Gary Fisketjon
What can I say? Robert Earl Keen played my wedding party last Christmas time—on CD, alas—and inaugurated the prancing with “Gringo Honeymoon,” in which the newlyweds cross over the Rio Grande and encounter a cowboy “running from the DEA.”
What can I say? Robert Earl Keen played my wedding party last Christmas time—on CD, alas—and inaugurated the prancing with “Gringo Honeymoon,” in which the newlyweds cross over the Rio Grande and encounter a cowboy “running from the DEA.”
Once you’ve listened to Lucinda Williams a few hundred times, she begins to seem like the older sister (or girlfriend) you always wanted—tough, traveled, knowing about unknowable things, out there.
Charles Frazier can neither be praised nor blamed for having his revelatory first novel, Cold Mountain, released into what can rightly be called a crisis in book publishing.
No matter that R.L. won’t turn 70 until this Thanksgiving, only that he’d slashed-and-droned out his own high style before Elvis amounted to a fart in a gale of wind.
