JERRY JEFF WALKER 6/5, HOUSE OF BLUES My first thoughts of this veteran outlaw (that’s Nashvillese for “liberal”) troubadour are always of his biggest hit, “Mr. Bojangles,” which greatly traumatized me in sixth-grade chorus. The other 70s wrist slitters we sang were fine–the cynicism of “Suicide Is Painless” rolled off my back, as did the mass murder in “One Tin Soldier”–but jeez, that lonely old man and his dead dog just killed me. Throughout his 30-some-year career Walker has walked the line between pathos and bathos, writing something very close to three-hanky cheese without ever quite falling into that sticky pit of radio fondue; in fact, his success as a touring artist has very little to do with radio. Based in Austin since 1971, he’s been putting out his own records on his Tried & True label since 1986 and avoiding Nashville like it was a leper colony. The cover of his 28th and latest album, Cowboy Boots & Bathing Suits, recorded at his beach house on Ambergris Caye, brings on scary flashbacks to Walker’s friend Jimmy Buffett, but once again he maneuvers the cliches with taste, grit, and smarts, mixing soulful originals with well-chosen covers and even taking a potshot at himself in “Gringo in Belize.” Unfortunately, though, it’s all still far too sunny to ever make my sadistic old chorus director’s list. DIRTY 6/6, METRO Chicago’s Dirty, veterans of more local bands than you can shake a headless bass at (Hot Heels, Eternalux, Sister Soleil), may use synthesizers, but their brand of techno-dance swerves far away from the high-art ambitions of the current European knob-twiddling crowd. Charming like Bananarama in Cocteau Twins goth drag, their 1997 debut CD is catchy, dizzyingly busy, and upbeat, with brief flashes of intensity and not a new idea in its pretty little head.
