Cleaning Out the Clutter

Random thoughts collected while pondering whether I'd be a sharp-dressed hit man, or a practical one who wore coveralls:

Is the departure of Jason Isbell the end of Drive-By Truckers as we know (and love) them? I hadn't been checking the Truckers' Web site regularly, so this news surprised me when I read it in the latest issue of No Depression. Sure enough, though, a statement was posted by the Truckers on April 6. In it, Patterson Hood said that he considered the split "extremely amicable" and that it was the "result of a period of personal and artistic growth from all sides which has left us with differing dreams and goals." There is at least one silver lining in this break-up: Isbell's long-awaited solo album, "Sirens of the Ditch," will finally see the light of day via New West on July 10. How will it affect the Truckers? It's hard to tell. HickoryWind's own Stacy Chandler and I have talked more than once about how Isbell was the band's secret weapon since joining in 2001. He's a great singer, guitarist and songwriter. He wrote three of my favorite Truckers songs -- "Outfit," "The Day John Henry Died" and "Easy on Yourself" -- and was on board for their three best albums: "Decoration Day," "The Dirty South" and "A Blessing and a Curse." They'll be changed, sure. That's obvious. But they were a kick-ass rock band before Isbell, and that's likely to continue. Best-case scenario would be something along the lines of Uncle Tupelo splitting into Son Volt and Wilco: A great band is gone. Long live two more great bands.

Is alt-country about to take off the way alt-rock did in the '90s? No Depression would like us to think so. By putting former "Nashville Star" contestant Miranda Lambert on the latest cover, they seem to be sending a signal that they believe mainstream country is getting better. They might be right. ND unquestionably has a history of good taste. Perhaps country radio is ready for good country music again. If it gets to that point, enjoy it while it lasts. Nirvana started out as a fringe band in flannel. Then they were cool. Then they were on MTV. Then they were everywhere. Then labels started signing every band that had so much as bought guitar strings in Seattle. Then radio was littered with lousy grunge bands. Now, Nirvana is a corporation, repackaging the late Kurt Cobain's outtakes and demos faster than he could scrawl "Corporate Magazines Suck" in marker on his T-shirt. Seeing semi-obscure bands get much-deserved wider recognition would be cool, but it would be only a matter of time before we were longing for the good old days.

Is this the year that Tim Easton gets the recognition he deserves? Speaking of the semi-obscure, I've been touting Easton's songwriting talents since I joined up with the HickoryWind gang almost two years ago, and I'm not about to stop now. Even if your singer-songwriter dollars are limited, do yourself a favor and throw a little bit of ching Easton's way. I'd recommend starting with his song "Baltimore," which is only available on emusic.com, and follow that up with any other song he's written. An electric version of "Baltimore" that the wife and I witnessed one night in Nashville has grown to legendary proportions around our house. I have first-hand knowledge of two new converts to the Easton camp in the past year, but there's plenty of room still left on this bandwagon. The campaign will continue.

Will this be the year I break down and buy an iPod? It's unlikely, but not impossible. I'm guessing that my first iCult experience will be with a hand-me-down player. It will go down something like this: My dear wife Sharon will see a new, smaller, sleeker iPod with even more memory, will go into a zombie-like trance, and utter something along the lines of "Shiny! Shiny!" She'll plunk down the cash for a new player, and turn the old one over to me for free. And I'd definitely take one for free, but get that damn Kool-Aid away from me.

I'm planning on seeing George Thorogood in August for the first time since about 1991. Will it rock, or will I be disappointed? It could go either way. I've often thought that if you've seen Thorogood circa 1987, then you've probably seen his show circa 2007. I stopped buying the albums after 1991's "Boogie People," because the songs seemed to be more of the same of what I'd already heard before. On the other hand, I've never had a bad time at a Thorogood show.

Some suggested themes for Season Two of Bob Dylan's "Theme Time Radio Hour": The Cover of the Rolling Stones, Famous People, Hell or High Water, Brothers, The Bo Diddley Beat, More Cowbell, Television, New Dylans.

Is it too early to start thinking about my top 10 albums of 2007? Yes. Yes it is.

So which five albums would I have with me on that proverbial desert island? Stevie Ray Vaughan's "Texas Flood," Dylan's "Blonde on Blonde," Easton's "Special 20," The Band's "The Band" and Guy Clark's "Old No. 1." Subject to change � by the time I reach the end of this sentence.

Is the banjo now cool? How can you tell if the stage is level at a bluegrass show? The banjo player is drooling out of both sides of his mouth. The banjo has long been associated with that kind of humor (and that weird hillbilly from "Deliverance"). Of course, there have been many, many gifted banjo players over the years, such as Earl Scruggs and Bela Fleck. Now, though, you don't even have to trot out the names of the heavy hitters to defend the honor of the twangy five-string. The super-cool kids like Sufjan Stevens and Sam Beam of Iron & Wine are giving the banjo street cred in even the snobbiest of indie-rock circles. I've got no beef with the instrument, but that won't stop me from repeating tasteless banjo jokes, if only to make me feel better about myself. Like this one, which I heard Tim O'Brien tell at MerleFest a few years back: What's worse than two banjos? Nothing.

I think those indie folks are on to something, though. Maybe I should get myself a banjo. In a year or two, all the best-dressed hit men will be toting them, too.

(Thanks to Karen Willenbrecht for putting the hit-man question in my head in the first place).