This kind of music brings out the drunkard in me, so I proceeded to consume as much American beverage as I could muster, until Tubesock informed me that he was bailing out. I was at a loss, feeling foolish and in need of some fun, so I did what any god-fearing duck does in this situation: I went driving. All the way to the Outback Lodge where I made a nuisance of myself by ogling patrons at the Humble Sacrifice show. All I can clearly recall about events there is that they featured a brief visit from Hogwaller Rambler Rolland Colella on electric fiddle, and it sounded pretty damn good from the floor. Someone had the good sense to knock me out with a taser, strap me to the top of their 4Runner and deliver me home without spilling any blood on the mean streets of Charlottesville.

Gaudreau, Bennet and Auldridge

Friday 2-11-2000 -- My radio buddy Crown Waterhead called to let me know that he'd obtained free admission to Boudreau's to see the swing band there. I was a little frightened by the notion of a coat-and-tie affair so I stalled for an hour at the Prism Coffehouse where Mike Auldridge, Richard Bennet and Jimmy Gaudreau were supporting the release of This Old Town, their new CD for Rebel Records. Rebel Records, whose massive stable of fiddlin' and flatpickin' legends has made them one of the country's preeminent bluegrass labels, has recently migrated here to Charlottesville. Good news!

Auldridge, Bennet and Gaudreau sounded beautiful at the Prism, gracefully performing matured bluegrass for an open-hearted and awe-struck audience. I'd have stayed all night, but we had plans, so after the first set we rolled to Boudreau's where Big Ray and the Kool Kats were swinging for a surreally mixed crowd. Middle-aged groups in Burger King crowns mingled with foreign families in traditional garb and young couples on dates half-attempting to ritz-it-up. It looked like an international wedding at an up-scale Denny's. The multi-colored zoot suit-clad band was kind of soft and cheesy but seemed like they'd be good fun for a swing dancing date-- if you know how to swing dance, of course. I have webbed feet and therefore do not know how to swing dance, so I was feeling like an eyesore and yearning for salvation, and thus fled to trucker heaven, a fly-fishing hunk-o-paradise incarnate as Southern Culture on the Skids at Trax.

Skiddin' hard

"HALLELUIAH!" I exclaimed as the biggest uncontrollable shit-eating grin took over my face, "Did somebody say chicken?" Southern Culture on the Skids used to perform regularly in Charlottesville at a little restauraunt called Zipper's-- located on W. Main St. in the building now occupied by Northern Exposure resauraunt. The band was a notorious fave-- so beloved, legend has it, that Zipper felt compelled to name his next culinary expedition after them, giving birth to Southern Culture, the restauraunt. 'Tis fitting tribute, for Southern Culture on the Skids' gritty rock ho-down is true tongue-in-cheek redneck high art, a piece-de-resistance of trailer park puree. More tacky American garbage is celebrated in the course of a S.C.O.T.S. show than in Hee-Haw's entire run, and by the encore, which was performed illuminated by flashlight, I was convinced they were the coolest thing to happen to the East coast since the B-52's rose out of Athens to pinch our collective arses.

Big Bad Bill as Sweet William

Just for kicks I rolled over to the Outback Lodge to eyeball Big Bill Morganfield, son of the original rolling stone, Muddy Waters. Just as Ziggy Marley and Julian Lennon inherited their fathers' famous larynxes, Big Bill was blessed with Muddy's warbly growl, and he displayed enough of the legendary hoochie coochie man's gifted delivery to make me feel like a natch'l born lover's duck.
-Cripsy Duck

If you thrill, I'll chill. cripsyduck@mindspring.com