Dirtball's greasy country fun

Richmond is a fascinating old city, populated by miles of used and long unused row houses and huge empty buildings -- the center for a metropolis that no longer loves itself -- an effect exaggerated by the brown snow drifts pushed up along the streets and the general disarray of its abandoned and disintegrating WWII-era department stores, hunched and decrepit in the yellow glow of street lights. Parts of Richmond give the impression that it could never be cleaned it up -- it's too far gone and the filth is now many decade-deep layers thick.

After wandering around half-lost for a short eternity, we came across a makeshift sign pointing us to the Canal Club. Around the building and up the stairs, past the cop whose job it was to stand looking longingly through the door all night while the rest of us drank free beer, we found the club, or at least the upstairs portion (the downstairs was still under construction). The Canal Club, from the looks of it, could turn out to be a very cool venue. A massive loft with exposed beams and lots of seating, you could probably fit 800-900 people in there comfortably, although city ordinances cut them off long before then. They've built a 2 foot stage in the back center of the room and a long bar stretches down one wall.

The Hogwaller Ramblers were in full swing when we got there, fighting against an annoying wall of bottom-end noise that, apparently, the soundguy couldn't hear because he wasn't fixing it. As a slight digression, this might be a good time to discuss soundmen and their placement in relation to the stage. The sound technician is -- believe it or not -- really the most important member of the band, and it's a common mistake to stick him/her in a convenient corner and figure that will have to do. In order to do his job properly, the soundguy should be sitting in the best seat in the house: the very middle of the room, right in the center, neither too close nor too far away from the stage and P.A. He should never have to get up from his spot to go and check "how it sounds to the people on the dancefloor." He should be set up there. When he's not, you end up with dynamic problems like the one the Ramblers were enduring on Friday: unfamiliar with this brand-new venue, the sound tech set his rig up too far away from the stage so he couldn't hear the low-end being trapped near the band. There was so much woofing bottom that it was difficult to hear the instruments through it and you couldn't even make out what bassist Ben Jacobs was playing. Now thatz-a-spicy-a-meat-a-ball!

El sound dude started to get his act together after a few tunes so we finally got to enjoy some epic Ramblin'. I think I even heard a new number: "Nine Bullets," another fine display of singer/bandhead Jamie Dyer's penchant for smelting the dark and the humorous. (The chorus goes something like: "Nine bullets in my roomate's gun/ I'm gonna find a use for each one.") (Duck Note:as it turns out, "Nine Bullets" was written by the Drive by Truckers. --Thanks for the tip, Alan.) The Rambler's backyard pork-rind uptempo country groove is a fitting ballast for Dyer's dark-as-the-well folksmithy, and in the end the Ramblers left the Richmond crowd impressed, pumped-up and ready for some Dirtball. Dirtball, a band that started out as a project to play country versions of punk tunes and punk versions of country tunes, had secured this, the pre-opening opening night of the Canal Club, for the CD release party for their new disc on Richmond-based Planetary Records, Turn Up The Barn. (Planetary recently signed Charlottesville jam band Humble Sacrifice) Recorded in the Stoneman family barn in Goochland, Turn Up The Barn is a classic work of gutter americana that stinks of cigarettes and Budweiser and weaves through alt/country and rock with tongue (and chaw) planted firmly in cheek. As they played, I couldn't help thinking that they would sound great on Austin City Limits -- if not for all the cussin' and carrying on. (I personally like a little cussin' and carrying on, but you know those Bible Belters...) A mid-show rendition of Glenn Campbell's "Wichita Lineman" was a welcome oddity, and by the time we left I had hooked up with a copy of the CD complete with hay from the Stoneman family barn crammed into the jewel case.
-- Cripsy Duck

Boons granted. cripsyduck@mindspring.com