This is a rocker’s whiskey. A bottle slides down the gullet and leaves a sweet caramel coating that won’t be there in the morning when you wake up wondering what the fuck happened to you. It’ll come back slowly. You’ll remember how this whiskey had just a touch of peppery bite, and little else. It would make a marvelous breakfast slug, your body won’t rebel, no convulsion in the stomach or throat. Soothing with a coffee chaser. Back to the night before, when you didn’t need a glass or ice. You were on, all night, and it never hit hard. Everyone was digging it, the part that you remember. The music was perfect; the interplay brilliant, everything pulled together as if you’d actually been practicing. Jim Beam Rye, easy going for those who go all night.
Ry Cooder tackles a Steinbeck influenced Woody Guthrie classic, tears it down and makes a masterpiece. The slide is precise yet weeps like an Okie in the rain. Chills.
This album was the inspiration for my ever so creatively titled blog. Also, when Lightnin’ strikes sand turns to glass and before you know it that glass is empty, your thoughts are staggering through the internet, and you have a blog. Better refill that glass to keep on the level.
Welcome to Blues in the Bottle. I stole the title from Lightnin’ Hopkins. This is the first post on a page will soon be littered with mental refuse and, hopefully, the more presentable excerpts of my internal monologue. As the title suggests, this post will be partially consumed by thoughts on music and whiskey. It will also harbor my creative output, whatever form, literary or attempts thereat. You may also expect other randoms thoughts and outbursts, as well as posts of tunes and stuff I think is cool. If you’ve read this, you are my audience, and as thus you are people whose input will be graciously accepted–or possibly disregarded outright. I hope to make something of this, and hopefully you’ll tag along for the ride.