And I think it loses a lot of honesty too,” he says. “I think when you start trying to make it fit a certain thing, it’s gonna lose all its balls and all its potency. Middle America is too busy trying to pay their damn bills.”Ĭannon’s blasé attitude toward such thorny questions aside, there’s no denying his commitment to honesty, something which he believes is key to the band’s success.
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That’s how most damn Americans are anyway, not these idiots you see on TV all the time. You put your boots on, you go to work, you come home. Our audience is just regular-ass people like us, shit. “All that damn getting offended about everything, that’s just bullshit anyway. You write what you see, you know,” he continues, softening just slightly. “We try not to get too political or anything, but I like to write about the hard-working man. I ain’t worried about any political correctness or hurting somebody’s fucking feelings. “I don’t give a damn about anybody’s opinion about me. “I just do my own thing and if people don’t like it they can kiss my ass,” says Cannon bluntly when asked about the politics of his music. The tune has echoes of Skynyrd’s oft-misunderstood “Sweet Home Alabama,” but with even more jagged edges. “And I know all the words to ‘Simple Man’/ I guess that’s something you don’t understand.” “I still fly that Southern flag/ whistling Dixieland enough to brag,” sings Cobb brashly on the track. Much of their early success was built on 2011’s “Ballad of a Southern Man,” a tune that seems to balance Chris Knight and James McMurtry literary impulses with an anti-PC reclamation of Southern pride that makes no bones about its love of guns, God and, most disturbingly, that damn flag. Like Jennings and unlike many of the other more progressive-leaning acts that Cobb has worked with, it’s difficult to deny that there’s a certain brand of cantankerous blue-collar conservatism that runs through the group as well. “But we’re very lucky to be able to do what we do.” “It’s catching lightning in the bottle, how something that’s not commercial becomes commercial all of a sudden,” Cannon notes. For now, though, they are just happy selling out gradually bigger clubs as they continue their road warrior ways. There has to be some hope in Whiskey Myers, given the success Cobb has had, particularly with acts like Stapleton, that a higher commercial echelon is waiting for them.
Maybe subconsciously you take things from your influences and stuff, but that’s just how we sound.” “I don’t think we were thinking about any of that really we were just playing music and it sounded that way,” he demurs. It just kinda happened, you know?”Īlthough the group came up in the Red Dirt scene of Texas, rife with Americana and alt-country-leaning talents, Cannon also doesn’t like to draw much of a distinction between that tradition and the earlier Southern rock and outlaw country lineage that his songs seem a bit more steeped in. “We’ve pretty much known each other our whole lives. “A lot of us are kin and just grew up playing ball and stuff,” he shrugs. He’s fairly casual about how he and fellow guitarists Cody Tate and John Jeffers began building the rock workhorse that became Whiskey Myers. He comes across as an unassuming fellow, steeped in a live-and-let-live ethos that enthuses the band’s music and is endemic to a certain brand of Southern blue-collar identity. “It’s pronounced Pal-est-TEEN,” drawls Cody Cannon, frontman and primary songwriter for the band, as he gently corrects the pronunciation of the group’s hometown. Coming out of a small town in Texas with the kind of ferocious guitar sprawl and rebellious twang of obvious forbearers like the Allman Brothers and especially Lynyrd Skynyrd, the band was built for honky-tonk beer swilling and redneck fist-pumping in the best “damn-the-torpedoes” fashion. There’s something gorgeously righteous about the heavy and unabashed Southern rock that Whiskey Myers throws down.
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