Hellbound
Glory - Conjuring Spirits and Suicide
by Tammy Moore
By the time Saturday
rolls around during SXSW, people are starting to run on fumes. They've
had three days of 24/7 partying, crowd fighting and ear piercing
amps blasting in their heads. They're starting to drag and, though
no one says it outloud, they can't wait for Sunday to roll into
the stratosphere and bring an end to the addictive chaos that is
the world's second largest music conference. Such was the case when
the Dirty Dog opened it's doors at noon that Saturday to two fist
fulls of diehards for the first annual Rusty Knuckles showcase.
After stumbing across the new label last year, home to the Crank
County Daredevils and Antiseen, I knew some great things were going
to come out of it. It boasts a crazy diverse roster of music with
three common denominators - dirty, Southern, sleazy. Right up my
alley, I decided to plant myself there for the duration and, in
the process, stepped into the presence of, well...greatness.
Every performance
was outstanding in it's own right. Dirty Dog's management said they
were told numerous times by those in attendance that it was the
best showcase they had seen all week. But I couldn't help but feel
for the artists as the Saturday curse was in full effect. The crowds
were steady enough throughout the day though none of these great
acts (Rory Kelly, She Rides, Vagabond Swing, Green Lady Killers
and Reno Divorce) got to shine in front of the crowds they deserved.
But around 4:30 that afternoon something I'm gonna call 'supernatural'
happened. That's when a scumbag country band called Hellbound Glory
from Nevada confidently strolled onto the stage and started conjuring,
what can only be explained as, the spirits of outlaws past.
I'm going to
go ahead and make a prediction. Barring the world ending 2012 style
next year Hellbound Glory's frontman and primary songwriter, Leroy
Virgil, and his crew of rebels are going to build a cult following
the likes of which will earn them a bona fide spot in country music
history. It will have to go down that way as there is clearly zero
reverence for the Nashville machine in this lot. There's plenty
of up and comers that lay claim to the 'outlaw' moniker but Hellbound
Glory actually redefines the face of real outlaw country. They put
their own signature darker stamp on it and don't seem to give a
flyin' f*#% who's offended by that, or any other, ugly truth.

Now they don't
look like tragic figures. At first glance, they're modern enough,
with shirttails flyin', flashing almost impish bad boy grins. But
then the music starts and everything about them reeks of another
era. The spell of the songs is cast and the entire band embodies
the essence of another world. Black and white photos of days gone
by, greasy ducktails and the hot curves of sexy 50's Chevys racing
down unpaved roads are unseen but present in the sonic whirl emitting
from the stage. It's a sound that seems long ago lost in the world
of country music today. And the strange thing is that they're not
necessarily talking about that period in time. But the feel of it
is there and I suspect it's because kindred spirits found their
own voices then and, frankly, it wouldn't have surprised me to look
over and see Waylon, Hank or Johnny themselves standing stageside
with thumbs up.
They have the
ability to spin it like that because they've lived the lives they're
recounting in song. I know that not because I interviewed them but
because that's the reality that came through in the performance
and in the stories that wordsmith Virgil shares in the midst of
a show that feels like a sacred vigil before the dawn of some much
needed redemption. In his bio, he claims the lyrics are about him
and his friends. If that's true then what could be said about Virgil
and company are things like this: one more bender might entice the
reaper to come knocking but that won't stop them from ordering another
round with a best case scenario being wakin' up facedown in the
gutter. They might like to reverse some of the damage they've done
but they're too busy taking pills to numb the pain than to face
it head on. A safe bet is that Oxycontin is the drug of choice but,
lucky for us, they're too broke to overdose. A fifth of vodka and
Hank Williams crankin' full blast is the only true salve for a ravaged
heart. A face to face with heroin proved that she's 'a lady with
legs that reach up to the sky and an ass like molasses, so sweet
a man might follow her to his grave'. They believe in the power
of hate shags and keeping company with lost souls is a defining
factor of life. The new lows aspect of Hellbound Glory's 2010 release,
"Old Highs & New Lows" couldn't be more apropos and
you can't help but admire the ballsiness of laying it out the way
they do. Can you say no fear?
Virgil does more
than paint a picture with his stanzas. He takes you into the experience.
Halfway into the set I found myself standing in front of the stage
with a steel guitar hissing haunting melodies and noticed that the
room was filling. People were coming in off the street and a newly
enthralled audience was hanging on these songs. The thing is that
this music speaks to the soul of the practiced escape artists' self-made
hell of alcohol and drug induced hazes...teetering on the edge with
everything to lose, but unable to stop the free fall into the abyss
again and again. As dark truths go, it's one of the saddest that
Virgil could be the voice of a generation...in all fairness, the
seedy underbelly of said generation but, let's face it, there's
a whole lot of people these days that have arrived at the destinations
he's giving directions to. These songs aren't feel good testamonials
but people connect because the subject matter is nailed. The audience
was listening and the cheers were getting louder with the end of
each new song. Even a normally surly house bartender who was reeling
from the onslaught of new bands he'd been forced to endure 16 hours
daily for the three days prior was shaking his head in disbelief,
raising shots of black tooth grins, to toast the indisputable talent
eminating from the Dirty Dog stage.
And, yeah, you
can cite the obvious influences but what blows your mind is the
undeniable force behind the delivery of these songs, live, or on
the record. You can't help but be slightly baffled at how musicians
this young can understand and translate this style of country and
this kind of pain if they haven't lived it. Remember the Man in
Black pretended to understand the prison plight and won a lot of
fans that way but these cats... I'll put it like this. The room
is filling up, the crowd is having a blast...some are two-steppin'
and some are fist-pumpin'. And me? I'm actually holding back tears
as the purr of that steel guitar sets the tone for Virgil's latest
ballad. That wouldn't be that monumental except that I've only been
moved to tears three times in the literally countless times I've
been to concerts. Two of those times were in the presence of Fleetwood
Mac and The Eagles. Pretty heady company for these brand new artists
to land in the midst of my mind's musical landscape.
So
after the show, in an attempt to convey how much I enjoyed it, and
because I want to help these guys get the exposure they deserve,
I offered to throw myself in front of my friend Kevin Fowler's tour
bus if that's what it took to get his attention and maybe take Hellbound
Glory out for a few Texas dates. I'm still considering it and, if
it comes to that, we'll see if it works or if Kevin just thinks
I've finally lost what's left of my mind and tells the driver to
keep going and never mind that bump in the road. Keep your fingers
crossed for me. But the real point is this - I can't tell you for
sure if the experiences these songs convey actually happened to
the Hellbound boys or just someone close to them and they've been
extremely affected. Finding that out is an interview I'm going to
enjoy one day. For now, know this...that the music itself informed
everything I've said. That's how powerful it is. That's how magical
that showcase was.
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