Now, before we get started, let’s quit the hogwash. Remember “Thou Shall Not Worship False Idols”? Does that ring a cowbell, you blasphemous heretic? This is something I myself was guilty of, but no more. No more, brother, for I feel His healing light ready to cast out the demons that whisper true lies in my buzzin’ and a ringin’ ears. You may have heard in the past that yours truly has compared “the Colonel” J.D. WILKES to “the Killer,” JERRY LEE LEWIS. Well, since we’re attempting to come clean, here are my exact words, from a live concert review published over a year ago, July 24, 2003, on the very same Web site you find yourself reading now:

I’ve also heard people compare J.D.’s band to legendary groups like THE STOOGES, THE CRAMPS, and THE REVEREND HORTON HEAT. No. No, no, nope, not a chance, no, no more. No sir-ee-Bob. With the release of Believe, it is clearly evident that the COLONEL J.D. WILKES is his own man. Sure, WILKES may be the second coming of the Lord himself, JERRY LEE LEWIS (who else would I be referring to?), but make no mistake about it, this is a talent as original as the sin you were born with. And TH’ LEGENDARY SHACK SHAKERS, they are their own group. Like a beautiful, unique, white snowflake, that’s them. No need to compare or contrast them to others, ‘cause there’s none quite like ‘em. Don’t ask me where these guys came from, ‘cause I have no idea. They’re freaks and geeks who slipped through the cracks only to emerge with bloody chicken heads dangling from their jaws and musical instruments hanging from their clenched fists.

Last week I saw THE CRAMPS play in Buffalo. Good ol’ LUX INTERIOR, legendary punk frontman who all but coined the term “psychobilly.” THE CRAMPS have been around for decades, and yet the fans are still bloodthirsty for more. That’s the road the SHACKSHAKERS are on, one leading to a God’s honest musical legacy. Believe is the fork in that bumpy, pothole-ridden road where J.D.WILKES and Co. find all their influences, musical and otherwise, in perfect harmony with one another, enabling them to create a perfect pitch of hallelujah-Jesus saves-us-Devil-music. J.D. WILKES is a true Americana original, a man hell bent on crafting a multi-versed body of work based on southern gothic nightmares and DELIVERENCE-style hoedowns.

Let’s face it: 2004 has been the drizzling shits for music fans. Last year we paid our respects to JOHNNY CASH, and this year, we bid farewell, once and for all, to THE RAMONES. It seems like, with the death of so many of the pioneers of rock ‘n roll, a lot of that original spirit has vanished. Meanwhile, I’ve been waiting for that one solid record to blow me away, to save my spirits through pure unadulterated corruption. BRIAN WILSON’S Smile hardly counts, even though it’s an album that I’m sure will find itself nested atop many a critic’s 2004 Best-Of List. Smile was only thirty-some-odd years in the making.

I say God bless TH’ LEGENDARY SHACK SHAKERS. Leave it to them to give us the album of the year. You don’t know how relieved I was to hear firsthand that TH’ LEGENDARY SHACK SHAKERS have outmaneuvered that infamous and dreaded sophomore album curse that strikes down so many promising bands (let alone the trials and tribulations of just trying to survive as artists). (Maybe Jesus is on their side.) The boys have established themselves and their sound, for sure. It is their sound, belonging to no one else, other than those of us lucky enough to be in on the secret. You can’t hear this anywhere else. If TH’ LEGENDARY SHACK SHAKERS keep making albums as powerful as Believe and Cockadoodledont, you know it’s just a matter of time before they break through the underground.

Believe (off their new label, YEP ROC RECORDS…bless ‘em) is thirty-five minutes and nine seconds total of heaven and hell, thirty-five minutes and nine seconds of P.T. BARNUM and FLANNERY O’CONNOR and SUN RECORDS, thirty-five minutes and nine seconds total of GOMER PYLE, a harmonica, and a surf guitar tossed inside an industrial sized blender. Imagine a cockfight on wheels, shit, a whole convoy of ‘em, barreling down some dusty country road aimed smack-dab at a carnival train, with a preacher’s makeshift revival tent pitched dead center of this impending collision. That’ll give you just some idea of what you’re in for. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.

On the track “Bible Cyst,” WILKES sings “I want to come back as a poltergeist.” That’s not such an unrealistic goal, since he seems to know all about them. You can hear the Holy Ghost bouncing around inside that spectacularly sick harmonica of his, the Holy Ghost wailing away as J.D. plays his harp, trying its Goddamndest to break itself free. JIM HEATH, aka THE REV. HORTON HEAT, is quoted as calling J.D. WILKES “the Killer” of the blues harmonica. Tracks like “Help Me” drive that point home. Don’t believe me? Witness for yourself and marvel as J.D. WILKES sucks out the soul of some hapless apostle who happens to be within earshot, straight into his harmonica like it’s Purgatory’s version of the Veg-o-matic.

The rest of the band is mind-blowing, just like in concert. That really comes as no surprise to me. With this album, though, the production really captures the sound of the band perfectly. Sonically, it’s a homerun, offering a perfectly layered, multi-textured recording. MARK on the bass sounds just as mean as he does in person. He’s really the unsung backbone of this band. MARK is an irreplaceable component of the band’s sound, too. And PAULIE on drums, what can you say, the man is intense. His sound is unstoppable. Unfortunately, I’m not sure PAULIE is on the road with the band, but still, his beat is a welcome presence on the recording of Believe. And that leaves us with the newest addition, DAVID LEE from South Carolina. A lot of folks were a little worried when the band and former guitarist JOE BUCK parted ways. JOE BUCK was certainly an extraordinary musician, only outweighed by his menacing stage presence. DAVID LEE is a more than capable replacement, though, and he skillfully tars over the hole that had been left by BUCK. After hearing DAVID LEE, you’ll ask, "JOE BUCK who?"

When I was a kid, one of the first concerts that I ever attended was a JERRY LEE LEWIS gig. It was fresh off the release of that God-awful GREASE sequel, I mean, movie musical about The Killer, GREAT BALLS OF FIRE, starring DENNIS QUAID. So JERRY LEE was out touring the country around this time, co-headlining with BO DIDDLEY. Not a bad introduction to music to a kid still in the seventh grade. (Sure as hell beats listening to BOBBY BROWN and THE NEW KIDS ON THE BLOCK and MILLI VANILLI, like all my peers at the time.)

So there I am in this small theater-in-the-round, flanked by my parents, anxiously awaiting the appearance of my hero, JERRY LEE LEWIS. BO DIDDLEY took the stage first, and played…and played…and played some more. It became apparent that the man was stalling. “Where was JERRY LEE?” I asked my parents, who didn’t seem to have an answer. BO DIDDLEY made the announcement that JERRY LEE was running a little bit late, so he extended his set a little more, in an attempt to appease the crowd, which was quickly turning into a mob. BO DIDDLEY even began telling jokes, as if his set had stretched as far as humanly possible. Fights began to break out. Guys in bolo ties and women in cowboy boots started throwing beer bottles, like a scene out of some old movie, maybe CLINT EASTWOOD’S ANY WHICH WAY BUT LOOSE or PAUL NEWMAN’S HUD. And there I was, a kid who was years away from my first shave, grinning with a smile from ear to ear, knowing that I was witnessing something special. I looked up at my parents and they seemed to be turning pale, as if they were planning our evacuation routes. And then, suddenly, like an Act of God, out strolls a drunken and bumbling JERRY LEE LEWIS, with a swagger that looked like JOHN WAYNE after a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and God knows what else.

JERRY LEE played on that revolving stage, and the crowed hushed, as if being commanded by their savior. A happy ending after all? Hell no. Beer muscles and humid summer air don’t wear off that quickly. The crowd was back in their feeding frenzy, like sharks in a rain ditch, and JERRY LEE seemed rather unaffected. JERRY’S playing, on the other hand, while still leaps and bounds above a mere mortal man, couldn’t keep up with his fuzzy condition. He could play a straight note, but walking a straight line was out of the question.

After about barely forty minutes, JERRY LEE abruptly stood up from his piano stool, said a slurred “Thank you,” and retreated to much higher ground. One of those favorite personal memories that I’ll never let go, is of a drunken JERRY LEE LEWIS losing his bearings after playing a gig on a revolving stage. He started walking down my aisle and came within inches of me, before being rounded up by his handlers who ushered him toward the correct exit aisle. And with that, the night was over.

My parents and I looked at each other and we laughed. Sure, JERRY LEE had seen better days, but this, this spectacle that my parents and I had been a part of on this muggy, stale beer-filled summer night, this was JERRY LEE LEWIS, this was a man that makes history with every note he plays, sober or not. And this was exactly what we paid for, and we’d have wanted it no other way. This was more realistic and more representative of JERRY LEE LEWIS than any slick Hollywood musical could have ever been. Who’d have thought after all these years, one man could still cause a riot?

What does this have to do with TH’ LEGENDARY SHACK SHAKERS, and why am I bringing the Killer back into the equation, when just a few pages ago I said it should be a sin to compare TH’ LEGENDARY SHACK SHAKERS to anyone (even JERRY LEE or THE CRAMPS)? Because TH’ LEGENDARY SHACK SHAKERS have stepped out of some history book that sadly doesn’t exist anymore. It’s a time capsule of music that would have died with JOHNNY CASH. It would have died with THE RAMONES. And it could have died when JERRY LEE LEWIS all but vanished from the scene.

TH’ LEGENDARY SHACK SHAKERS capture that sound, that environment, those small details, of a JERRY LEE LEWIS concert that’s gone on a little too long and a few shots of Jack Daniels too many. And with Believe, J.D. WILKES and the boys have resurrected another piece of their masterwork, believe me.

When not dreading the upcoming Buffalo winter, Josh Jabcuga can be found writing Squib Central, published every Thursday exclusively at www.moviepoopshoot.com

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