Joel Thetford
Guitars, Outlaws and Unforgettable Tales
self-released
I reckon it was ’round ’bout a year ago I pushed through them big black swingin’ doors at Geno’s punk-rock saloon an’ spied Joel Thetford sittin’ at the bar in his cowboy hat, as usual, prob’ly nursin’ a whiskey on ice. Dang, but I’s fired up that night I seen Joel. Musta had a few under my own belt. See, I wouldn’t call it pesterin’, but that feller’s been tellin’ me ’bout his new records for years — hopin’, I s’pose, I’d write up a re-view. Pro-lific, that’s the fancy word for ol’ Joel, who ain’t that old, 50 maybe, and is ’bout the nicest feller you kin hope to meet. Humble man. Sweet man.
Anyways, I started in on Joel, tryin’ to give ’em a little tough love, like they call it. “Sure,” I says, “yer music’s fine — darn good, even. But there’s 10,000 other fellers out there strummin’ the same chords and singin’ ’bout the same shit!” I ain’t no big fan of country music, ’specially the modern kind. For my ears, it’s gotta be real gritty, or real weird, or real pretty, or I get bored right quick. I never did get ’round to re-viewin’ any Joel’s records, though I admit I shouldn’ta slept on that one he cut with Renée Coolbrith, January Heartbreak, back in ’21. Dang, but ain’t that “Wasted Love” a beaut!
Joel, as is his way, just kinda nodded. I think he may’ve mentioned he’d been workin’ with Dave Gutter, writin’ and recordin’ songs for yet another release. That sounded promisin’. Gutter’s damn good — even won hisself a Grammy for songwritin’! Still, I figger’d nothin’ much’d come of it.
Well, few days later word got back Joel’d been feelin’ a li’l sore ’bout our talk at Geno’s. I hadn’t meant to upset my good buddy, and next time I saw ’im I made a point of apologizin’ and buyin’ him a drink. Joel was a gentleman ’bout it, per usual. Said he’d send me the new record with Gutter when it was done.
Month or so ago he did, and people, I gotta tell ya: it’s a god-dang masterpiece.
Keep in mind, now — I don’t normally cotton to country, so I’m pre-dis-posed not to like Guitars, Outlaws and Unforgettable Tales. But hot dang if this ain’t one of the best country album I ever heard by anyone anywheres. Grammy people, give Joel Thetford one them statues next year, and give Gutter ’nother one, too, ’cause them boys at the head of the herd!
The production on here — right out the gate, it floors ya. See, this’s more of a Western album than a country one, and Gutter, bein’ a dang genius in the studio, done adorned the thing with background sounds that’d make ol’ Ennio Morricone blush. You catch the hint there, right on the crazy cover, that cowgirl holdin’ a big plate o’ spaghetti? But thing is, like they do at Olive Garden, it’s ain’t too cheesy; it’s just right. This ain’t Ween’s 12 Golden Country Greats. An’ I tell ya, it’s breath-takin’. Try it yerself! First 40 seconds of track one, “Runnin’ Home,” ’fore it drops into almost a club thang and the barkin’ of a dog becomes a beat. Hadda pick my damn jaw off the carpet!
Joel’s in fine voice throughout, almost toyin’ with that Roy Orbison high-lonesome tenderness at times. Like I said, real nice fella. There ain’t a lick of meanness in these songs. Fact, “Runnin’ Home”’s ’bout turnin’ tail from a fight yer likely to lose. “I’m no stronger than this whiskey or a finger on a trigger of a gun,” Joel sings. “Now I’m shakin’ in my boots, ’cause I was quicker on the draw when I was young.”
See, the writin’ here’s tighter too, thanks to Dave’s collaboratin’, and there’s real wit, like on “Three Doors of Hell,” ’bout them three dive bars down Commercial Street used to be real wild after sundown. “Door number two,” Joel croons over what sounds like the soundtrack to the saloon scene before the fists fly, “the waitress chews.” Whether he’s ref’rencin’ tobacca or some’n else, that line slays the way he delivers it.
Speakin’ o’ slayin’, the second song, “Ozona,” with that there Harlène duetin’ with Joel — my goodness, that’s ’nother keeper! Damn near perfect. “Big Farmer,” a ballad ’bout gettin’ sucked into the pill scene, follows that one. Wit, I’m tellin’ ya! But also a hearty helpin’ of pathos, befittin’ any good country song.
“Long Gone” and “Keep Your Head Up” got pathos in spades. People talk ’bout droppin’ a tear in yer beer — ol’ Joel had me blubberin’ like a lost calf in a nor’easter. Just devesatatin’, gorgeous stuff, kinda songs that belong up where angels fly. In the past, track like “Long Gone” woulda gone on too long, but I’m guessin’ Gutter gave it that fuzz-funky, hand-clappin’ outro. Dave’s backing vocals on “Head Up,” like on the earlier “Till the Light of Day,” blend with Joel’s voice in fine fashion. That local promoter gal Meg Shorette’s singin’, too, on “Criminal Queen” — heavenly.
How’s a man to top off eight straight cuts of pure gold? Why, with a six-minute live stomper, “Like You,” that ends with one them Lynyrd Skynyrd duel-gee-tar solos by Nate Soule and Wally Wenzel, both ex-Mallett Brothers Band ax men. Yee-haw!
I’ll be honest with ya, partner. It ain’t just them couple sad songs. I’s cryin’ tears of pride and joy for my good buddy Joel, ’cause I’m so glad for him. He’s done made hisself a work of gen-u-ine art, a truly powerful album that’ll get you laughin’, cryin’, whoopin’ and wonderin’ how in tarnation he and Dave pulled it off. I don’t wear no Stetson hat, but if I had one, it’d be taken off in the presence of Joel Thetford from now on.
