We caught up with the world’s greatest living honky-tonk hero born this side of 1960 to find out how he came to record the album in Johnny Cash’s old log cabin, to humor him with his whole “Ameripolitan” crusade and, last but not least, to ruin his day.įirst off, just so people know - are you really back in Austin for good, or are you just commuting back and forth from Baltimore a couple times a week? The title of his latest album says it all: From the Cradle to the Grave. will be the day they put a wreath upon his door and carry him away in a box. The fact is, the day Watson stops doing what he does best - C.O.U.N.T.R.Y. Sure enough, some six months later, he was back in Texas, reunited with his band the Lone Stars and cranking out the best honky-tonk in town at the Continental Club and all of his other old haunts (and on the road again, to boot). Just like we never really believed Watson was truly good and done with making music when he up and left Austin a year ago and moved to Baltimore to take a 9-to-5 job and be with his kids. And we never will, no matter how hard he pushes the gospel of “Ameripolitan,” the new term he’s come up with to describe his music and to distance himself once and for all from the sacrilege of what passes for mainstream “country” these days. country music? Yeah, we don’t really buy it either. Honestly - Dale Watson D.I.V.O.R.C.I.N.G. Turn out the lights, Willie, because the party’s over. That sad sack at the bar is country music, a victim of its own cheating heart, and Watson’s the one that got away without leaving so much as a Dear John letter. Think of every classic country song you’ve ever heard where the narrator is staring down the bottle of a long neck, mixing tears and beer while singing about the lover that’s done left for good. In fact, read it out loud, just so it really sinks in: Dale Watson does not play country music. We know this for a fact because Dale Watson no longer plays country music. Because that’s all you get to listen to Hell, and right now, Hell’s freezing over. Somewhere in the nether regions of Hades, there’s a Burlington Coat Factory selling parkas, earmuffs and mittens like hotcakes while Rascal Flatts’ limp noodle cover of “Hotel California” from the Grammy Awards plays on a continual loop over the store P.A.
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