Dumb Iron Worker

Good luck finding this album. Ever. The liner notes appear to be handmade at Kinko's at three in the morning. Candy and I bought two copies (one for each of us so we wouldn't fight over it/them) at the show in Tallahassee where we first heard them when they opened for Morphine. We walked into The Cow Haus in the middle of their set. All I could see on the stage were these two white girls, but the sound in the place was like half a dozen people were rocking out. Try as I might, I just couldn't figure out where the other people in the band were. Turns out, it was just the two of them. And it was such that no adjective I can think of can do it justice. Like we were traipsing through their minds, listening to how they've idealized their experience and understanding and interpretation of jukejoint blues like only hardluck, old black men are supposed to play. We've bought their other albums since, but none compare to the blistering 28 minutes of this CD.

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