Lawrence.com

(intro) Rock-n-Americana-roll RIYL Uncle Tupelo, Mule, The Byrds, etc. a la four strapping dudes outta Man-freakin-hattan. (Act I) ...Fade in on a small farm pond outside Narysville, Kansas. Four bloodshotsets of eyes are fixed on the lines of four sets of poles. The boys aren't having much luck. The early morning bravado has faded and they have settled into the quiet calm of the skunked fisherman. The pond bank is littered with gas station sandwich wrappers and crushed High Life cans.Boomer breaks the silence with an emphatic, "This is horseshit!", and boys pack up and head for home. The black Chevy van purrs along HWY 99, taking our heroes back to Manhattan and the friendly confines of auntie Mae's Parlor. They settle into stools at the bar and proceed to tell the bartender all about the ones that got away. George Jones is singing about Tennessee Whiskey through the jukebox in the corner as a handful of afternoon drinkers silently look for answers in pint glasses. The boys knock back a couple and part ways for a couple hours. They'll be back later, however, to entertain a small but enthusiastic crowd at the bar.Bro, singer and rhythm guitar, walks to his house and falls in and out of sleep on the couch. His thoughts trail back through too many hangovers and unpaid bills. He remembers his first guitar and sitting on a porch in south St. Louis trading songs and passing a bottle of Old Charter.Johnny, lead guitar, goes home to the family for a little quality time before the show. Watching his daughter run around the living room, he is reminded of his own youth spent playing in countless local rock bands in and around Manhattan. His eyes still light up when he talks about it.Boomer, bass and hired gun, spends some time with his cat and his spiders.His hands show the years of industrial kitchens and heavy metal. He lays down the fourth of nine bass tracks for one of his solo projects on his home studio, pulls a tube, and tries to find a clean black shirt for the show.Spiker, drummer, puts the finishing touches on a new tune for his one-man project, Jonathan, listens to some import Specials 7 inches, and relaxes.The boys meet up as the regulars start filling the barstools. They engage in some idle chatter with friends as the opening act gets set up. Fellow townies, Mankato, will play a set of thier revved-up folk rock to wet the crowd's appetite. As the frontman rips through a Carter Family cover, the boys prepare for the show, belly-up to the bar with empty shot glasses tumbling in all directions. One last ovation and Mankato is done.Fifteen minutes later, Bro gives the crowd a "Good Morning" and they're off. This is a bar band: formed in bars, friends in bars, and found in bars. The songs are, essentially, three chord honky-tonk played as loud as the bar will allow. Johnny's raging guitar licks compliment the almost minimalist rhythm section, while Bro's sometimes burly, sometimes sweet vocals tell the blue collars tales that have become the band's trademark.This is music from the heartland, a place full of boredom, drunks, and open fields. A place they call home. From the Ozark forests to the plains of Kansas, from the Sandhills of Nebraska to the Badlands of South Dakota, these songs just make sense. They make good of bad situations and the best of the worst.It's been said that the heartland is dying, losing its best and brightest to the east and the west, but these songs suggest something different. There are millions of stories in these small towns, all of which have a place. All of which deserve to be told. In their little corner of this vast expanse, The Pembertons are a bit drained, a bit wobbly, and fully satisfied. One more shot for last call and they part ways once more, to wake up haggard and unshaven, to continue with their "real world" lives. As the workers sweep up the broken bottles and spent cigarrette butts, the lights fade out...until next week.For more :: www.meetthepembertons.com