If there is any one word I can say to describe Greg Garing’s music, it would have to be “That shit is the most emotion filled, legitimate, honest, and moving music I have heard.” See, one thing cant be said about Greg Garings music.  He moves through style and genre like its cereal. I personally like to call it country music, whether its from West Virginia country, or if it comes from the Mississippi Delta country…its in his hands. And you can hear it echo in his heart.

Greg needs your help now. Please follow these links to learn more about his situation, and maybe you can help out too. 5 dollars, 2 dollars, 2000 dollars, whatever you can contribute will help him. He has albums available for purchase through amazon and itunes (theres a great podcast for free on itunes – just search Greg Garing) Thank you for reading this…and please – watch the 8 minute video. Its 8 minutes of your life, and you might help save his.

your friend – Pope

~~~ DONATE HERE PLEASE ~~~

http://www.workandserve.com/greg/

~~~ the film ~~~

http://www.docchallenge.org/2010-Finalists/legend.html

~~~ youtube ~~~

Id have a killer A Team. I dont want Face and Hannibal and those weirdos. Id have… Na, scratch that. i dont want one of those teams. Id rather have tractor beams. not a forcefield that sucks you into my death star, but like a 4×4 post that sticks out the backa yer Johnny Deere (in John Deere Green). Prettiest girl Ive ever seen? Its gotta be Beck at the cracka morning. At sometime in the night she goes and puts on the “cute nose”. Its remarkable. Thats why I remarked about it. And now the brain and fingers are both flowin freely in opposite directions again…its time to start writing again. get back in the saddle again. Feed the pigeons some clay…{If you dont have Blaze Foley singin “Clay Pigeons” you really oughtta write that on the backa yer hand. ta git} Anyways, dig around if you wish. Theres some older sto-reez on this blog as wells, rock the bells.

The Death Sitar – an evil instrument developed by Lord Vader himself. That mug can pick it!!!

Awwww snap. Ol Pope has contracted with me to handle the internet end of his musics. So, in this first post including him – we are uploading his latest effort – Back Room Bawl Mawl. This disc is 11 bangers of Country Blues, and an electirfied ride into inner-space and down a lonely highways ALL AT THE SAME TIME! Holy Carnbread! Its like a lightswitch from the funkasaurus-era…bein flipped back on!!

All the jams here are original tunes, except Clinch Mtn (Traditional) and a co-write with his old pal Brent Sevier on “Trust Fund Hippie”.  Give it a download, and spin it loud…

All instruments played by Brad Pope, produced by Brad Pope, written in spray paint on a wall by Brad Pope, artwork by Brad Pope – hell, he made the thing top ta bottom!!!

Link:

http://rapidshare.com/files/402395447/Back_Room_Bawl_Mawl.zip

Artwork included in the folder. The cowbells are ringin’ out in the field. All songs copyright, and copywritten as of  6/1/2010

COMIN SOON!!

and I would really really really really like to have a recent disc of a live set…anybody out there got any Greg Garing shows?? more to come…

I thought I should fix a bowl of ice cream

But instead I fixed me a beer

Didn’t have ice cream and I didn’t much care

So I compensated that beer I stole

And poured it into my cereal bowl

Ate it with a spoon

Poured in some bar nuts

Breakfast of champions

After I gulped breakfast I didn’t know what to do

So I went to the arcade singin skip to my lou

But when I walked in they didn’t have regular games

every one of em had the same name

I looked for Galaga all over that place

But every single game had a picture of my face

Someone stole my show

Made me a cartoon

Made me a hero

So I shrugged my shoulders and I put in a quarter

I did calisthenics so I don’t get no shorter

Right from the start I was mesmerized

I was there on the screen ceptin’ digitized

I didn’t have no weapons to protect myself

But I had 2 extra lives and a full bar of health

I gotta locate some protection

Better find me a ninja throwin star

Maybe at least some puddin

The very first board I was in my truck

Had me a drivin but I was drunk

I had to find backroads and dodge streetsigns

All the while keeping in them yellow lines

Them coppers were hot on my grip

Pulled down into Haw Creek an I gave em the slip

Cant chase me in the Creek

I cut down Melton Drive

Hid out at East Asheville ballfields

The second level I was standing at a bar alone

I had to try and pour beers while dodgin stones

It was a bunch of women with fire on their brains

They were flingin slingshots like steam engine trains

As I tried to fill beers just to keep em satisfied

I realized them stones weren’t the flingin kind

They’s a bit more expensive

They glimmered in the neon

They all had Tiffany cuts

I had finally made it to the very last board

I was down to my last man but my health was restored

There was just me standin on a meteor shelf

I realized to beat this game I had to beat myself

So I gave a deep breath and balled up my fists

And myself came at me like a linebacker blitz

We got rolled up in a knot

Locked the Figure Four like Ric Flair

Submission holds

Bout that time the damn game just freezed up

Just when I thought I had the winners cup

It said please deposit more coins to play

My pockets were empty I had no more pay

As the time ran out I just shrugged my arms

My game was done and I was back to my farm

Back to the plowfield

I really wanted to win it

Betcha I’ll try again tomorrow.

Werd.

I used to have a setup like that in lil’ black Ford Escort. I had a set of MTX Terminators that I could re-wire a thousand times. I spent a buncha afternoons in the yard, disassembling the stereo, un-doing the the amplifier, pluggin in different speaker configurations, all trying to achieve the most vibrations in my rear view mirror. It was dope, furreal. Noone on the black could outbump me. I had Oprah Winafreed writin me letters in tartar sauce to appear on her show an explain why I was doin what I was doin, but I always sent her messages from the void, thankin her for her interests, but politely explaining that I was not able to drive out of town due to my restriction for getting expelled from school cause me an Mead Poncin sprayed mace in homeroom class.

It was harmless really. Jus one lil ol squirt of mace into the carpet. Its not like we pinned down the biggest kung fu master in homeroom an sprayed into his eyes er nuthin. But the teacher started a’coughin’. Kids started a’laughin’. She says to em, “Ifn yer havin problems breathin, then you can go outside.” At thet point, everyone started coughin an hackin an leavin, cept fer me an Mead. Then we got sent to the principals office. He wasn’t there though, so we had to kick it an wait for him. As I looked around, I noticed an array of Dolly Parton posters on the wall. All autographed to me! My principal had been checkin my mail! One said, “Dear Big Pope, I know you don’t know me, but I know you very well, an its hard to tell but I think yer swell, love always -  Dolly.” So, I folded alla the posters up into one gigantically small triangle, and forced Mead to sign his name on the dotted line. At that point, he melted, an I realized I was all alone in my newfound venture. I did the only rational thing I could think of. I grabbed the microphone used fer announcing the announcements, and in Fairview Valley Standard Time, I told everyone who I thought should be voted our next class president should be.

As my voice rang through the halls and into the ears of alla the small childrens that were listnin with their notebooks, the groundskeeper burst into the office.

“Hey!!! Whats goin on here?”

I said “Yo Oogie – I just bought three rolls of weedeater tape offa ebay for a dollar apiece!”

“What is ebay?” he mumbled as he rifled through my pyramids of Dolly Parton remnants.

I opened my handpainted Dolly Parton notebook that was a gift that keeps on givin an showed him what I believed to be the recipe for Bang Bang Shrimp and tapeworms. I didn’t realize that the shock would be so overpowering, but he turned over the keys to the tool shed and resigned immediately, stating it was due to prolific muclh spreading and playing basketball in 4^th period. I knew the truth, though. And I wouldn’t let this error go unforeseen. I re-grabbed the microphone like I was Young MC, stepped on the “on” button, and spit:

Yo, yo, yo heres the new deal folks

Get outcher oatmeal cremepies with fried egg yolks.

Ima tell it to meAn ima tell it true

Theres one thing that I want you to do

Find the one you love an find em fast

Cause im creatin a brand new homeroom class

Theres science, math and even home ec

But you got to quit an start givin Coach Sams respect

He dint mean no harm, he dint mean to hurt

Its just that high priced items end up in his shirt

With that, I thought I had eradicated enough backdoors to warrant at least one slice of school pizza. But the chicken lady informed me via cornbread, that there was no more ranch dressing.

“NO MORE RANCH!” I bellowed into the mic.

“Show More Blanch!” the students hollered in retort.

Questioning their morals, I said loudly and  scrapbookingly, “People of my class, chairs of my school, books of my open invitation…we must unite on the Ranch front and be downed with no more stolen pizza!”

And the votes came pouring in. they came in the mail. They came in the front door. One vote even manifested in my pocket in the form of a Cadillac. I always loved my hot wheels Caddys’, so I wasn’t alarmed when it was painted Rocket Green, sittin on gold spinners, with a boomin system like the one I had in Ford Escort. Weirdingly, I was aware of the premise of my car havin the same system as a hot wheels car. I needed confirmation thought. So I turned to commons area where my boy Fox was on the payphone tryin to get his neighbor Lee to sign him out of school.

“Check it Foxy, I cant get no satisfaction.”

“Where have you been looking?” Fox quipped. “In yer locker? In yer lobster? In yer Icepack?”

“Naw, man – I dint even get that far. It was only after I had written out an outline of Beowulf that I even realized you were on the phone.”

Fox knew…”Yeah, Im on the phone with Lee. I tried to get signed out, but he keeps telling me about his toothbrushin kids an how he’s gonna be standin a’side’a the King, Jimmy Martin. I cant make ICE CREAM!!!”

“Well, I’ll”… an my voice trailed off as I watched in disbelief and cried tears of proudness. Fox had hung up the phone, ripped his Air Jordnas off, and begun the world fastest backspin. Round an round an round he goes, where he’ll spin, nobody knows anything. I was scared. I was shirtless. I had a rip in my couch. There were 23 girly girls sittin on the sophomore bench, an they began professing their love an adoration of the fastest backspinner ever, an Fox was welcomed into the home of a dogwood tree.

I began to run without knowing why. I ran so hard I couldn’t see, and my face smashed harder onto the door to the science wing. How could I not see it? Its science, basically. When my nose quit bleedin, my eyebrows quit fallin offa my face, an my kneecaps were readjusted to fit, I was aware of my surroundings. On the floor a bottle of Mace lay quietly befriending me. But I had mearned my lesson from previous experianece, an I denied the Mace its day in courtmarshall.

I think the OB’s are badasses. I have been eatin so many Osborne Brothers lately. Harmony singing? Pshshst. That shit is so good, it drips the werd “kickinassandkickinass” offa Sonny’s banjer. They had a big hit with that atrocity of a song called Rocky Top, which if anyone ever plays, sings, farts, or pronates that song, I get all quesy an isht. But I can listen, an secretly enjoy listen to Bob & Sonny O playin that mutha. I like to think that they are not strictly woven into the idiom of Bluegrass, but took alla that bloograss they owned, an mixed it up with a buncha fineass country music. real country music about real shit – not that Twace Akkins er Toby Queef bullshit. Harmony singin? Pshsht. The Osburns freakin spoke in harmony. Plus, on toppa everthang, they played and sang with Jimmy Martin, The King Of Bluegrass, and made a hit outta 20/20 Vision an walkin round blind an didn’t make a flop at all. Would I like to ride in a car with Jimmy, Sonny & Bob you wanna ask me in the form of an overweight envelope? Man – id give most of my own hair and present day whippowhills to be in that Studebaker rollin down the street like I was in a car with Jimmy Martin, Sonny & Bob O., callin m’self Jimmy Nartin.

Les look at Sonny fer a tick.

He’s a freakin 5-string machine. He always looks like hes havin way more fun than anyone else playin his banjo at the same time, which is noone. But he looks like hes havin tonsafun cause he always is smiling real bigtime, an laughin heartily while hes playin his banjer hangin over his shoulder. He’s tall an big, yet huggly and warm and fuzzy. When he talks, I think he laughs at least once per paragraphian thought process. He always had really coolio facial hair stylins. He started playing music in Bill Monroe’s band when he was 14 years old, an Mr. Bill told his parents he’d take care of Sonny while they were on the road an shit. Thas pimpin!

And Bobby?

Fuck, man. Bob is a candle. Hes a lemon drop. Hes a fuckin badass. Just lookin at him makes me go get beat up. He always looks to me like he just got done in the crapper an fergot to wipe but no shooshoo came out so its okay. He can play the sure-fire outta the mandolin, an his instrumental he made up called sure-fire is wayyyy better then Devil Went Down To Georgia or anything that Kanye West made up. And he always has really dapper ass cool sideburns an some tinted glasses that look real cool on him, but wouldnt on me cause theyre really big lookin. By the way – AT&T telemarketers are cocksuckin interrupters, interruptin me typin an shit, and when I lied to him an told him I hadda customer with me an couldn’t talk, he cocksucked along talking bout, “pshst, I’ll be brief.” Brief deez nuts you sockcucker. Where was I makin up werds that form a sentence that might or may’nt relay my thought on the Uzbarn Bruthas? Ahh, yeah, Bobs badassedness. I got the oppurtunidy to see Bobby Usbornt at Dollywood once, an it was cooler than not seein him there. And he looked like he was gunna beat me up with an opaque projecter from the stage. Even when I went up to him afterds to tell him I though him an his brother were badasses of the highest order, he looked at me like he was badass. And spoke very kindly with his werds he found in his mouth about how it was a pleasure and honor to play music for me. (Well, he meant everyone, an he said ‘music fer everyone’ but when it passed my flux capacitor, I heard him say ‘me’) Theres a song he sings with his mouth called “Ruby (Hunny Are You Mad At Yer Man)” an he sings the sure-fire out of it. It’s a simple song. Basically its just “900 Miles” er “Roobens Train” er “Train 45” er 26 at least another song titles. But Sonny has got his banjer thing fuckin kickinass, and Bob, whoaaaa Bobby – whoa Nelly, man o man does he sing Rubbbiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, dayng man.

I think the Osborne Brothers are the real deal kickinass, an I wanna say that they make me hafta go find deli sandwiches sometimes cause they are so cooler than the utha side’a the peelow. Man, o man. Thanks fellers – fer doin that stuff that most everyone, but not all would call the best music in the werld. You make me wanna kiss my girlfriend on the forehead an tell her all aboutchoo. Call me sometime when you wanna talk about that.