Not a whole lot of folks stop in Neosho, Missouri, unless of
course you’re Lucero, and your trusty van decides this small Midwest
town that skirts the western edge of the Ozarks is as good as any to
call it quits.
“A pulley came loose and the belts didn’t break, but they came right
off. All the lights in the van turn off and then it overheats, and
you’re all, ‘Oh, shit, the van just died!'” So says guitarist Brian
Venable, who knows a thing or two about the woes of a tired touring
vehicle, seeing how the Lucero boys spend the majority of their days on
the road, flirting with 200 shows a year, or as was the case last year,
250. “We’ve been real lucky,” he adds. “But that’s just part of it,
we’re rough on the van and eventually it just breaks.”
It’s a Zen attitude to take, especially for four blue-collar
Southern boys who call Memphis home. Formed in the tail end of the ’90s
by rough-voiced frontman Ben Nichols, Lucero are, as Venable so
accurately puts it, a “whiskey rock ‘n’ roll band.” Nursing a sound
that bleeds red, white, and blue—sans the rah-rah patriotism of
being a no-nonsense band whose home lies beneath the stars and bars of
the Mason-Dixon line—Lucero has made a career of singing
distorted American folk anthems similar to those of the Boss, plus they
harness the same charming boozy rowdiness that once belonged to storied
acts like the Replacements, or even the Pogues.
Last year’s Rebels, Rogues & Sworn Brothers (produced by
David Lowery of Cracker/Camper Van Beethoven) shows that the band
(thankfully) hasn’t veered too far from their tried-and-true platform
of drunken postcards from the side of the open road, slurred tales of
love lost and found (but mostly lost), and stories about rebellious
young men who linger too long on the wrong side of the Memphis tracks.
Their imagery shuns modern characters; instead, a Lucero protagonist
has a Jim Stärk rebellious streak, the inebriated poetics of Hank
Chinaski, and it’s all held together with the Southern romanticism of
William Faulkner.
Their vivid songwriting imagery is capped off by the pained vocals
of Nichols, whose shredded vocal chords sound like they’ve developed a
bronchial infection that’s been impossible to kick. As Venable
laughingly puts it, “He’s harmony-proof,” which is fine, considering
that the band’s persona for knocking back rounds will always trump
clean living, Throat Coat Tea, and vocal scale exercises. Drinking
bands have always been a beacon for drinking fans, and Lucero’s loyal
following is no exception, happily treating the group to many an
onstage shot, even if they aren’t always interested.
“What’s funny is when you don’t take the shots people buy for you,”
says Venable. “I’ve had nights when I look over and see eight shots
just sitting on my amp.” Now if they can just find a way to get that
amp, and the rest of the band, in the van and escape Neosho, Missouri,
that would definitely be something worthy of a celebratory drink. Or
two.