Holly Golightly - Dirt Don't Hurt [Transdreamer 2008]

Not too long ago I sat next to Holly Golightly in a dark Denver bar, taking note of her knotty black hair and dry, bright red lips before drinking in her British accent and connecting all the dots. Her performance was delightful, and I left the show believing in (and crushing on) Golightly as a purveyor of the garage/blues/country reworkings that keep young men growing beards and the lot of us sneaking whiskey flasks to dim haunts. Her newest album, Dirt Don't Hurt does not nullify my adoration for Golightly as a coy songstress, but I do feel she may have been lead off the good ol' dusty trail...towards the tempting revival of circus-infused kitschy craftshow country hipsteria. Sliding away from musician and towards performer, or maybe showing true campy feathers, on Dirt Don't Hurt Golightly is working alongside the Brokeoffs, and nearly every song is a duet or has dueling vocals. The story behind the recording is a bit interesting: the Brokeoffs and Golightly crammed a five day recording excursion into their 50-gig tour, finding themselves in an analog studio named Circo Perotti in Gijon, Spain where they played with vintage microphones and other baubles.They've now toured together for two years, and this album marks their third collaborative effort. The Brokeoffs, from Texas, claim (on their website) to have formed in order to "git them ghosts to shut the fuck up" and are steeped in backwoods mysticism.

Much of this kettle corn album is reminiscent of all the "wild west" seen on Southwestern highways and the successful pairings of say Nancy Sinatra with Lee Hazlewood, or the recent (overlooked) Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan treasure chest. On songs like "Slow Road" Golightly seems to acknowledge the kitsch: squeaky clean production contradicts carnival-esque clanking, and she says "I learn to live with what I find in my company..." Could she be jabbing her co-conspirators the Brokeoffs for this bland album? For me, the song draws an image of Golightly hanging around Billy Childish, the Delmonas, the Headcoat-Headcoatees family, linking arms and refusing to step too far outside of the garage...or maybe in this case, spending too many hours at one of those souvenir western photo studios, sighing through the set list.

But the album is not exactly a fizzled out recycled heap. "My .45" is a honky-tonk battle ballad, and the vocals make you feel like you are watching the band leaning into and away from each other in perfect measure, ruffling up the crowd in a juke joint somewhere near Greenville, MS or anyplace where coleslaw is served in the barbecue sandwich, not on the side. "Cluck Old Hen" is another playful song, fingering traditional American story-songs into a possibly feminist, definitely sassy little diddy. Another highlight includes "Gettin High For Jesus", lending tacky sacrilege with a smoking harmonica.

Ultimately overflowing with twang and smoke, this is an album that induces visions of the South and Southwest. If slumping with a beer in a claw-foot tub, playing antique spoons and stomp boxes or Blondie's "One Way or Another" in fringe and spurs gets your goat- you might want to grasp this campy record for a go-round or two (three at most).

Talitha Cum