The Old Edison – “Horseshoes And Handgrenades ”
The first time I saw The Old Edison, I thought, “What is this crap? Banjo’s and violins- and no drums! Shouldn’t these guys be playing hippie night?”
The second time I saw them I thought, this is a folk band but they have great titles to their songs like, “You Can Go Fuck Yourself,” in my review I wrote- “They unfortunately stand no chance in pleasing the sanctimonious, pompous, prejudiced, putrid, pile of puss known as Slimedog.”
The third time I saw them, they probably didn’t even play on the stage but set up on the floor, unamplified except for the bass. And instead of singing through the P.A. just screamed their lungs out, like the lyrics from one of their best songs about screaming out loud into the walls. I wrote, “At first I didn’t much like these guys but I enjoy them more each time I see them and they’ve finally got me sold.”
I’ve seen them countless times after that and my enjoyment of them grew. This copy of a cd was handed to me by Rory the banjo player- he was handing out copies at the end of their final show, end of the night, to every one that was left. It’s called “Horseshoes And Handgrenades” and won’t be available till March on bandcamp. But I figure with their final show just happening might as well tie it all in.
And one of the singers almost always wore a Bukowski t-shirt- a writer/poet, my biggest inspiration. My biggest inspiration besides alcohol. And I swear a solemn oath that not one word of my review of The Old Edison will be written unless I’m drunk blind out of my mind.
“RPM” is one of their best and most popular songs. “’Cause God is not a man, 33 or 45 rpm’s, we could talk all night, he always understands.” And the folksy rhythm guitar strums on, the banjo plucks, the music is good-timey folk stuff that I hated hearing in the sixties- the laid back hippie crap. But here’s it got great lyrics that I can only snag pieces of, “Well, I wrote this song so all my friends can sing along,” and impassioned vocals that sound like the tearing of lungs is being committed, the tearing of hearts and souls, is being committed. And I don’t know about you but for me it packs a wallop of emotion into my heart and soul and causes my feelings to overload in joy and sadness- meaning, it’s a great, great tune. And- a wonderful sad trombone shoots out here and there.
[audio:https://www.thrashnbang.com/wp-content/music/01 RPM.mp3|titles=RPM]“Wanna Play Swords” starts out peaceful enough, country/folk with Bob Dylan harmonica. But then the growly, emphatic vocals start pushing their way in. “It worked at the Abbey or the good old Midway. In the forsaken basement where we found our sound. Where we shared the bottle.” This is an Irish waltz in three-four time, this is a slice of life cut clear and concise just the way you like it. Like an Irish/rap/ Bob Dylan song. Punk fury in three quarter rap/folk time.
[audio:https://www.thrashnbang.com/wp-content/music/04 Swords.mp3|titles=Swords]“So We Beat On,” banjo bubbling behind the forefront like a babbling brook behind the trees. Two vocals babbling about the struggle to carry on. An acoustic guitar and bass stay steady. “How far can I take this? But I’ll brake my back just to make this last.” As The Old Edison carried the beat on for their music, like a relationship struggling to keep its self alive, “So we beat on.” The song continues in its acceptance, “That’s all I’ve got to ask for and that’s not too much to ask.” You can’t ask for a better song.
[audio:https://www.thrashnbang.com/wp-content/music/07 So We Beat On.mp3|titles=So We Beat On]“Same Shit Now Friday, Yes,” starts with a chord progression that sounds like it’s going into a Pixies number but the trilling accordion takes away any chance for that. A quiet, ominous, melancholic vibe floats above this song. Another waltz with lines like, “Pass around this four dollar bottle of wine.” The song sails along like a crooked ship upon the waters, sounding like a song to be sung along with at 3 a.m. at some party. This is impassioned, wild stuff. “So I go to work in the morning, but he’s too hungover for work.” Another great tune rings out.
[audio:https://www.thrashnbang.com/wp-content/music/06 Same Shit Now Friday Yes.mp3|titles=Same Shit Now Friday Yes]When I hear The Old Edison, I hear South Boston. Maybe the faint Irish music is there. But I hear Boston as well- the T, the dirty streets, Boston Common, Copley Square, the waterfront. And working class boys and girls brought up without a silver spoon in their mouths and maybe a skeleton or two in the closet, of the family tree.
When I hear The Old Edison, I hear the sounds of drunken reverie, of shout-a-longs in kitchen apartments at 3 a.m., of the joy and madness of being alive.
When I hear The Old Edison I hear the pained sadness of life, of the struggle, of the heart broken, of the mistreated, cheated, dreams lost, ideals dismissed or forgotten, betrayal in the worst ways.
When I hear The Old Edison, I hear the psalms of angels on the tongues of devils, of Holy Eucharists drowned in whiskey not sacramental wine. Of punk at its most purest. Of emotions strung out on the line with guts and fury, the tearing apart of a soul.
And of a band that fits in, a band like no other, in a scene that allows those who don’t fit in anyplace, a welcome home. With a music of a quiet storm and a lyrical bent straight and untamed.
When I hear The Old Edison I hear one pure true word, one pure true sound, one pure true band that hardly any other can claim. Sad, there’s no more Old Edison- but everything that they sang and stood for, is still right there.
In your hearts.
(Slimedog)
