Due to a last minute cancellation and their disdain for rock music,
Hideaway BBQ gave us a self-absorbed singer-songwriter who, for the purposes of this blog shall remain nameless. When we walked in on the 30 or so lobotomized patrons it was clear that my wife and I were in the wrong place. Her poster seemed harmless enough, a very natural, innocent, downhome cutie that looked the part of potential. What we were hypnotized by for the next hour or so was something very different. This Rounder recording ARTIST with the hideous laugh was the reincarnation of a very young Aunt Bea, a doughting grandmother waiting to happen.
Her songs, reminiscent of Marie Osmond and Debbie Boone, were depressing mountain campfire tunes about killing yourself, trying to get the mule to pull the plow outta the ditch and love gone bad. They violated my soul and my very reason for living. I felt sorry for the dude who accompanied her. She talked about how he was a three time mandolin champion so I know he could have gotten a better gig.
There were good moments in the evening too though, like when she forgot the words to her songs, when she told really bad jokes that no one got (even herself) and when she couldn’t tune her guitar and had to spend some quiet time away from the mic to trade it for another.
This may have been the club for her, maybe singing for the after church crowd, but I think a better place would be that little Opry house in Smithfield, NC or maybe a small room off of the big one in Myrtle Beach or maybe there’s an opening at Dolliewood, who knows. But check her out, you’ll have you a good ‘ol time….
…or go right out and kill yourself.
It was, in the word of someone else unhappy about being there, “Brutal!”