Get your "Tim McGraw Is A Girl" and "What Would Jason Do" shirts in L and XL for the incredible price of only $8 including shipping!!

I need to clear out our L and XL surplus to make room for new sizes of the existing shirts and make some with the new designs (coming soon), so I'm letting em go at cost plus shipping. So any GZ fans, or fans of Outlaw Country music in general, take advantage of a great deal for the large listener on your Christmas list or just something for yourself to wear.

Hell, a lot of you small girls know how to sew the sides up on t-shirts, so save now because when we get the S and M's back in they're gettin' marked back up (sorry but gas is expensive in that monstrous tour van).

Great gift ideas for all music fans. Plus, you'll be doing me a favor and supporting me by helping me clear out some space plus sending me a little extra cash for the holidays.

Designs are shown below. SUPPLIES ARE LIMITED so hurry. But don't worry, any paypal orders on sold out items will be refunded asap. Unlike everybody else from NJ, I'm not a crook. ;)

For info on snail-mail orders (ie check or money order) or any other questions, call (615) 579 0216, 12 noon- 9 PM CST 7 days a week.

Thanks so much!

GZ



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As a few of you already know, one of the best friends and supporters the MountainPunk All-Stars and I've had in recent years, in Nashville anyway, has passed onto greener pastures. However, he leaves a beautiful wife and daughter who, although they have a bottomless bucket of friends and family in their corner, are still left with a burden and a few of us are pulling together to do what little we can; more on that later......

Before I get on down to business, I just wanna say a few things about this guy if you don't mind; I find it only appropriate. Scroll down if you have some time-constraint and wanna get to the nitty-gritty, because I'm gonna get long-winded here and really don't fuckin' care if that bothers anybody.

Like many East Nashville locals, Frankie Marino had gotten fed up with living in some of America's less-agreeable living spaces (IE Philadelphia and New Orleans, with all due respect) and quickly made a ton of friends here. I've heard of him doing all kinds of things for all kinds of people, but I'm gonna stick with what I know, that is, a few things he did for me.

He got us our first gig at Foo-Bar (my favorite Halloween gig so far), one of our favorite places to play, and one of our most regular up until recently. He started a tradition that lasted a good while called "Sick Boy Sundays", where drinks were almost abnormally cheap (for a while a pint of PBR and a shot of Jim Beam together was four bucks), and my band and I were regulars on the bill. Also, unlike many local Nashville bills we were on regularly, we got paid more than tips. It was based on what the bar made so sometimes it was small, but at least it was something, and Frankie and the crew there wanted to make sure that the bands at least got something for their hard work, unlike a lot of other places in this town that expect you to kiss their asses to play there just for "exposure". And speaking of exposure, we got some of the best we've ever gotten there when Foo's rapidly growing built-in crowd started noticing us. I'll miss those times, but they've snowballed to my benefit. Though we haven't contaminated the stage here in awhile, basically our having a foot hold in this joint (where, by the way, I'm sitting as I write this) is responsible for us having the good majority of our following in East Nashville.

Now, Frankie was not only a friend to my band and my music, but even moreso to me personally. He went all out having known me less than a year more than some people I've known all my life (with all due respect to the folks back home). He was a major ball-buster (like a typical Dago from Philly ;D), and often extracted a middle finger from yours truly in rebuttle, but we Northeastern boys are used to that sort of thing, so it was refreshing to have somebody who reminded me of back home a little.

One thing that really stands out was when I vacated my apartment last year to go live in my van. When I was about out and running around like a chicken with my head cut off looking for good homes for my furniture, I got a call from Frankie, not to ask if I was alright or if there was anything he could do, but insisting that I move into his shed (which was surprisingly warm, also furnished with a fridge he never used). Now, you've gotta understand he also had a wife and kid to take care of and they'd just moved into their new place recently (we had Thanksgiving there last year; best deep fried turkey I've ever had). When almost anybody else would've turned me down under those circumstances even if I'd asked (which I wouldn't have; I was getting the van tricked out, but that's besides the point), he called ME, and insisted that I was near friends just on the off-chance that something might go wrong here in Nash. For the last couple months of last year, I had some dang great times staying with him, Andi, and Trin.

And the above mentioned is just a couple little drops in one big-ass lake. This blog would take even longer were I to dig all the other stuff out. It wasn't patronizing or charity on his part either; he knew me to be comparatively self-reliant and unlike many half-assed drinking buddies to whom I was just a clown, he genuinely respected me. But enough of that, it's not about me at the mo, it's about him.

Speaking of self-reliance, I haven't known a lot of people down here with his hardcore working-class ethic, another refreshment. Whereas many others complained about their jobs which were just means to an end for them (as mine often have been), Frankie wasn't content when he wasn't working. If he was off work on any given day, he was taking me around the house talking about all these things he wanted to do with it. As Andi worked some weird hours, he often doubled as "Mr. Mom" and cleaned the house spotlessly as well as cooking like a true champ. Even when I wasn't staying over there, nine times out of ten he'd offer me "leftovers", which often turned out to be the best damn meal I'd had in weeks.

In his forties, he had more energy than many teenagers and kids in their twenties I've known. To top that off, he was built like a brick shithouse, though he ate and drank what he wanted and smoked himself to an early stage of emphyzema. I have no reservations in saying that in many ways there was something super-human about this guy. Something we can all learn from.

But "superhuman" or not, you can't spell that without "human". And like the rest of us, he was mortal, impermanent. So I get this text from Nate this Saturday that Frankie's passed away. I have no doubt at all that he's fine now (Luke 17:21 for my fellow Bible thumpers), but maybe I'll write about that some other time.

For now let's get down to business.

As I mentioned earlier Frankie leaves behind a beautiful wife and daughter who are doing admirably well through this difficult time, but still need our love and support. I was asked to play a benefit in the works tonight, and think it's a great idea, but we could use some help getting it all together.

Now I must stress that I'm NOT in charge of this whole thing by any means, but if you want to help out I can point you in the right direction. Any bands, artists, promoters, or anybody who can help in any way, who had a soft spot for our dearly departed ginzo friend, feel free to get in touch with me at (615) 579 0216. Please, no calls or texts late on a weeknight. Use your best judgment; in the spirit of Frankie, I'll probably get really pissed off that you're fucking with my work schedule. :)

Thanks for letting me share a few things; I may have more at some point. I look forward to finding out more about all the good that's been coming, and yet to come, out of this unexpected loss.

GZ.

Howdy folks,

If you've sent me a message in the last few weeks, I just wanna apologize for the fact that I haven't gotten back to you. Soon as I have time I promise.

Lately my internet access is severely limited as long as I'm limited to WiFi hotspots in order to use it, and if I read a message at all I like to take the time to make sure all bases are covered, so if you're reading this and have tried to get in touch with me, just be patient and I PROMISE (not made lightly) I'll get back to you.

If it's urgent, feel free to call or text me at (615) 579 0216, but PLEASE, daytime through early evening CST only at this time (that includes texts as they fuck up my alarm clock and I'm a workin' man, remember? Thanks for the consideration).

Thanks so much for the patience.

GZ

So at any rate, I use this thing for music biz. If you wanna get in touch with Gabe Zander the person, and talk about your feelings, Kung Fu, bass fishing, memories of our drunken encounters, auto mechanics, concrete work, "The Simpsons", chicken recipes, beer, how I've "been", rabbit hunting, Jesus, how hot you think I am, weed, or whatever,  CLICK HERE. Thanks and have a wonderful day.

Booking methods (most to least preferred)

1. The most efficient way to get a hold of us for booking is simply to call me directly at (615) 579 0216. Weekdays noon-9 PM CST only please. Weekends pretty much anytime. If I don't answer make sure you leave a message.

2. Text to the same number. Same hours! I can't stress that enough. Texts after I've gone to sleep fuck up my alarm clock.

3. Send us a message at this myspace. Anything on the internet is going to be a much less efficient way to get a hold of me though; it may be anywhere from a few hours to a month before I get back to you as my internet access is limited. I ALWAYS have my phone on me.

4. Email me at gabezandermp@yahoo.com. I check that usually as often as the myspace, but not quite if there's a time constraint. Again, I reccomend just calling me. Still, I'll get emails and myspace messages eventually; you'll just have to be more patient about anything getting done.

Just so you know: although I've been known to pull a few rabbits out of my hat on the road, I like to get about three months, or better yet, more, notice if it's for an out of town date I haven't been able to book a tour around yet, especially if the band's with me (it's not quite as important for solo acoustic gigs). This doesn't necessarily mean we won't play you're huge hoo-hah festival a month and a half from now in Barrow, Alaska; it's just a good reference guide, so get in touch either way.

Thanks for the interest and see you soon!

GZ    

Featuring music by our own Mandolin Mike!

Check it out.

I'm listening to my first country demo ("Home Brewed Demo", 2001 or 2002, I can't really remember).

Okay, the only reason this thing is playing in my apartment right now is because an old friend wanted a copy for old time's sake (she doesn't have hers anymore). It was recorded by just me on my guitar on a $20 Radio Shack tape recorder, therefore sounds like a cross between a less-soulful version of Jimmie Rodgers' stuff from the 20's and 30's, and GG Allin's acoustic stuff. It's REALLY raw and rough, if you think my current stuff is.

First surprising thing: After dusting off the master copy I had in my files, the quality is still surprisingly decent. You'd think a TDK cassette that's been sitting in hot dark closets for the last three years (that's probably about how long it's been since I made one; these are done the old fashioned way people, dual cassette deck) wouldn't be listenable.

Second: I actually am enjoying this. Now that it feels like I'm listening to a different person, I could totally tell him to his face he sounds good. I've not touched this thing in years, embarassed that I ever made it almost. So maybe you can imagine how good it feels to enjoy it.

Anyway, just thought I'd share some joy. Maybe one day when I'm a major cult icon, I'll bust out the ol' boombox and make a bunch more and sell them for like two bucks a pop on the road, to show all the fans "where it all began".

There's always the dream.

GABE.

From drunkenhillbilly.com:

http://drunkenhillbilly.com/dhnuke/Home/tabid/72/ctl/Details/mid/633/ItemID/39/Default.aspx

Check it out. It made me laugh my ass off. I loved it.

GZ

Vote Kinky Friedman for Governor, so hopefully I'll get a chance to vote for him for President one of these days.

www.kinkyfriedman.com

Ask Gabe Zander about how unique he is and he'll wave you off. "Plenty of people have done what I'm doing now," he insists.

 

Ask what his songs – those raw, sometimes nasty, often moving, always eloquent songs – say about him as a writer, and he'll throw you a look and snap, "They say I've got something on my mind and I wrote a song about it. There's nothing special about that."

 

He is, luckily, wrong on both counts.

 

The proof is on Punk Rock Redneck, his yet-to-be-released, 11-song debut CD. Not to get too poetic about it, but this music has a sense of landscape, although it's not exactly a postcard-perfect vista. Instead, it takes us to a place in the American soul where two rivers crash noisily and dangerously into each other. One rises from the wellspring of pure country, where Jimmie Rodgers, the Carter Family, and further downstream, Johnny Cash were nourished. The other comes from a more devastated land and runs dark with the righteous grime that once baptized the Misfits, the Ramones, and the Germs.

 

These currents bust open the dam with the opener, "Bobby Lee," a brutal hoedown/murder ballad that bristles with graphic threats to "beat you blue and black with a baseball bat and swing you by the neck from a tree." Next is "Whiskey Heroes", a slanderous barroom brawler with music that gives definitive testimony to Zander's hard-rock roots, while still "keeping it Country". They slow to a solemn flow through "Harder Time", a tragedy about a twenty-year-old marijuana dealer who is murdered in jail after being turned in by a "so-called friend", and  "Old Prison," whose bare lyrics paint a picture of hopeless injustice, and then turn bone cold in "I Could've Killed You." For a moment light sparkles on the surface of "Next to You," a catchy, romantic ballad whose pristine acoustic texture disguises only for a moment the obsession that surges in its deeper, darker currents, only to rage back into the fighting spirit with the title track, a Bluegrass-Hardcore hybrid called "Punk Rock Redneck". Throw in a slow, passionate love ballad called "Andrea's Song" and the closer, a drinking sing-along entitled "Steel Reserve" (which Zander brags with a most good-natured arrogance as being "the first Country song about malt liquor", which, as far as I know, may or may not be true), and you have a rickety, State-Fair roller-coaster ride in your stereo.  Listen to the album front to back, and by the time you reach the chorus of "Another Pint of Whiskey" (I'll save that for the listener), you realize that Zander has achieved a rare epiphany.

 

In his music, punk and country, romance and violence, fine craftsmanship and anarchy, collide on the common ground they uncomfortably share. Over thrashing drums and whining guitars Zander sings each song's story, with laconic irony or in a confrontational snarl, depending on the moment. Everything, from the music to the intensity of the vocal to the narrative itself, erupts from some place strange yet familiar to those who have forgotten or learned to ignore the passions that life can stir.

 

Zander reaches this place precisely because he isn't the kind of "artist" or media creation that fixates the industry in his adopted hometown of Nashville. "I ain't no poser," he insists. "I don't wear the right clothes and 'make' music. I'm not a musician. A musician is somebody who makes music. What I do comes out of me because of who I am. It comes from what I see around me. Really, I'm a reactionary – a crybaby."

 

Again, he's wrong, at least about being a crybaby, but we wouldn't say it to his face. Zander is tall, with a face like a young Popeye. His long arms are well muscled. He's not shy about carrying a hunting knife on his belt. His tattoos – Eddie, the zombie Iron Maiden mascot, and Homer Simpson with a Mohawk haircut, to name only a couple – offer a pretty good insight into his outlook.

 

Yet Zander is no stranger to the finer sides of culture. He was born and raised in Sussex County, Northwestern New Jersey, in the Kittatinny Mountains that connect to the Appalachian chain, and raised with an appreciation for the wisdom of both the academic and the working man. His father, an English professor, published three books of poetry and also wrote songs with titles like "Goin' to New Jersey Blues" and "Does Your Mother Know You're Sleeping with a Hippie?"

 

Bluegrass and earlier country was the music of choice in this household and the foundation of what has become Zander's sound. But when Gabe was just four or five years old, his older brother introduced him to rock & roll, and suddenly Billy Idol and Spinal Tap found places in his pantheon. By his early teens he was seriously into punk and hardcore; that, and a desire to perform that stems back to before he can remember, led him to form or join bands like the Oi! Scouts, Squiggy, the Outsiders, and the Hate Trash Disasters.

 

Once he got out on his own Zander supported himself through doing construction and, for two years, working in a warehouse until he was fired for leading a failed effort to unionize. For a while he thought about "going savage" and surviving in the wild, "hunting and gathering and building lean-to shelters. I've done that for really brief periods, but I've always come back. I've always got to impress someone, I guess."

 

And so he roamed to Nashville, a town he has come to love and despise. Through solo gigs as a street performer on the sidewalks of Lower Broadway, outside of tourist-crammed honky-tonks, and gigs at clubs with the growing number of local musicians who, drawn to his music, were willing to work for the door, or for nothing at all, he fell in with a group of singer/songwriters – Kenneth Brian, Phil Hummer, Joshua Black Wilkins, Chele Frizell – who share his conviction that country and punk, when brought together, uncover a special kind of truth.

 

"What we're doing isn't different from what Willie, Waylon, and Johnny Cash did before us, except that the times are different," Zander insists. "More things have had a chance to influence us. But we're not trying to exemplify or mix anything; it's just what comes out of us. I'll repeat and repeat and repeat that until everybody gets the message."

 

Even within this company, though, Zander has a distinctive identity. His shows are the stuff of legend, driven by manic rants, bare-chested histrionics, and complete unpredictability. Bits and pieces of what he offers onstage have been hinted at on the occasional demo. But capturing the full flavor had to wait until one fateful night, when a stranger approached him at the Bluegrass Inn.

 

"Bart Weilberg, a very popular session guitarist who works on Lower Broadway, came up and mentioned that he'd seen me at a show I'd done, just me and my guitar, and asked about working with me," Zander says. "At the time I wanted to do everything acoustic, and he's definitely an electric player. But then I went next door and saw the band that he was sitting in with do their version of 'Folsom Prison Blues'. When Bart hit his solo, that changed everything, and I told him I definitely, totally had to work with him."

 

Weilberg called a bunch of other musicians (including BR549 bassist Mark Miller, fiddler Avery Anderson, "Mandolin Mike" Slusser, and drummers J. J. Murphy and Larry London) who were maybe getting a little tired of limping through dreary demo dates, and brought them together with Zander at the studio of Scott McEwen, whose profile as bassist/producer with Rosie Flores and Hank Williams III, to name a couple, helped make him the top-call sound craftsman within Nashville's alternative community.

 

What they came up with was Punk Rock Redneck. Not just one of the most provocative debuts among Music City's indie artists, this album is a portent of things to come, like dark clouds rumbling unexpectedly overhead. It takes just one spin to make the central point, which is that Gabe Zander is a talent to reckon with by any measure of songwriting, performance, or generally causing trouble. Yeah, definitely that last one….

 

To use his own words: "Any 'Country Music Revolution' isn't gonna be won by a bunch of jackass musicians who think they're better than everybody else, playing music that they think is better than everything else in bars full of other jackasses who think they're better than everybody else; it has to be treated like complete and total warfare and will require actual strategies and action; that's why so few, if any, of us are actually getting anywhere with it. Music ain't nothing if it's just being made for the sake of making music and there ain't nothing behind it from within."

 

Here, of course, he's right. If that makes Gabe Zander a hero, so be it. If not, then Punk Rock Redneck is a harbinger of heroic changes to come, from somebody out there. Either way, for now, there's an album to put out.

 

Robert L. Doerschuk

Former editor, Musician magazine