The Hangdogs
Something Left to Sell
Crazyhead Records

by William Michael Smith

Did The Hangdogs invent grits? The Edsel? The Vega-Matic? Post-industrial Yankee socialism?

Something Left to Sell may not prove that The Hangdogs are responsible for any of these important social improvements that have elevated mankind to the stratospheric state of development we find it in today, but it does prove they are one helluva bar band. It also proves that they can have as much fun as their audience. (No, really, there is no intent to deceive here; these boys know what fun is.) And they know what a bar band is supposed to do without reading the "Job Description" handout. Shut up, turn it up, and play somethin' good. Three chords and kinda loud and pretty fast would be nice. And drink. Yeah, a bar band is supposed to drink. And talk shit. And play in a loose and inspired fashion as it provides a suitable backdrop to the general mindless social interaction attendant to the kinds of high class places The Hangdogs play their twisted brand of rocka-hillbilly-roll.

At 16 tracks (not counting the no doubt substance induced tangential detours in "Tina, Tina, Tina" -- yeah, I know they actually titled it "Answering Machine" but that's a dumb title), Something Left to Sell is as rare as a rust-free Edsel these days. Like the band, this album might be accurately described as completely undiluted, undeodorized, and unsanitized. Undeodorizedly live-with-no-overdubs, allow-me-to-show-you-my-zits-and-birthmarks rock and roll. The title of track 2 says all one needs to know after the shrink wrap is ripped off and the play button is depressed: "We Gon' Rock."

We're gonna rock til the Mona Lisa frowns
Rock, rock, rock til the sun goes down
We're gonna rock til the break of day
We're gonna rock til we rock our last cliche

Recorded everywhere from the Mercury Lounge in NYC to the Thunder Road Rock Club in Codevilla, Italy to WOLF-FM studios in Dallas, Texas, Something Left to Sell is as accurate a document of the character of this hard-charging, punk-rock-attitude-but-rockabilly-aesthetic, don't-screw-with-us-if-you-like-breathing band as the rap sheets of the individual members (Matthew Grimm, Automatic Slim, Kevin Baier, J.C. Chimel, Rob Gottstein, John Carlin, and David Chernis, in case Interpol is reading this review and there are any rewards for information leading to...).

Long time Hangdog fans will find some wonderfully loose, spontaneous, ragged-but-right versions of old favorites here and some balls-to-wall covers of everything from Cheri Knight's "If Wishes Were Horses" to Robbie Fulks' "She Took A Lot of Pills and Died" to the solid gold classics "Money Honey" and "One Woman Man." The Hangdog's version of "Money Honey" is a one track riot, as greasy as a rockabilly singer's coiffure and as funky as Bo Diddley eating fried chicken and cream gravy. Their interpretation of Steve Earle's "Sometimes She Forgets" is so honky tonk these boys automatically qualify for Texas citizenship on the strength of this track alone (and that's saying a heap for this bunch of post-industrial Yankee socialist correctional institution candidates).

Of course, they reprise their "hit" (which is a big fav in Texas), "Monopoly on the Blues." The Hangdogs may be surly and smart-mouthed, flippant and ironic, and occasionally punkier than Mike Ness, but Grimm's lyric on "Monopoly" assures the Americana credentials of this band of outlaws. Shrewdly observant, it details the relentless wasting away of small town America. How truer a lyric is there than the picture of a one-yellow-light town where "there's still a bank on Main Street so you can take out one more loan"? It gets worse, much worse.

Well Jenny's kept her looks after graduatin' a few years back this June
Now she stares up by that window past the neon at the moon
When the cash dried up for college she came home to live for free
Work a register at the Walmart down in the county seat

"This Beer Last Night" is another Hangdog ditty that fits directly in the mainstream of the Texas neo-outlaw movement. Recorded at WOLF in Dallas, the music is purposely antique and the sentiment is pure sawdust floor. Mickey Gilley would have called this "The Girls All Get Prettier At Closing Time."

You've fended off most every line, you've heard most every tune
But everyone's been hurt before or will be someday soon
But I won't hand you no lie, I'm only broke and I
Ain't felt like this 'bout anyone since this beer last night

Is Something Left to Sell the all-time greatest concept album in the history of popular music? Well, depends on how many Budweisers you've chased with a Michoacan fatty. Are The Hangdogs out to prove they are the smartest rock band since Yes? No (and Lord help us if they ever decide to make the attempt). The Hangdogs may not be Einsteins, but they can prove the Indisputable Rhythm Theorem -- that rock and roll ain't about rocket science. It's about attitude and rocket fuel.

OK, enough of this review. I've got to go see The Hangdogs and James McMurtry play at the Continental Club. Wonder if my wife remembered to get my bulletproof vest out of the dry cleaners?

* Always in need of money for bail, beer, and occasional STD prevention, The Hangdogs will undoubtedly be undyingly grateful (or at least not talk bad about you to your face) if you'll trip on over to www.hangdogs.com and plunk down your recycled beer cans or used fishing lures or whatever other currency you'd care to gamble on Something Left to Sell. Take it from me (and I'm from Texas, so I never learned how to lie), this is one of those albums that will grow on you like mildew grows in a Houston bathtub. Before long, you won't be able to get it out of your CD player with a gallon of Tilex and a box of Brillo pads.

 
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