judgement against sin.  


WHEN I DIE

When I die, when I die
Come to me and curl beside
The one who loved you all his life
And I’ll see you from on high.

Lay beside in the bed, 
Pet my carefree, easin’ head
So I’ll know, high above,
Of your love. When I die.

A marble slab, a crown of gold
Can’t replace the love I’ve known.
So I’ll wait for the day
You come home, when I die.


This song came to me in a dream.  But it was Dexter Romweber who was singing it, not me.  We tried our best to get Dex to sing it on the record, but all we had was his home phone number in North Carolina, and he was on tour.  We found out a week later that he was actually in NASHVILLE the day we were recording this, totally unbeknownst to us!  Dabnabbit!


ANGEL LUST

Like a Mississippi Windchime in the breeze
Danglin’ down from the sycamore tree.
Like a vessel of wrath shattered on the ground,
Old Judge Lynch dropped the hammer down.

It’s dust to dust, to Angel Lust,
For St. Angeline.  And you’re mine.

Two Easters left in my Christmas plow.
I wouldn’t take a dollar for my journey now.
They put the “laughter” in slaughter, the “lie” in believe
‘Cause my carbon footprint sinks six feet deep.

It’s dust to dust, to Angel Lust,
For St. Angeline.  And you’re mine.

The LORD may condemn me but my baby forgives.
She’ll meet me inside the final tent I pitch.
White water lillies in my funeral spray,
Showered on my baby like a fine bouquet.

It’s dust to dust, to Angel Lust,
For St. Angeline.  And you’re mine.

So cast your useless sabres aside.
Make the Devil eat his hat and set your head on fire.
It all shakes out the same way in the end.
The meat slides out in the shape of the can.

It’s dust to dust, to Angel Lust,
For St. Angeline.  And you’re mine.


A postmortem erection is known as "Angel Lust".  It usually occurs in the body of those who have been hanged.  The defeatist tone of the tune is summed up in the last line..."The meat slides out in the shape of the can."  Anyone who's ever fed their dog Ol' Roy or Alpo knows what I'm talking about.

This song concludes the "Tentshow Trilogy" with a euphemistic allusion to the ultimate tent show: the final, canvas-covered graveside service.   Morbid but inevitable.
5:12 PM 
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Sunday, June 14, 2009 
Remember when JDWILKES.com had all those funnies and freakshow banners on it, and wasn't just some lame link to MySpace?  Well those days are back again with the new and improved http://www.JDWILKES.COM

Check it out!
Yer pal JD
7:41 PM 
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Friday, May 01, 2009 
Ok...we were talking on tour about great front men...great singers can be another thread...they aren't always the same!

I remember as a very young kid seeing a punk festival in Santa Monica. Some of the frontmen in ONE weekend included:

Jello Biafra (Dead Kennedys)
Lux Interior (The Cramps, RIP)
Stan Ridgeway (Wall of Voodoo)
Stiv Bators (Dead Boys and Lords of the New Church RIP)
Howard Devoto (Buzzcocks/Magazine)
David Thomas (Pere Ubu)

I saw all those front men at one fest, in one weekend...wondering if there are even that many great front men around today worldwide?! These guys were fearless and totally original.

So who are the great frontmen still out there doing it today? I submit:

JD Wilkes (I know...but it's true...the guy is great every single night)
Mike Patton
David Yow
*(hmm...my top 3 all have one guitar player in common...hmm)
The guy from The Gallows (Can't recall his name)
Eugene Hutz (Gogol Bordello)
Ernie Locke (Nervous Turkey, Tenderloin)
Nic Roulette (Hillbilly Casino)
Tom Waits (still can destroy frontmen a third his age)

I know I am missing some...a bunch in fact!

Mark
10:45 PM 
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Wednesday, April 01, 2009 

Current mood:  sweaty


Hey y'all--

If you happen to be watching the new Clive Owens/Julia Roberts flick "Duplicity" and a snatch of harmonica-driven gothic blues sounds mighty familiar, that's because it's "Swampblood" by your very own Legendary Shack Shakers! That's right, the folks in Hollywood have tapped into the high octane hijinks of LSS for some much needed vibe....and we hear the movie's not bad, either.......

2:21 AM 
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Friday, March 27, 2009 
Ok...not yet...but...

We are in the studio as we speak, recording our upcoming release, "Agridustrial." Think mountain music meets industrial...and a bunch of other stuff!

This is the most honest record we've ever made and sounds the most like we actually sound as a band...right now.

Duane has added a metalic grind and some amazing guitar playing to the lineup and suffice to say, we are thrilled to have him onboard...

Be on the lookout for a few 'sneak preview' tunes available for download only, very soon.

Hope you'll enjoy this as much as we are enjoying making it.

-Mark


1:45 AM 
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Sunday, March 22, 2009 
Hi folks,



while our Seven Signs website is being re-designed, here's how you can
order a copy of the film.  Just Paypal $20 to merch@jdwilkes.com and
expect a delivery of JD's southern-fried documentary ("starring" Scott
Biram, Slim Cessna, The Pine Hill Haints, the John Strong Sideshow and
the Legendary Shack Shakers) in 3-4 weeks or less.



For rush delivery, email your request to films@jdwilkes.com and we'll get it out right away.

Thanks and happy viewing



Yer pal JD

3:15 PM 
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Wednesday, January 21, 2009 
here's how to find out more about what's going on...

http://www. myspace. com/thejesuslizardpage
2:58 AM 
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Thursday, December 18, 2008 
Ok...drummers.

Man, we've had some of the best drummers out there, but I gotta say Brett Whitacre tops the list...dude is one of the very best out there...Paulie Simmonz and Jerry Roe are also incredible.

John Bonham
Dave Grohl (obvious, but true)
Bun E. Carlos
Gene Krupa
Chick Webb
Marky Ramone
Jimmy Lester (formerly of Los Straightjackets)
Perry LaFine
Scott Churilla
Bill Bruford
Terry Bozio
Ordy (from Woven Hand/Slim Cesna's Auto Club)

Who am I missing?

-Mark



6:52 PM 
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