Regular readers know what a huge fan I am of Drunk Country. Sadly, it looks like they’re either breaking up or reshuffling or somesuch–their e-mails are almost as good–and difficult to classify–as their music. Here’s their latest . . .
Some news, then.
There is woe in the wind as I annouce that the other half of our sad endeavour, what be Drunk Country, has upped & trundled off to that there fool’s gold what be Londontown with his delicious woman in tow. Possibly even toe. Definitely too.
He, & she, what is they, shall be ensconsed in some shared hostelry or other until such a time that they do realise that they don’t have a piggy bank fat enough to support such whimsy. Poncey new A&R employ with a brand spanking recording label company aside, so he has, I give them 8months afore they whisk back smart, all heel-clicked & Aunt Em starved.
Therefore, said sad endeavour will carry on operating as a one-man assault, on all that’s tuned & fretful for the forseeable, until the other half of comes-a-moochin’ back — more than likely to collect the TV & vinyls & such like what he done left at Drunk Country House for safe-keeping as he gone did hire the wrong sized van to transport his whole housely belongings to his new East End mouse hole.
To celebrate in some idea f style, here be attached a new slice of terribleness for your head to swallow for the duration of its play. This particular has been hand-crafted by I, one half of Drunk Country, & is a rough as arseholes demo to be sure. Aren’t, though, they say, apparently, they all?
This one is fancifully entitled:
that last first kiss on the Georgia Strait drift
Do with which as you therefore see fit.