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Fall Line

by Chickasaw Mudd Puppies

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    140g Clear Orange vinyl
    12", 1-LP

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1.
9 Volt 03:50
Tent shack Cadillac, private sessions in the back. Look my eyes they’re fiery coal, leave your money in the bowl… go! Man in the corner kissing serpents, lying on the bible chicken bone. Brother and sister swapping the bottle, praying to Jesus to bring her home. Hold my hand and feel the tremble, lights they flicker to the rain, sister go fuel that generator, daddy’s going cool all your pain. Nine-volt, lightning bolt! Arms outstretched up to the ceiling, sweat pouring out of that microphone. Holy roller congregation, sister no one should be alone. Gaudy belts, heels and sashes, tiger moth to the flame. Speaking in tongues in sonic seizures, megaphone in God’s sweet name! Nine-volt, lightning bolt!
2.
Preacher 03:29
Gallinaceous preacher with a long beard, thumping bibles in the pine plantation. Walking sideways with his hands to the lord, making love to the whole congregation. Love to the whole congregation. Mississippi kite in the rye field, Sheriff’s whipping Gage with a pistol. Boiling pot cane down at the sawmill, Harlon’s on the ole train whistle. Harlon’s on the ole train whistle. Pistol shovel dry bone seems we always had some water. It was early times before its time in Marion County Georgia. Yellow jacket walking a Crawford jug, Tottsie says, “you want a taste”? Plants eating bugs on a slope-side drain, put your money at the four catface, money at the four catface. Canebrake swallowed the rusty nail, fat lightered up the waterfall. I’ll sail through the bottle and sink through the floor until I give myself lockjaw. Give myself lockjaw. Pistol shovel dry bone seems we always had some water. It was early times before its time in Marion County Georgia. Tuscaloosa sandstone the train seemingly gets farther. It was early times before its time in Marion County Georgia. Ants single file down Rabbit Road, sugar water and a twenty-mule team. Took an axe to the box on Backbone Ridge, while the red-tailed hawk did scream, red-tailed hawk did scream. Mama says, “you’ll die in the sandhills cutting whiskers up a lightered stump.” You’re going to grow old in the county jail with your heart pine growing numb, heart pine growing numb. Pistol shovel dry bone seems we always had some water. It was early times before its time in Marion County Georgia. Hear the Norfolk Southern juking down the line. Hear the Norfolk Southern juking down the line.
3.
Roadkill 01:58
Heads in red, skull to skull, boot-strap tendon snap, smell of dried blood. I’ve got a dead tree rotting inside my backyard. From his wooden arms are perching Satan’s guard. Leaving hair on the pavement is his calling card. Blacktop as a griddle likes it cooked but not charred. Hearse back there beside my back door. Wonder what it’s there for? Heads in red, skull to skull, boot-strap tendon snap, smell of dried blood. Sending semaphore, semaphore now Janie, semaphore, semi. Semaphore, semaphore now Janie semaphore, semi.
4.
Hands 02:31
Skipping across the desert like a hot tamale lizard. Screaming like a salamander top of your lungs. Pants are on fire. I’m calling you a liar. Chomping on the ozone and having your fun. Going to burn up bone drought dry. Going to burn up bone drought dry. Someone’s told a lie! Going to burn up bone drought, hands. Hands as a lens, out the window across the field. Hands as a lens, out the window across the field. It ain’t no optical illusion, so draw your own conclusion, that our icy world endings are melting two. Living in a greenhouse, where Burger King is King now. Picture all the children eating soylent green. Going to burn up bone drought dry. Hands. Going to burn up bone drought dry. Hands as a window. Profit do or die! Going to burn up bone drought. Hands! Rain never comes unless it barrels through the thunder. Chop, chop all the trees down never breathing much rain. Horizontal lightning fingers, round and turning circles. Shifting through the sulfur skies and touching its ends. Going to burn up bone drought dry. Hands. Going to burn up bone drought dry. Hand as a window. Ripping holes in the sky! Going to burn up bone drought, hands. Hands as a lens, out the window across the field. Hands as a lens, out the window across the field.
5.
Navigate 02:31
Hitch a hurricane to your rattle snake cage, send it down the rapids make the front page. Civil War cannon at the bottom of the lake, blowing out the dam fish or cut bait. Hook a cyclone to the Bibb City Mill, the devil will be dancing on the fly wheel. The day Ma Rainey stepped into her shoes; sparks started flying assassinator blues. Listen, listen to history. The square root of sin's humiliation, the square root of sin. Running down the ocean back-fire the sea, lady psittacina on Pine Knot Creek. Hound’s mule wagon work the naval store, Leon’s in the bottom lightnings on board. Listen, listen to history. The square root of sin's humiliation, the square root of sin. Piney woods cattle fetch the iron bowl, burning Blackjack to make the charcoal. Hear the Nor-Southern wings on your feet, the fire will be chugging down on Black Creek. Listen, listen to history. The square root of sin's humiliation, the square root of sin. “The theme is the theme of humiliation, which is the square root of sin, as opposed to the freedom from humiliation, and love, which is the square root of wonderful.” Carson McCullers quotes (American Writer, 1917 - 1967)
6.
Flatcar 01:58
I left my wife and my child behind, and now I ride that Family Line. They call me a loser, and I don’t know why, but what the hell is “to ride the blind?” Unemployment, another town, fifty empty beers pays a quarter a pound. Well, I’m a loser so shake my hand, the lord knows I’m a righteous man. When things start working, I’d just as soon quit. Receiving and deserving are slightly different. Salvation Army evangelist shakes her tambourine while I slice my wrist. Well, I’m a loser pant leg for hat, I live way down by the railroad tracks.
7.
Scale 03:29
Measure, balance, scale, man… The measure of the scale it reads, reptile brain appeal. Sketchy drawings and things that make me smile. Measure, balance, scale, man… Oh, the smell of sage ash memories, mason jars, tail feathered rituals. She stares at the antlers, a real draft table monument. The balance of security, reptile brain appeal. Crooked glances, she says, you make me smile. In reference to the scale it needs, reptile brain appeal. Golden sections to feed what makes you sane. Measure, balance, scale, man… Measure, balance, scale, man…
8.
Birdsville 02:26
It’s all in the tone cats on a stroll, alligator Musselwhite and Slim Harpo. Bream for peas, back-fire the stream. Pterodactyl harp sack, fishing in the reeds. It’s all in how you hunt it, got to take the pain, from the Cadillac Club on down to Baker’s Branch. Rope the melody, Steve’s heading south. His gun could tell a story if it only had a mouth. It’s all in how run it, close your eyes and drive by feel. If you slow down, they will catch you with Jesus at the wheel. Chickens go to fighting, failed suicide. Raunchy Mae Williams took my pocket knife. Jumped off the bridge all intention to run, hit the riprap started speaking in tongues. It’s all in the tone cats on a stroll, alligator Musselwhite and Slim Harpo. Bream for peas, back-fire the stream. Pterodactyl harp sack, fishing in the reeds. Careful how you tell it, let fly all the words. Someone jot it down like Willie Faulkner. You don’t eat a buzzard; you don’t eat a crow, birds that go to hopping just might have a soul. Wayne’s growing something that he’s got to keep hid, he’d just as soon kill you as to letting you live. Don started drinking and he’s going too far, he’s going to beat the bubble off trooper Terry’s car. It’s all in how you live it, hot wire your sin, float the Ogeechee pitching crickets in gin. It’s all in the tone cats on a stroll, bream for peas back-fire the stream, alligator Musselwhite and Slim Harpo!
9.
Florida 01:45
Records and dust ropes and paintings, bought at an auction piled so high. Chickens in the yard resting on the antiques, fighting like sailors, telling those lies. Estate sale painting going for five bucks, trade your pant-leg for your hat. Catch of the day is a teeny-weeny catfish, just ain’t nothing new about that. Mr. Shorty! Mr. Shorty! Mr. Shorty! Watching every move that I make, make, make, make. Beggarweed dancing, sliding, and amazing. Me to the center, no rest for the tired. Mouth of the Lord side of the highway, singing and a preaching to the city of cars. Scar-necked sailor said he “wants to kill a black man, kill him for his color, make the razor sing”, scar-necked sailor bleeding on the pavement throat wide open, don’t need another drink, drink! Mr. Shorty! Mr. Shorty! Mr. Shorty! Throat wide open, don’t need another drink, drink!
10.
Prison 04:09
Moan, alright… Moan, alright… She never do me right. She had another man that night. Boy ain’t never felt no thirty-eight bite. Moan, alright… Moan, cute skirt… I never been so low my soul is stretched out on the floor. There ain’t no cold like the cold when the prison door close. Shut’em and go! Moan, alright… Moan, white dirt… I’ve been down so long, got me singing my song, hear me moan. Counting them damn ole days until they let me go home. Go down and see ole St Eom! Moan, alright… Moan, alright… It seems there’s always rain. I can’t escape the pain. Scar around my leg from this ole ball and chain. It’s just a thunderstorm pain! Moan…
11.
Smokestack monkey leave my home alone. Smokestack monkey leave my home alone. Champion trade the trees, cut St. Regis just mile away as the crow flies. Sampson cut down to his knees, Delilah monkey hits too close to home. Fill the skies my people die, eyes of a warrior, eye-eye-eye-eye! Handsome makes the leaves, cut the boys down at the ground, hell fire. Random makes the greed, take your mother’s house, you’re just skipping stones. Greed agreed my people cry, bow saw warrior, another off-site pine. Across the creek to gnaw barbed wire. Across the creek to gnaw barbed wire. Across the creek to gnaw barbed wire, why! Smokestack monkey! Smokestack monkey! Smokestack monkey! Leave my home alone!
12.
Animals 03:37
Neither did her brethren believe in her, buried down at Caney Head Methodist Church. Money to the grave or so they say, people still digging the dirt the clay. Lawyer politician teacher mid-wife, seer fortune teller psychic light. What did you see at the bottom of the well? Mr. John Wallace’s secret hell. I see it like Mahaley Lancaster. I feel it like the animals. Amanda Mayhaley Lancaster. How can you know what to say to me? The devil is waiting for your sympathy. Cry me a river, but don’t you bleed. The nails in your coffin, the ticks in seed. Feather the season souls in clay, forty-three degrees since yesterday. Foot from a chicken coyote fur, run the well water through lavender. Seasoned, seasoned sole coyote. I see it like Mahaley Lancaster. I feel it like the animals. Amanda Mayhaley Lancaster. Million-Dollar midway at the county fair, Tony Joe White on the eight-track player. Candy coated apples the Golden Knights, Gordon’s kicked it into overdrive. How can you know these things to be true? Conjure a picture with railroad shoes. Lay me down my soul to take, seems like it was only yesterday. Seasoned, seasoned sole coyote. I see it like Mahaley Lancaster. I feel it like the animals. Amanda Mayhaley Lancaster.
13.
Little Man 05:03
Blinded man and you shoe the crow fly, for the road I’m on. Minds are broken for our children; salty tear be gone. Fly the kite and you soar the kestrel before the day is done. Blinded man with your careless muzzle, just like a loaded gun. I no longer make that shadow. The wind has hit the sun. We fear the silence from the blackhole just like a loaded gun. Set your sails but don’t you gaze directly in the sun. Stormy eyes and hurricanes surround the lonely one. All your fortune distills the poison, with a hateful hand. Take back the sunrise, you take back the mountains, such a little man. Blind the man and you shoe the horse fly, for the road I’m on. Minds are broken for our children, never to be grown. All your fortune you steal the poison with a hateful hand. Take back the sunrise and take back the powers from such a little man. I no longer make that shadow. The wind has hit the sun. We fear the silence from the blackhole just like a loaded gun. Find a man who can shoe the crow fly for the road I’m on. Minds are aching for our children, show direction home. All your fortune bestill the poison with a helpful hand. Take back the sunrise and take back the powers from such a little man. I no longer make that shadow. The wind has hit the sun. We fear the silence from the blackhole just like a loaded gun.

about

“Georgia's Fall Line is a geologic boundary marking the prehistoric shoreline of the Atlantic Ocean as well as the division between the Piedmont and Coastal Plain regions of the state. Rivers below this line tend to be slower moving, larger, and easier to navigate than those above.

This album was influenced by the stories, people, and sonic images from either end of the Georgia Fall Line. The coast, ancient and otherwise, is where we all grew up. It’s the crossroads. It’s where geology and geography, trade and commerce, history and the keeper of science met to discuss the mechanics of the sun lift and the sunset. Our album Fall Line is intended to navigate you deeper into these stories, people, and images seen through the lenses of The Chickasaw Mudd Puppies.”

Fall Line is available now via Strolling Bones Records.

credits

released April 7, 2023

The Chickasaw Mudd Puppies:
Brant Slay - vocals, harmonica, washboard, stomp board
Ben Reynolds - guitar, bass, keyboards, and vocals
Alan "Lumpy Weed" Cowart - drums and other percussion

Guest players on the “Fall Line” include:
Don Drew - introductions for “9 Volt” and “Birdsville”
Curtis Crowe - drums “Smokestack Monkey” and “Scale”
David Labruyere - bass on “Smokestack Monkey” and “Scale”
William Tonks - lap steel and dobro on “Animals”, “Birdsville”, and “Roadkill”
Tom Baker - banjo on “Animals” and “Preacher”

Also, Cash and Lucy bark the intro to “Navigate” (you are both missed, dear friends)

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Produced by The Chickasaw Mudd Puppies: Brant Slay, Ben Reynolds, Alan Cowart

Recorded by Ben Reynolds at his basement studio in Athens, GA except for intros to “Birdville” and “9-Volt” which were originally part of a project by Ben Reynolds titled Bad Luck Stew. “Smokestack Monkey” and “Scale” were recorded in the 90s by John Keane at John Keane Studios in Athens, GA

Mix and mastered by John Keane at John Keane Studios in Athens, GA

Artwork & Layout: Michael Lachowski

Photographer(s)
Jason Thrasher; Ben Reynolds; Jim Leatherman, Terry Kennedy, and Brant Slay

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Chickasaw Mudd Puppies Athens, Georgia

The Chickasaw Mudd Puppies originally from Athens Georgia made their mark in the late 80’s and early 90’s with two recordings White Dirt and 8 Track Stomp produced by Michael Stipe and Willie Dixon followed by a live London promotional recording. New album “Fall Line” to be released April 7th.

The Chickasaw Mudd Puppies:

Brant Slay (Harp/Vocals) Ben Reynolds (Guitar/Vocals) Alan Cowart (Drums)
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