Speedtrucker, ABCD's, April l4

Live Shots

Speedtrucker plays <i>real </i>country at their ABCD's in-store.
Speedtrucker plays real country at their ABCD's in-store. (Photo By John Anderson)

Speedtrucker

ABCD's, April l4

Two guitars, bass, drums, a lead singer, and five straw Resistols bent all to shit -- Dallas' Speedtrucker plays country music with a vengeance. It's not alternative country, it's not country rock (yuck), it's not trucker-punk. It's country, by gawd, and Speedtrucker plays the living hell out of it. Driven by a tight-fisted drummer (dressed improbably in a girl's spaghetti-strap top) and petite bassist Lyndah, the band ripped through about a dozen originals, plus covers of Merle Haggard's "Ramblin' Fever" and "Working Man Blues," as well as a Webb Pierce retrofit, "I Didn't Know God Made Truck Drivin' Angels." Armed with two fearsome guitar players, the band makes the idea of a steel guitar or fiddle nearly redundant. It's not a matter of paying homage to the original brand of honky-tonk, or giving it some sort of stylish nouveau-country overhaul. Speedtrucker just plays it like it used to be played, except pumped full of steroids and Black Beauties, also known as "second drivers" in 18-wheeler circles. In-stores are always a bit iffy, but this bunch of trucked-up Dallasites put a stop to the CD shopping and held the attention of the Sierra Nevada-sippers hostage this afternoon. A few song titles, just so you get the idea: "Drive On," "Hard Livin'," "Fast Women," "Truckin' Side of Life." The amazing thing about Speedtrucker is that their chops are good enough to envision them captivating an audience at the Broken Spoke as easily as throwin' down at Emo's. There's a whole different brand of country out there that doesn't involve contrived y'allternative pretensions, demographically correct hat-wearing Nashville cyber-hunks, or navel-pierced Wal-Mart-country Barbies. One band that's practicing that brand of country is a few hours up I-35 from here, and you owe it to yourself to get out and see them the next time they're in town so's they can fling their diesel stink your way. It's the real deal, Lucille.

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