Hat trick

The Supersuckers get a little bit country

by Carly Carioli

Like hot-rod rallies, Ozzy, double-wide trailers, and the devil, the cowboy hat is an unbeatable signifier for the white-trash American livin' that's always been synonymous with the Supersuckers' vision of rock and roll. But even though they've been known to don cowboy hats while churning out a fast-and-furious take on alcohol-fueled garage punk, and to toke up with Willie Nelson (on 1995's Twisted Willie tribute album), the 'Suckers' recent country excursion, Must've Been High (Sub Pop), was still something of a surprise. Not because they'd attempt such a thing, but because of what they made of it -- Ennio Morricone-style baritone-reverb guitar vistas and winsome harmonica echoes, introspective back-porch acoustic melancholia, and at least one roadhouse stomper of a love song, beating the lonesome, sagebrush-swept dust into a doleful and celebratory slice of Americana.

After three or four years of mainstream radio's strip-mining the sound and credibility of punk, it makes sense that the Supersuckers would want to dig around for some deeper roots. And it's easy to see why the world-weary resignation and spitfire resilience of country music would ring true to a group of grizzled punk rockers. Like Ween, who put together a supporting cast of Nashville sessionmen for their 12 Golden Country Greats (Elektra) last year, the Supersuckers rounded out the cast for Must've Been High with seasoned sidemen -- country upstart and former Waylon Jennings bandmember Jesse Dayton; Dayton's pedal-steel and banjo player, Brian Thomas; multi-instrumentalist Mickey Raphael from Willie Nelson's band; and Dwight Yoakam's fiddler, Brantley Kearns. But unlike Ween, the Supersuckers have a genuine affinity for the music and its sentiments. It may be a holdover from before they moved from Arizona to Seattle, almost a decade ago, but when the 'Suckers are snickering, it's usually at themselves, not at the music.

"I take a look around, and I'm underwhelmed with my big bad self," sang head Supersucker Eddie Spaghetti, easing into the first of two sets last Friday at Mama Kin. In this case he had reason to be -- because of a club scheduling mix-up, nobody knew the 'Suckers would be in effect opening for themselves with an early country set, then following it up later (after a middle set by Dayton and his band) with a rock set. So there were fewer than 20 dedicated cowpokes in the house when the 'Suckers took the stage with Thomas handling lap steel, Eddie switching to rhythm acoustic guitar, and Dayton's Charlie Sanders filling in on bass.

Although the set lacked the honky-tonk-honed polish of Dayton's barrelhouse rockabilly and heartache balladry, the Supersuckers made up for it with rough-hewn determination. "Hangin' Out with Me" reveled in lawless love; "One Cigarette Away" snatched it back out of reach. Their trademark goofy irreverence was always close at hand: a Spinal Tap-ish love song to that scourge of big rock shows, the audience barricade ("You can toss up some cash or you can throw me a spleef/But if you start throwing trash I'm gonna kick out yer teeth/From behind the barricade"); a swipe at some limey 'zine correspondent.

But what resonated most was the conviction they brought to "Roadworn and Weary" and "Dead in the Water" (the latter introduced with self-depreciation, though they've been known to dedicate it to Sub Pop), the plaintive campfire laments that played as the (slightly) darker flipside to the 'Suckers' usual devil-may-care flamboyance. Of course, 10 seconds into their second set with the volume up to 10 and their guitars held up in front of 'em like trophies, any regrets were just a memory.

"We've been to the quarry," Eddie announced gleefully from behind his shades, "and we've mined some new rock." Lest anyone think Must've Been High (and the follow-up EP, a five-song excursion where they traded licks with country papa Steve Earle on a version of his "Angel Is the Devil" and the Stones' "Before They Make Me Run") was something permanent, they burned through a half-dozen three-chord howlers that harked back to 1992's The Smoke of Hell. After apologizing to the 400 or so people who'd missed the early country set, Eddie chuckled, "The kicker is, we'll probably never do it again."