![]() ![]() He hammers out a take on “Cocaine Blues” that hasn’t been played so fast, so tight since the Man in Black was chain-popping uppers. With a shout-out to “real country musicians like David Allan Coe,” Hank III rebel-yells “I Don’t Know” and “If the Shoe Fits,” both from his 1999 debut album, Risin’ Outlaw. Sounding like BR5-49 dipped in kerosene, he went about settin’ the club on fire with a handful of taut rockabilly burners and ended most songs with a familiar soft, twangy yodel. ![]() “And I’m gonna need some goddamn whiskey up here in a minute.”Īnd with that declaration, a smattering of cowboy hats is raised roofward as Hank III, backed by a skeletal Space Age fiddle, stand-up bass, drums, and lead guitar, grabs his acoustic guitar andwait a sec, you gotta hear about the acoustic guitar: Hank III’s weapon of choice is beaten silly with black-marker scribbles, myriad violent scratches (not to mention a dime-sized hole), and a large X-rated sticker of two curvaceous female devils, one of whom is going down on the other.Īnd then holy goddamn hell: Hank III may look frail, but the guy can flat-out gogo faster, harder, louder than any cowboy out there. “We’re gonna do about 30 minutes of country and then give you some of our hillbilly heavy-metal bullshit,” Hank III says to the three-quarters-full crowd, kicking off his last show of 2000. His morgue-pale face is pointed, and his eyes are sunken with lack of sleep, but let’s just take the easy road: Hank III looks like Hank the One and Only (who, it should be noted for literary tension, died from record-breaking drug and alcohol abuse when he was only 29). His arms are thin but strong, and roped with veins, and he’d definitely lose a leg-wrestling contest to Ichabod Crane. (I also can’t stop pondering the Blonde in Red Leather, a front-row Hank III groupie who, during the first song, asked me, “What do I have to do for a good review?” She followed that up with: “Do you write for Penthouse?” God, I love country music.)Īnyway, this is how the Best Show of the Year goes down: At 27 years old, 6-foot-2, and weighing no more than a buck-naked buck-fifty, Hank III (pronounced Hank Three) saunters onstage around midnight wearing a beat-up white cowboy hat, a braided ponytail down to the middle of his bony back, a silver-link chain tight around his throat, a black Misfits T under a black C&W snap-on shirt adorned with tumbling dice, black leather pants decorated with cannabis leaves, and grime-rich boots. (aka Bocephus) grandson of the Hank Williams (aka the Father of Country Music) a chronic pothead, cigarette smoker, and drinker a cash-poor high school dropout a guy who recorded a major-label album only after discovering he had an illegitimate kidcould also be the future of punk. And, with one eye shut for balance purposes, I ponder this: how Shelton Hank Williamsson of Hank Williams Jr. ![]() So with a head full of Anchor Steam, I avoid my Tilt-A-Whirl bed, remain in the upright position, and count the minutes ticking off the clock. This tympanic disturbance is just as well: While I was at the Black Cat drinkin’ too much, dancin’ too poorly, and staring drop-jawed at the future (and the past) of country music, my landlord apparently installed a high-tech spinning device under my apartment, and now the goddamn place just won’t stay still. a few hours ago with one of the wildest goddamn shows I’ve ever seenis still ringing in my ears. It’s 3 a.m., the promise of Saturday night has soured into the coming down of Sunday morning, and drifting cowboy Hank Williams IIIwho lit up D.C. ![]() Whoops! There was an error and we couldn't process your subscription. ![]()
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