Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Dan Baird And Homemade Sin
Dan Baird And Homemade Sin

Following on from last year’s pretty spectacular Fresh Outta Georgia Live Like A Satellite* album comes this first step from the aptly titled new combo for the ex-Georgia Satellites head hat-waver (been that it was partly recorded in-house but also that it’s extremely comfortable and homely for such at once snub-nosed barrack-room boogie. Where that regaled glassy and dare I say it, slightly tear-stained sozzled eyes with dishy delights from the well back-slapped Satellites catalogue here’s a whole new set of the finest bar-room maraudings, with laughing ex-Scorcher madacapo Warner Hodges, ably refilling and refreshing the piercing caverns left by compadre Rick Richards that Maybe there’s a few more mid-tempo reflective tinges than the lairy-eyed young buckaroo bromide barnstorm of say Railroad Steel but as ever Baird never falters on the fandango whether on the pristine purr of Damn Thing To Be Done, gooey lament Lazy Monday, or marching civil war malevolence of Crooked Smile and I Know What It’s Like that Baird excels at due to the contrast with the amiable nature more often on display. So perhaps more sedate but no less sanguine. Big jack-booted stompers bound through the barn with little feet chicken-strutting funk that’d twirl Tina into tomorrows that Dan’d eloquoise wistfully on. And anyhoo, the twin guitar twangvirate turf up wiffy nifty riffs that would run rings round Ronnie and Keef if you fancy a Rod footie analogy and topped with choruses like Oh No, There She Goes, Champagne Sparkle and Just Can’t Wait Homemade Sin hail a future full of exhaustless fumes, Baird’s abilities on You wanna compare wisecracks and wistful remarks? The devout will devour the word that he still rages wide-eyed about CCR like back in ’89 on Two For Tuesday and, though the reminisce may be more life-scarred and crease-eyed, making it all the more savourable, far beyond lacing it with affectionately lovely nods and yes winks to ol’ Ronnie Lane on Runnin' Outta Time. It’s no reflection of the artists age that a new Baird record is like sinking into a sofa. Maybe ma marbles are rusting with dust and sentimentality but tis a fine shiny sun that shoots cloudy cares away.
Raise a glass to the second dollop, or helping even! Any lover of sleaze slink, under thirty or just checking in again should fucking rush in like a fool. Nothing better barring a Crybaby’s rejig. www.sleazegrinder.com/CDreviewsMay2008.htm
Stu Gibson

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