Spiritually, III is truly his father's son and his grandfather's, uh, grandson. He's a genuine hellraiser, III is: he began his musical career playing drums in a punk band, he sports body-encompassing tattoos, he curses up a storm, he spews liquor, and he curses the establishment whose musical foundation he so often emulates, and he still plays punk music--live. Consequently, III has to this day yet to hit it big, and it's unlikely he will ever find mainstream success. Heck, I don't think he wants it.
He's country music's Johnny Rotten (except that Rotten's music and notoriety garned him acclaim and money, neither of which III has yet to accomplish), and he writes and sings some of the greatest tear-in-my-beer country songs of the past, well, of the past. Of the now, too. "Angel of Sin" is one of those songs of loneliness, of depression, but it's not a depressing record. Nope, the steel guitar and the echo and the feedback are too hauntingly gorgeous to sink this song. The record is sobering though, looking at love sans rose-colored glasses, viewing a relationship from the perspective of one who has come to a point of truth, seeing his life and love honestly, knowing that whatever he does to improve his behavior, his ladyfair just won't respond in kind, won't be loyal, won't be faithful, won't ever be truly his, no matter how much he drinks, no matter how much he remembers the good times, and for someone to come to that point of realization and actualization, well, that can be an epiphany that shatters the soul, but one that's necessary for one to move forward no matter how long it takes to get up off the barstool and take that first step, and if you have ever had a similar experience (as I have, years ago), then sometimes, the only thing that can help you get over the fact that she won't be there for you is by talking to others who've had similar experiences, and if 'fessing up, airing yor laundry to others is too much, then you can just turn on the local country music radio station to find a song about true heartbreak, and after listening for a couple/three hours and you realize that they really don't write 'em like that anymore, you can turn to ol' Hank (actually, that would be young Hank, but don't call him that), and he'll lend you an ear if you'll buy him a round or two and promise not to ask him if he meant to deliberately steal the opening guitar-lick and chord progressions from David Allen Coe's "You Never Even Call Me by My Name."
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