As anyone who's spent time on the American South is well aware, there's a difference between the denizens of the deep Southeast and the hillbillies in the Smokey Mountains, the big city Texans and the generations old Virginia clans - "Southern Culture" has countless layers, and the people of Mississippi are certainly their own breed. I spent chunk of my early summers at my grandparents' outside of Lorman, Mississippi until I was in high school (technically, Mamaw's place was just off a rural route between the villages of Red Lick and Coon Box...seriously...but the address was Lorman), about 50 miles roughly south of Liberty, where the subject of today's post was born. JERRY CLOWER wasn't a comedian, per se, he was an incredible story teller and anyone who's spent time (or has family) from rural Mississippi will sure appreciate his gift of gab...just stories, but these stories put places that no one had ever heard of on the map in the early '70s. Sweet and endearing, pure and wholesome...and yes, funny, Jerry's first two releases are collections of tall tales and legends, the same kind my Uncle Sammy and Papaw traded back and forth with neighbors when I was a kid. For further reference, I don't think there would be a Jeff Foxworthy without a Jerry Clower...though I'm not sure that's the most rousing endorsement. More punk stuff tomorrow.
Due to an organic cassette defect (time does have its way with Terminal Escape's medium of choice), the last few tracks of each release are...well, altered. Time has degenerated these stories into blips and blurts of nonsensical redneck lingo, giving the impression that you are on drugs.