Hillbilly Savant / Blog

Will Not Because of Cannot

life'll change on ya. sho nuff 't'will. that's its game: to uproot before a feets take root, raking fingers across the dried out dirt, pullin' on yuh in any direction it please. sure, you point yaself this way an' thata way, try as ya might to determine what the where the fuck it is you wanna get to but you, dear reader, is at the hapless mercy of a force bigger 'an all. i see youse movin' afoot, that self importance you drag about behind ya hoping the any and all of them with eyes sees you and your god damned plumage, that god gotten self that rules e'ery mirror it can muster to remind yaself that you best hope beauty is skin deep 'cause once they figures you out, youse done. shallow was meant fer wadin' waters and Kardashians, not the depth of a man. done too much out here in the real world tuh grab a face and shake its soul. we found it out. we know'd it now, o' course. we thinks that even as the fact remain fixed there, the ones of us as brothers, we as Fuggas to each other, that takin' up with a other namesake'll be just another path fer us ones. the brothers of Mearle & Harlan & Urly & Ulysses & even some days Ainless won't fall asunder if'n we move along. gigs is a motherfucker for uh Muh Fugga but not so much on a Hillbilly, especially one in the knows. we still be the brothers of before, the songwritteners makin' mama proud with sounds comin' only from a hearts and blood and fingertips o' armour. the music is good to us. it loves us. it tells us e'erytime we pluck a chord er tremble a cord (vox). we love this band of brothers and plans be considerable that the muh fuggas formerly knowed as The Muh Fuggas will be so for always...we's just gots a new flag, that's all. all the sounds don't song the same 'round here. it's what ties us together n binds us tight still. that will not change. that cannot change...will not because of cannot. that's jus' what jesus said using a hell of a lot uh diff'rent words and the like. will not because of cannot. Fuggas ain't dead...they's just sleepin'...lookin' tuh wake up that new mornin' in the people's key. sho as fuck ain't D minor. Nigel don't know shit.

What's Did Is Did....

Been a while...yes'um, been far too long in the tooth tuh do no speakin' on things, 'specially that concernin' Fugga and the ground all advanced like and the such. We's been writing like jack rabbits on viagra (dems boner pills in case youse ain't boner impaired). Cain't help it none. We sits down in a room and this music bits just fall out, no tryin' er nuthin'. Done collected a collective collection of bits and pieces on compack disk and walked away with 30 odd some trackettes where somes is quite odd and others just plain pretty while others be befittin' a metal heavy band er sumthin' of the like. We're setting down gigs and suff'rin' through run downs of songs we knowed a while now, thinkin' we don't needs tuh run 'em down but truth be that theys need run down. As pretty as we are, we ain't no machines and gots tuh hone the bone, keepin' 'em sharp 'n' swingin' so's we don't make fools of ourselves no more. The Muh Fugga Band is up and off in no particular direction but no matter what way, we Fuggas is ready and willin' tuh roll along. That's the joy there is and truth be told, what's did is did...now we work and there's nuthin' like work tuh make a man knowed his salt worth. The Grudge will sing tonight....

Grillers Cum Killers

We done loaded up the vessels, gears and all the fixin's tucked neatly awry, hit them roads tuh north ways and founds our way to a show aimed upon the original minds formulatin' original thoughts concerning the likes of progressions, bridges (if'n ya luckee) and things tuh say. We Fuggas, after a few many more beers and suds, took the stage to shows 'em where we got to since last we showed up. After a metal band in style and name shook the unsuspecting brain stems some, we plugged in the pluggables, left hanging the nons and vocaled the best we's could. From "Erie Lake/Get On Home" tuh "Perry County Line" tuh "On Rudy's Dime" tuh "Like Polishing Iron" tuh "Entangled Blues" tuh "Phil Spector's Spectre" tuh "Mama Earth", we spilled our particulars all forward like and let 'em say what they say. They listened. They clapped hands of sorts. They seemed entertained. We as Fuggas felt mighty nice and took our leave of the stage. We then sits down, with more beers a going, to take in the strains of a vocal guy hell bent on avoiding any key set forth by his bandfriends. They tried to give him a bed fer a melody but he was akin tuh stumblin' over notes (i thinks they was notes) fallin' all around his shoes. They weren't no use tuh flying. But after a few, we growed tired as old men do and set for home, all satisfied that we'd done good fer good sake. Fuggas, try as we might, can find a good and go there best we can. Thank yinze to the lowlies. They let us in. Fer that's we much obliged.

Of Death

this thing here known most to all, and if not, will be known, is perhaps the most overwhelming species of happenstance that a supposed lord god has made for all of us to share in. some believe that only the body dies and that some vapor floats away from it to live a better way than any here any how. some believe that it is man's ego, in its infinite unsettled curiosity and unwillingness to accept that there are possible things that no answers may be had by anyone at all, spouting on and on about how there is this entire other world beyond ours where the dead we loved comes to us once more and that all wrongs will be righted, forgotten and forgiven. nice thought, i'm supposin' but i can't altogether believe that the man that is shaking a book, speaking with such fervor that his face turns a hell fire red, churning human hand written gospel after human hand written gospel with spittle flying, knows more than that of anyone of us here fortunates and moreso the unfortunates. one hopes it isn't the end but no one knows for sure. no one's ever returned to say much different. one thing is for certain, it, this death thing here, can weigh upon a heart so heavy and make the strongest of eyes weep with a sorrow that creates a pain so deep that there is no escape whatsoever. you will die, i will die, it will die. of all the uncertainties of this cruel world, that is the one sure thing to pervade everything you might even be compelled to survey, the one thing for all to know so completely that when it finally rears its head, in those most unsuspecting moments, it is the most sharpest of daggers that cuts the most deepest of wounds. though unseen with an eye, it is there and some refuse to heal. some are always there for always. that is the real forever that this death speaks of. it is the kind for those who suffer it and pay for it and then the kind that is left for those who are left, the pain of knowing such a force in a life has been swiped clean from all presence and made nothing to the space that is before you. never will arms surround that one again or hands touch the warmth radiating outward or be pulled so close to you that it hurts. they are gone. they will all be gone. you will be gone as i will be gone. what then of what's left to us? i can't say but you might want to throw them arms about 'em with the most glad of words from your lips while you can. life is a cruel invention and that is the exact reason why: because the death will make it so and while all other circumstance can sway this way 'n' that, sending whatever it is in a million different trajectories, only one path is instilled through this thing here death and it moves away from it all. so let your mouth speak what it will and be sure thems that are to hear it hear it. do not utter it under some breath of yours but shout it from the mountaintop for you may just never say such things again. actually, you can count on it. life is a cruel invention but not nearly as cruel as death.

The Emptiest Room

lord, the back line was aligned and the strings were tuned and the charts was visible and the gumption were in particular high quantities and the material'd been honed to spec for the most part and the microphones was switched on by the switches and the beers was got and the stage was lit and the lights were hot and the boys was ready, ready to fill a room so vacant with the sounds of pride and the subsequent sounds of failing pride. while the harmonies rang true and the pickin' was pickin' quite right and the tight was tightened real tight and the spaces between the band and the chairs seemed so vast that a universe done flowered beneath the tones reaching the slimest total of ears, only to be brought back unfettered to their own. oh they tried, lord, they tried to be the best Fuggas they coulds, to make Ma Fugga proud to have sprung such talented gents from her loins, that someday all would know what she know'd: that these boys was special. they still are, even if no one can hear it. they still are. while a sadness is there that for at least one of 'em, defeat is not. one does not need to hear them, one does not need to see them, ones does not need to know they are even alive and together but they will know, just by some peripheral glance, that The Muh Fugga Band isn't going to let some miniscule defeat disrupt the machinery's reach. fuck you, emptiest of rooms. we done filled you anyway. not with ass and seats, but with the sounds of songs and the hearts of these.

The Impending Room

the showing of the Muh Fugga wares, to which much and many have spake, is set to become an event of minimal postering and formality. to whit, if the audience were to become that of a campfire with emptied bottles of various sources strewn about in mad fashion all over creation, or all over big-bang-tion depending on your particular school of origin, one would catch glimpses of a life branded with the Fugga namesake upon it. there would most certainly be guitars about and other various musical sundries and the like, all haphazardly abandoned for the next one. but crowning this visual would be the four Fugga brothers, flailing away without hindrance upon those said instruments, making such a genuine sound and along with it the distinct traits found in the textbook definition of a caterwaul. with nothing but trees to defend themselves from and with shadows flickering unabated, the music seeped seemingly from the ground, soothing the livestock a mile down the gravel lane. this is what is hoped to be found on a Friday coming soon here soon. it is my hope you will join the discovering and the figuring of the ever changing ethos whose equation can only equal 4.

So Glad, So Very Glad

as to be expected, when a few of the like/unlike minded gather together with the intent to create, it can go many a way: beauteously, disasterously or absolutely nowhere. when talking with Ulysses recently, he said to me, Muh Blogga, that the direction set about and yearned for is in fact the way a Muh Fugga Band is headed. with the first actual show coming up soon (friday august 12th @ Sonnet's Wadsworth), the fury in which material has been sought seems to be paying off. aside from the few originals to be showcased, a bevy of interesting cover choices have emerged. from the beatles to black sabbath to funkadelic to rocky soundtrack music, the shapes of things appear to be shaping up. regardless of what stature may be bestowed upon the brothers Fugga by future generations, it is of no matter to them. the reason for any season is music. it is where it began and it is where all springs shall be sprung. this sapling has broken through the dirt and it is to the sky that it gazes and it is to the sounds that it feels all feeling and it is there where a legacy can begin to begin.

Listen Up, Muh Fuggas

welcome, friends, to the dregs of mercy left legless and wanting to run so away, so afar... so sour are the bent notes and public televison totes and murders that she wrote and ragged winter coats and the writed words they emotes and the unending battle of cai-yotes and some lengthy sanskrit notes and military like boats and honey clustered oats and biographies of goats and a brand new level of understanding done thumped upon a young one's head, thinkin' it can turnabout a thinker hellbent on making absolute and posi-lute that you are wrong in every case thrown a man's way. we wants you to know that he is wrong for making you wrong when you aren't wrong at all, that's all. now get to gettin' before the man spits his spittin'. leave it be, thusly leave him to me.....i got this. now go. blood can spurt a ways, you know.