At the dawn of the decade, a trio of minstrels from the West staked a claim to territory pioneered by the likes of the Velvet Underground, the Jesus & Mary Chain, and the Brian Jonestown Massacre. Some called this territory Shoegazer, some called it Trance, some called it Drone & Groan, but BRMC just called it rock. And it was good. The leader--Peter Hayes--took his inspiration from Lou Reed and Robert Smith, but he downplayed their theatrics, and he held court and orchestrated machinations with his wailing electric guitar, his magnetic charm, and menacing growl; while the propulsive rhythm section of Robert Levon Been and Nick Jago worked the land something fierce.
Well, one day, Mr. Jago grew tired of working the land out West, for it produced so little crop, and he moved onwards. With their driver gone, the remaining two minstrels decided to hoof it, to take to the road on foot, to light out for the fabled land of Americana, unplugging and selling their amps for roots-rock credibility. They hiked through the South, from Mississippi up to the Appalachian Trail. Half the onlookers would cheer them on their travels and laud them for their work, while others would bemoan them for trying to stake a claim to a sonic landscape that wasn't theirs, for traveling a road without paying the toll. The two BRMC players told the folks that Bruce and John and Robbie told them of this land, but the locals wouldn't listen, 'cause them aformentioned fellas weren't from the South or the hills no way. The BRMC players then told them that Bruce and John and Robbie heard tell from Hank and Johnny and Jimmie and Woody that this land was made for whoever worked it honestly.
The folks mumbled to themselves and then asked Peter and Robert to show them what they knew. The two travelers sat down, and a local named Mr. Burnett stepped over to help them set up, and the two travelers played everyone a song about a prison convict, and whilst they were playing, the locals grumbled 'bout "How he know? He ain't ever been there, and even if he had, don't sound like it from that song, not the words, mind you. Now, the music's pretty nice, all sad and lonely, but...." And then they all stopped their mumbles and grumbles, for Peter let howl the most forelorn yodel they'd heard since...well, maybe since Jimmie was in town, and he done been dead a coon's age now. That yodel--full of regret and full of beauty, full of guilt and sorrow, and full of rapture. "Sound like a dead man walking down an empty stretch of Nebraska flatland," one onlooker said, and another responded, "You know, even if he ain't never been to prison, and he ain't no true Southerner, and even if he don't really know the Gospel, it sure 'nuff sound like he do," and someone else--from the back--added, "Sounds like his souls just a witherin' away, and we hearin' the last bit of it 'for it's gone," and one last person chimed in, "Sounds like he's a person, plain and simple."
With that, the duo rose, gathered their guitars, and started walking again. "Wait...come back and sit a spell," someone shouted.
"Don't believe we can," Peter said, "we're feeling a might' homesick, and we think we need to head back from whence we came. Thank you, though...we enjoyed our stay."
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