Great SCOTS!

Sleazy tunes, greasy food, and Southern Culture On The Skids

by John O'Neill

We were late -- and kicking ourselves for not watching the clock more closely. By the time we caromed off the street and into the club, our little group had already spent six straight hours sampling Manhattan night life. Fueled by a high-octane mix of Knickerbocker "bombers," cheap vodka, and White Castle burgers, we were hell-bent on raising a ruckus and catching up with Southern Culture on the Skids. But now, we feared that we might have missed them.

Their 1985 debut album (found in a used-record bin my junior year in college) received steady dorm play, and by this day, some seven years after the album's release, the act had assumed near-mythical proportions in our minds. Hell, we figured that the band had gone belly up years ago. Something akin to a thorazine-addled Johnny Cash fronting a more technically proficient Cramps -- all big, brooding vocals, gnarled guitar, and filthy as sin -- it seemed a foregone conclusion that they had sunk back into the muckhole from which they first emerged. We were assured at the door that, indeed, the band was still playing -- we could hear music through the wall. Loaded and ready for action, we weren't quite prepared for what awaited us indoors.

Bumpkins. Three honest-to-Shawn Eckardt, trailer-park refugees stood on stage. The drummer and guitarist wore bib overalls without shirts, while the bassist looked like a devotee of the Kate Pierson School of Hair Care, with a beehive rising a solid foot above her forehead. Judging from their looks, it wasn't unreasonable to assume that there was probably a Ford up on blocks out in the yard. And the music! The sludge sound and deep vocals that were smeared across the first release had been replaced with a frantic and furiously upbeat tone, as if we'd been listening to the album at the wrong speed the whole time. The trio ripped through tongue-in-cheek numbers laced with sexual innuendo, and the glorification of foolish subjects like biscuits, cars, snack cakes, even toupees. Then the crowd, already worked up to a medium froth, went absolutely bonkers when the guitarist passed out pie tins for people to play. He topped that by lobbing fried chicken into the sweaty multitude. It turned out to be an indelible night, the start of Southern Culture on the Skids (Mach II).

"Oh yeah, that's part of the show now, there's no escaping the chicken in the eight-piece box," chuckles SCOTS guitarist/singer Rick Miller of their show-stopping hospitality. "We tried to get away from doing it, but so many people enjoy it so much that we'd be dumb not to. Our contract reads `no chicken, no show'! We prefer regular recipe. . . . It's softer and more forgiving when you're hit with it."

Since their five-year hibernation/phoenix rising of `92 (the original college-pal lineup faded and SCOTS remained strictly local until Miller picked up base player Mary Huff and her buddy Dave Hartman on drums), the band has released five albums, three EPs, an armful of singles, and has toured the country practically non-stop. In the process, they've built a solid, rabid fan base and a reputation as both a great live act, and a band that bows deeply in reverence to music tradition. Bo Diddley, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Dick Dale, Link Wray (who they paid tribute to with the song "Link's Lung"), the Louvin Brothers, Stax soul, and Memphis R&B all end up in Miller's recipe book for song-building, alongside his love for soul food, B movies, folk lore, Mexican wrestlers, cat fights, and Little Debbie oatmeal pies. It's a good-time hoot that, beneath the goofball-Hee Haw image and skewed humor, belies a skillful outfit rocking as hard as anyone. As the band developed their classic (and instantly likable) mix of roots-versus-humor, tours became bigger, albums got better, and the Skid kids ended up attracting larger label attention. In a move that, at the time, made most right-minded people fall off their stools in disbelief, the SCOTS were signed to then-powerhouse Geffen Records in `96. They released two full-lengths for the label before bailing on their option last year.

"When we got signed it was a very different label than it ended up being. They were coming out of the post-Nirvana-thing and they were very artist friendly," Miller explains. After Geffen went three years without a "big" album from their artist roster, (SCOTS first disc Dirt Track Date sold a respectable 200,000 units), the corporate climate changed and the shit hit the band. Geffen needed a hit, but Miller knew "we weren't the kind of band you're gonna get one from. By the Time Plastic Seat Sweat got released, very little got done as everyone was worried about losing their jobs. We were on the road for a year-and-a-half and [Geffen] supported the album for all of 10 weeks. They were gonna pick up our option but they wanted something commercially viable, and that sounded like too much pressure."

So the band parted with Geffen (who pulled a dodo bird in the wake of the Great Seagram's Industry Meltdown of `99), built a studio outside their home in Chapel Hill, NC, and then recorded the next disc. Nearly finished and slated for release this spring, Miller promises a sound excursion filled with the same swamp rock that made them (almost) famous. Beyond that he isn't sure where the band will end up, other than back on tour.

"I'm not interested in a normal record deal, because we've done the majors and the indies. Profit-sharing is interesting to me, E-Music, digital rights. It's getting more press than it deserves right now because it's not that big yet, but in a few years it probably will be the way to go. There's still an awful lot of opportunity because we have such a loyal, grassroots following out there. It drives us crazy to stay home for too long. It's a job, but it's a great job. Instead of driving 20 minutes to work, we drive four hours!"

Southern Culture On The Skids play upstairs at the Palladium, Thursday, September 16, with the Strangemen. Tickets are $10, which may include complimentary fried chicken.