Weekly Download Vol. III No. 25

Fool’s Gold by The Damn Quails – (8.0) (ups on the recco to the Preternaturally Gifted Guitar Playing Law Student who, besides Barry Obama, is the first member of a law review (N.B. American Indian Law Review doesn’t count) to be mentioned herein.)

Oklahoma April Music Digest: Week 2. Rumor has it that The Damn Quails are the Monday night house band at that most taciturn of Norman shit boxes, The Deli, home of nothing great in particular including its mind-bending-hangover inducing (even for college kids) never-ending Red Cups of piss warm chong.  During my stay (this is not the ode to Norman), on occasion The Deli showcased music good enough to entice me to tolerate it. (N.B. Nothing as good as The Damn Quails….including you, Hosty).  But every time I left it, stumbling out onto White Street toward the Sunshine Store craving a heater and a burrito, ears ringing and gut sloshing with chong, I remember thinking Why didn’t I just go to The Mont?  So I’ve never been a huge fan.  But when the PGGPLS suggested that The Damn Quails were good enough for Wife and I to get a sitter on a Monday and drive to dear Norman and The Deli to enjoy, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that in the lightning-strike-while-being-eaten-by-a-shark unlikely event that I get a sitter on a Monday and Wife and I are free to roam, the only way in hell we’re going to The Deli is if they’re serving Waygu Beef and Dogfish Head Beer as a warm up to an intimate acoustic performance of Tom Waits, Ed Vedder and The Boss. The confluence of these events seems unlikely (N.B. and yes, I felt the yuppie-scum in me type that).

Having said that as such, this is a strong rec. I described it as a combination of DBT and Old Crow Medicine Show to which the PGGPLS agreed, and he knows his music.  I’ve really enjoyed listening to the entire album (Down the Hatch) as it hits me in the I’ve got to get my country-ish fix like I’ve got to get my hip-hop fix kind of way. While they are gifted musicians, they don’t do anything earth shattering on the album, but what they do, crafting forlorn beer-drinking ballads (one of which mentions whippets (not the dog)), they do quite well.  Especially here. Sing this on your patio or in your pick-up driving section lines and beating mailboxes to death with empty beer bottles (nostalgic sigh).  That’s what it was built for.

I predict this track, hell the entire album, will have some staying power in WD’s rotation this summer. So there’s the rec, you hang out with me during heatdome ’12, you’ll prolly hear this.


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