Hayseed Dixie
A few days ago, I was clearing out a cupboard when I came across a calendar for 2020, abandoned around March of that year, listing all the things I didn’t see. What struck me was how few I’ve ticked off eighteen months later. Hayseed Dixie is now an exception to that rule, a band that at the start of 2020 was just another gig, but by the close of 2021 has become another little victory. John Wheeler looked pleased as Punch to be finally ticking the Waterfront off his list - with in-laws living in North Norfolk this must be the closest a self-declared Southern red neck gets to a hometown gig in the UK.
It should be said, that however much Wheeler likes to pretend he’s red of neck, and all that term implies, he’s about as far away from a tobacco chewing, gun totin, good ol’ boy as you can imagine. “Googling is not research” he declaimed, “if I want an expert opinion I’ll ask an expert.” This unapologetic sideswipe at antivax nutcases was just one of many considered comments from this personable, considered frontman. The sort of man that pretends he has no great affection for his dog Daphne, and then sings a song about her.
Poor Dog was one of few played from the band’s new album, and stood up well to perennial favourites such as the heartfelt I’m keeping Your Poop (in a Jar). Otherwise, the set was given over to what the band clearly thinks the crowd has come along for - countrified versions of rock songs. Hayseed Dixie have been ploughing this furrow for over twenty years, but if you’re old enough to remember the tired parodies of the Barron Knights, then cast that thought from your mind. There was a bit of horsing about in Bohemian Rhapsody, and no one is going to take Eye of the Tiger seriously under any circumstances, but for the most part what we got to hear were inventive reworking of classic tracks. Ace of Spades turns out to be perfect for Tim Carter’s bango, while Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing sounded all the better for being roughed up a little. There was much fun to be had in guessing what tune they would work their magic on next, and while I was sorry they’d left out their superb version of Simon and Garfunkel’s Mrs Robinson this was mitigated by the surprising inclusion of Aha’s Take on Me. The message seemed to be that this was a delightfully wacky jukebox, and if the last song wasn’t to your liking then worry not - they’ll be another one soon enough that will have you grinning from ear to ear.
By the time the evening drew to a close - in which we’d been offered close to twenty songs in two hours - we’d admittedly ticked off a little more cheese than usual with the likes of Toto’s Africa, and without their undoubtedly musicianship, confirmed by the inevitable dueling banjos, such fare might have grown tiresome. A big reason this never happened was the friendship and bond that radiated from the band, both for their audience and each other. By the time Highway to Hell turned into one big sing along, I’m guessing these confirmed Anglophiles felt well and truly at home.
