Split Lip Rayfield

The band that asks the musical question: "O Brother, Where Art Thou Conjones?" Bluegrass worthy of being blasted out of the windows of a Plymouth Barracuda with 451 Hemi engine. Their live shows are the stuff of legend. They will whip crowds into a sweaty frenzy---Jeff hunched over his homemade, gas-tank bass, Wayne "The Rave" Gottstine, (the Kirk Hammett of the mandolin,) Kirk breaking guitar strings by the dozen and changing them fast enough to ensure himself a place on any NASCAR pit crew, and Eric, looking the part of a Civil War re-enactor, doing things to a banjo that Eddie Van Halen WISHES he’d thought of. Sadly, because their show are so good, they don’t get the credit they should for their songwriting----time honored themes of bad cars, bad jobs, bad women, loss and longing, taken off the dusty shelves of the old-timey circuit and updated to make sense for those who don’t have shitty farming or mining jobs, but do have shitty jobs at Wal-Mart or Home Depot. They’ve got four part harmonies and wear their big hearts on their greasy sleeves. You will be surprised at how good they are.

If these guys weren't so nice we'd all be very afraid of them. They have more tattoos, break more strings, and drink more beer (almost) than any of our other bands. According to SLR, the Garden of Eden is in some muddy Winfield, Kansas field--except it only surfaces for a few weeks each September. They are the only Bloodshot Records band with attractive groupies. Early live shows featured a real chicken, but we guess they got hungry. Speaking of hunger, Jeff knows, like, 87 recipes for gar.