What are a redneck’s last words? Hold my beer.	Posted: February 6, 2007
By Alex V. Cook; www.225batonrouge.com I was afraid I had wished a little too hard for acoustic rock when I stepped into Chelsea’s on Thursday night and saw a guy sitting on the stage with an acoustic guitar throwing out cover tunes. Decent, mind you, but chestnuts - ones he seemed to put out with heart to a crowd aggressively trying to talk over him. Turns out Trey Williams, the aforementioned troubadour was just the opening act for the pride of Monroe: Alan West Brockman, who knocked out one of the best sets of hi-octane country rock since Steve Earle’s pre-rehab years. Brockman y Los Tres Gringos, as his band is dubbed, mix up moonshine rock with garage psychedelic sensibility, guitar lines and harmonicas swirled and darted, but all working toward the goal of honky-tonk transcendence. Songs like “Hookie from my Love” mixed corny country she-done-left-me sentiment with a lilting heartfelt delivery. They even include a cliché like a “this number has been disconnected” recording at the beginning and an infusion of synth strings and horns on the record, but it works. I love that about country music when it’s done right. It's one of the few art forms that still does maudlin right. Adding to the sonic onslaught was a backdrop projection of The Last American Roadhouse – A Flora-Bama Documentary, which Brockman made about the fabled Perdido Key destination where hard drinking and skydiving meet in glorious abandon. Their songs about dogs, beer, trucks and highways littered with broken hearts tossed together with skydiving antics works perfectly, capturing the beautiful, deep abandon of the Southern spirit. I’ve lived outside of the south, where these exact redneck stereotypes are used against us, but under that veneer of propriety lays a festering jealousy. We are known for whiskey and tractor pulls and they are known for hard work and stern resolve.