Since I have no inspiration whatsoever to write lately, I’m going to make this short because I just want to get it down for history’s sake for when I’m 85 years old and and trying to remember where I put my teeth. Last night the Drive-By Truckers played to a truly appreciative and sometimes raucous crowd at Avalon here in Boston. They probably delivered the show of the year, although there’s still a few months for that title to be assigned elsewhere.

There’s no other way to describe it, other than the fact that it was a three-guitar nuclear assault, which has me still harboring a little ringing of the ears and aural blockage this morning (no lie). That’s right – THREE lead guitar players and three different singers/songwriters. These guys simply put it all out there. Gutty, energetic, talented, friendly and genuinely appreciative of their crowd. And man, the songs. How did it come to pass that these guys can fill a concert hall with so many good songs? How did this band get to this level? I couldn’t help but think back to the late 1990’s, when my label passed on them! Ouch.

Nice touch at the end of the night, too, when the band stayed on stage after their last song and shook hands with as many people as they could.

About halfway through the two-and-a-half hour show, I turned to a friend and just said ‘this is a fucking barrage.” He nodded and said “yep, they bring it.”


DO IT YOURSELF (Drive-By Truckers, From “Decoration Day,” (2002)
My Daddy called me on a Friday morning,
so sad to tell me just what you’d done
You tried so hard to make us all hate you
but in the end you was the only one
Sick, tired, pissed and wired,
you never thought about anyone else.
You tried in vain to find something to kill you
in the end you had to do it yourself.

Who’s to blame for the loveless marriage,
who’s to blame for the broken band.
You ran from life and all of it’s pleasures,
your own teeth marks on your own damned hand.
Thrown out before the date’s expired,
you’d rather die than let anyone help,
You’d rather die than take a stab at living.
Nothing would kill you so you do it yourself.

Everyone has those times when the night’s so long
The dead-end life just drags you down
You lean back under the microphone
and turn your demons into walls of goddamned noise and sound.

And it’s a sorry thing to do to your sweet sister
It’s a sorry thing to do to your little boy
It’s a sorry thing to do to the folks who love you
Your Mama and Daddy lost their only boy
Some should say I should cut you slack,
but you worked so hard at unhappiness.
Living too hard just couldn’t kill you
In the end you had to do it yourself.

Living too hard just couldn’t kill you
In the end you had to do it yourself.