Pitchfork - Sounds Like Chicken

Pitchfork
Sounds Like Chicken

Sub: Swingin’ country band has problems with various farmers’ daughters.

When I first popped in “Sounds Like Chicken,” I thought I’d discovered Missouri’s answer to Riders In The Sky – the charming western swing band you may have heard singing “Woody’s Roundup” and other tunes on the Toy Story 2 soundtrack.

But on closer listen, my impression was proved wrong. Pitchfork is a lewd, hell-bound bunch, more like the buzzed uncle who tells the young ‘uns slightly dirty jokes at the family reunion. See, the Pitchfork fellas reside out in the country somewheres; it’s hot ‘n dusty, and the ladies look real invitin’ but they’re sure to lead to ruin. It seems the boys have experienced their share of woman-fueled misfortune, and they’re here to tell you ‘bout it . . . in song. The first words uttered on the disc are: “Baby, I swear I don’t know who she was!”

“Sounds Like Chicken” leads off with “I’m Gonna Love You ‘Til the Wheels Come Off.” I don’t know if this phrase implies longevity and dedication or vigor (perhaps all three), but I’d like to hear it propagated throughout the American lexicon. (Imagine it replacing “We’ll always have Paris” or “You had me at ‘hello’.”) From the “…Wheels Come Off” assertion we move to “Sweaty Betty,” who we learn “was born in the back of truck – took to men like water to a duck.” This Sweaty Betty, you can imagine, leads to plenty of trouble for singer Mike “Skeeter” Heeter (who also plays washboard by the way). Skeeter winds up “running for my life on a Saturday night.”

“Sounds Like Chicken” is packed with redneck vernacular. “Holler” appears twice -- in reference to geography, not yelling. And “trailer park” is rhymed with “fark,” the utensil. But all of it somehow refers back to the womenfolk and how easy it is to get into trouble out in the country. There’s even a song here whose title – though devoid of foul language -- I can’t mention. People who think the Britneys and Nellys are too risqué should take note of boys like Pitchfork, who sing (a lot) about “Sneakin’ off to do the do ‘cause we got nothin’ else to do.” This is the music parents need to worry about . . . particularly if it accompanies a float trip, camping or other activity that might feature cut-off jean shorts.

As a music fan and reviewer, I’m usually focused on sounds first and words second, and rarely does anything country-flavored keep me engaged. That’s just me. But the tales on “Sounds Like Chicken,” which is expertly played and recorded, keep me chuckling from beginning to end and bring me back for repeated listens. If forced to give it a score, I’d give it a Styrofoam cooler, two packs of Marlboro reds and a case of Busch.