Another unmistakable root is the coarse, strained one that quickly form
s a knot between my shoulder blades when I pass country rock stations during those rare occasions that I take a chance touring the radio waves. All right, all right. I admit that my aversion to country music is a biased, unfair opinion based on the stereotypes I eagerly attempt to break down everyday. So call me a hypocrite. True, not all contemporary country stars are well-dressed, pretty-boys who bemoan loss and luckless lives with flawless, toothy grins and, holding up an American apple pie as their one and only hope, wait patiently for a sweet check in the mail.
I can hear Poke wailing a different tune. They still have my attention twenty minutes into the set and my focus on them only grows. A gruff force and hard hitting beats, plenty of them, rip a more rebellious note than I have heard most contemporary country artists risk. This is the edge of old time rock stemming from backwoods, two-teeth, six-string jammers on a dilapidated family cabin porch at suppertime. Lead guitarist Bobby “Speedy” Gray (who handed out plenty of colorful wooden noisemakers after their sound check) even poses his guitar to his hip like a shotgun to prove his melodic point early on, and then draws it low and loose a few songs later like Buddy Holly would.
As they combine a warped chord sequence to rival Fugazi, a hammering tempo as scathing as The Pogues and throaty vocals echoing Ian Curtis of Joy Division, Poke has an attitude more punk rock than country western. Mixing that defiance with Dustin Sandmeyer’s playful shuffle on Doghouse Bass, a highly energized drum sequence fr
om Jason Kappel and hearty portions of hootin’ and hollerin’ helps temper my rockabilly frustrations.
Just seeing foundations of rock and roll from a country band instead of whiney pseudo-rock stars pretending to play with passion while only fighting for fashion gives me hope.
While Poke offers one last tune with Speedy Gray again surprising me by needling a shrieking melody over his head with his ax up on his back, I am certain a few metal heroes would be proud to call him “son”. And before exiting the stage for Slim Cessna’s Auto Club, Poke shouts out for the third time to adoring fans gathered below, “What’s that, country?” This welcomes another eager response of, “Fuck yeah, it’s country!” And with that, the rowdy-riffs from this country band give my spur-soured head something new to chew on. At least someone has some thick, juicy chords on their hands.
It may be time to give contemporary country music another chance.
