"Small Town Burning" has all the right rough edges

Let's face it, there are thousands and thousands of indie acts out there. They all have a CD or three to sell from the stage, and while they might deliver a decent show live, the recording never seems to measure up. This is not the case with "Small Town Burning", which will be officially released October 28 at Sweet Fanny's Pub in Sioux City, Iowa.

Ever hear the expression "Saturday night in Sioux City?" Well, here we go!

I found Mat d. and the Profane Saints while surfing the web, at a little hole-in-the-wall website where folks can post their tunes. With network radio firmly in the pocket of organized crime, music associations forming exclusive cliques as fast as they can get organized, and public radio long lost to lite jazz and classical, in my opinion the internet has become the last refuge of real music. If you avoid MySpace, YouTube, and other free networking sites just because they are free (or because they are owned by corporate drones with massive egos and tiny genitalia), you have only yourself to blame. You are, in effect, waiting to be spoon-fed rather than going out and grazing for yourself. Where's the fun in that? Let me hop down off this soapbox and get to work.

"Small Town Burning" is a quirky trip to the wrong side of town, a low-budget powerhouse cobbled together with spit, baling wire, and a few missed truck payments. There is no title track on the disc, but any one of five or six strong offerings on it could do the job. I'm going to walk through it cut by cut, because each one has a unique story to tell. Here's the door � watch your step now, and stop for a second just inside to let your eyes adjust to the dark. Man, does this place smell funky!

Our visit starts out with a scratchy, needle-popping intro into "Rambling Mary Jane Walker", a tune filled with odd characters and double entendre that, according to Mat, was inspired by a Mary Jane candy wrapper. There's a primitive stream of consciousness thing going on here � hillbilly haiku, broken people who limp on despite the damage. You laugh out loud one second, shake your head the next, with a beat that will get you up dancing.

From this we jump right into "Swivel Town", a hoppin' lick again populated with sweaty, gyrating tough nuts from across the tracks. The brief images really stick here, and create some very strong impressions. You'll swear you've been in this place before, and you probably have if you're tough enough.

I'd like to comment at this point that these tracks are by no means polished � and they couldn't care less. They stand on their own, with all the right rough edges, and kick butt like sailors on nickel beer night.

That said, we move on to "Carolina Home Wrecker's Blues". This song knocked my socks off, because it reminded me of a brawl around the abandoned gas pumps at the Silver Dollar Saloon in Apex, North Carolina one night long ago and far away. A great, gritty anthem, with emotion in it as real as a bullet hole.

One of my personal favorite verses on the whole project comes up next, in "My Soul to Blame":

"Well I had me a woman � the cold bitch was evil
Wore her hair like some pin-up girl straight outta Hell
We drove around in her Caddy, she called me her daddy
And we did things in private that I'll never tell"

Those of you who know me must realize that this is a departure. I'm pretty straight laced, and don't generally hold with strong language in a song. That's because obscenity is usually a cheap trick, but in this case it rang true. Call me fickle, but "My Soul to Blame" held together from first note to last, not a hint of insincerity.

No sojourn in the rough-stubbled civic underbelly would be complete without stopping by the mission for a free meal. "You Shall Be Free" came out of the corner swinging, a soulful gospel tune, but just what sorta gospel are we talking about here? It was only a brief stop, just long enough to get some soup and a few slices of stale white bread, and then we're headed back down the street to another strange tale.

"Drinking Gin and Sipping Tea" is an irreverent tribute to Cisco Houston and Woody Guthrie through the eyes of their sailor pal Jim Longhi, possibly one of the strongest and least sappy I've heard. Cisco and Woody and Jim were all hard cases, and they deserve a hard tune or two to remind us that the folks who now profess to carry on their legacy would not, for the most part, have made it through a single afternoon with them. They were fighters to a man, and this song trots that right out.

Thirsty? Horny? Here's your sign. "Bikini Bull Riding" is a hot and slippery slice of Americana apple pie, especially for those of us who have lived and worked near Las Vegas. There's something about coming in from a hard nasty job and having the chance to party with some hard nasty women�a little sadness, too, because there's nothing real about it. At the same time it is as real as it gets, as real as you can expect to find. So you swallow your pride, dig into your wallet, and raise a little Cain before crawling back down the hole.

New Orleans ain't dead yet, but "Sweet Louise" would be a decent dirge if it ever went under for good. "From the rusty shores of Freedom, to the graveyards down below, I heard the city of New Orleans died a long, long time ago." There are lots of things not being said in polite company about the aftermath of Katrina, but then you're not in polite company right now, are ya?

"Full Gospel Motel" delivers a street-weary stab at intimacy in a tumbledown old religious retreat fallen onto hard times. Ten dollars will rent some clean sheets for an hour.

"They got beer at the counter, and ashtrays with pictures of martyrs
Every cheap cigarette and knickknack that money can buy"

This comes as close to a love song as it gets on this disc. Take it or leave it, I'll spring for the room. Wanna beer? Ahh, romance.

The disc closes with "Sideshow", so we're leaving just as the party gets started. This is one wild ride, with some unprintable lyrics and smoking guitar held together by sheer willpower. Did he just say "chicks with dicks"?? Nah, couldn't be�

So there it is, "Small Town Burning", my own personal pick for the raunchiest, most honest, bright and sincere new indie Americana disc I've heard this year. I think it puts anything coming over the airwaves to shame. It could never get past those reptilian stuffed shirts in the boardroom to get on the air. That's okay. I wouldn't want those weenies in my bar, and I certainly don't want them anywhere near my music.