Build Date: Sun May 18 06:50:39 2025 UTC
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-- Thom Stark
I Have A New Daddy, His Name Is Mohandas
2002-01-21 20:32:17
Miss Conduct reviews Rube Waddell -- show and CD.
Rube Waddell was the closing act at Laughing Squid 6.0 last Friday night. Not R ube Waddell the National Hall of Famer (and sexy man). Rube Waddell the band. They rocked me so hard, I had to suppress the urge to go hunt road kill. So I bought their CD, Rube Waddell brand Stink Bait, 1998, Vaccination Records. I am in love with this band.
Rube Waddell's circussy brand of blues involves guitars, kazoos, harmonicas, penny whistles, wash boards, drums, duct tape, safety pins, a banjo and a sousaphone. I like to believe I hear an accordion too. I am in love with this CD. Maybe it's the tin can packaging. Or the sticker of a red cauldron filled with green tentacled slop atop a black t-shirt flanked by hungry-eyed Catfish. Could it be the message, "Rube's formula guaranteed to satisfy long lasting firm and smelly!"? Nope. It must be the 21 most ass whoopin', porch stompin', spoon tappin' tracks ever recorded on 8-track in someone's bedroom. The complimentary quadra-fold booklet reveals that our dear friends at Polymorph Studio in Oaktownbootyville mastered this fine mess. So there's that too.
The cover illustration reads - Rube Waddell brand Stink Bait net wt 73.38 min. I won't tell you about all 21 tracks. Git your own damn CD! But, a brilliant highlight is the gritty chain gang version of the dirge Oh Death. It's more like a jungle chant. A hearty serving of gospel blues is dished up with John The Revelator. The haunting and surreal Whistling Dead is haunting, yet surreal. Drunken Street Ho sounding Peggy Bernier Watson performs a Little Rascal-esque prelude entitled I'll Eat A Worm. Roy Smeck is a kooky Hawaiian tribute to the Ukelele Hall of Famer comprising the lyrics "maka miki moka miki ma." Johnny Cash's Mean Eyed Cat is down, dirty and seasoned with grit. Salt of the Earth and San Pablo Rap rock the house. Mohandas=sublime. My all time favorite track, Eunice Irene, has a sprinkle of Kurt Weill: "Eunice Irene O'Dougal McGill lived in self imposed squalor on top of the hill."
Remember, it's recorded on 8-track folks. No high-faluting laser technology here. It's dirty, gritty, nasty and raw. Raw, like after you run your palm across sand paper for a spell. Raw, like you been chopping wood all afternoon. Close your eyes and smell the Possum Stew, hear the frogs mating, taste Pappy's moonshine, see the lightnen' bugs glowing in the yard while listening for your Bottom Feeder bell. Once more with feeling - God Bless America.
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