Many years ago, there was a cave guy and a cave girl living happily ever after as often as they could, what with Woolly Mammoths and the like trying to kill them all the time. Then, once upon that time, another cave couple found a cave nearby. One evening, around
a Saturday night campfire, these cave folks accidentally invented music. They may have even been drinking some old rotting fruit juices that had heretofore unknown magical properties. One thing led to some other things, things got mixed up and the first heartbreaks of Planet Earth ensued.The problems haven't changed, it's just the music that has gotten different and the rotting fruit juices have given way to fermented grains. Rex Hobart & the Misery Boys are the current soundtrack to the age old conundrum -- they provide a connection to the prehistoric and help all of us understand that, while we can put people in space, splice the atom, make Jessica and Ashlee Simpson sing on key, and make Reality TV seem clever, we are not a damn sight closer to figuring out the spastic whims of our hearts.Let’s face it, Rex Hobart and the Misery Boys are too good for their own good, too out of step to get in step, and too country to be country.As a lyricist, Rex Hobart has proven to be well schooled by the masters: Paycheck, Silverstein, Haggard and Kristofferson. Supporting Rex’s tales are the Misery Boys, a band tighter than George Jones during a riding mower getaway chase. Lead guitar player J.B. Morris bends the strings of his Telecaster as adeptly as any Nashville session player, but with the lived-in pathos of a man thrice his age; pedal steel and Dobro wunderkind Solomon Hofer alternately makes the guitar gently weep on the ballads or fuel-injects the rig on the honky-tonk rockers, and drummer T.C. Dobbs and bassist Blackjack Snow drive it all home like they just got sprung from jail.
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