David Allan Coe – You Never Even Called Me by My Name (1975)
The air was thick with smoke and cheap whiskey, the jukebox lights casting sickly blues and reds across the worn…
The air was thick with smoke and cheap whiskey, the jukebox lights casting sickly blues and reds across the worn…
The road stretches out, black and endless, under a dome of indifferent stars. You’re driving late, well past midnight, the…
The hour is late. The neon sign for “Cold Beer” is half-burnt out, casting a sickly pink glow onto the…
The year 1967 was a kaleidoscope of cultural shift. Psychedelia bloomed in San Francisco, rock was splintering, and yet, back…
The late 1960s were, for Jerry Lee Lewis, less a second act and more a desperate, thrilling negotiation with history.…
The air in the café was thick and still, the kind of late-night silence you could almost lean into. I…
The air in the Bakersfield studio must have been thin that day. Not from altitude, but from a deliberate lack…
The late autumn air, a low-slung fog hugging the neon signs of an emptying roadside diner. It’s a classic cinematic…
The air in the listening room was thick and still. It was late, past midnight, the kind of hour when…
The great country music tragedians rarely announce their devastation with a shout. Instead, they give you the sullen clarity of…