I recently gave Jack Ingram some shit for playing the stud in the Lee Ann Womack video "I May Hate Myself in the Morning." He told me they picked him because all they were finding were guys that looked like "underwear models" and they wanted a real man. What? Did you think I'd let him off the hook for appearing in a video without singing?

Well that's about to change. The video is up for three CMT awards including "hottest video" and the single is being recut as an acoustic number including Jack singing with Lee Ann. With Jack's new disc waiting in the wings, it's fantastic to see him getting some well-deserved exposure from this.

Speaking of the new disc, I can tell you that all the songs I've heard are absolutely mind-blowing. If Nashville takes the time to hear this album then the face of country music could change. The songs are some of the best of his career and his current popularity swoon is sure to help. Someone sign this guy to a major label already!

Get some more Jack Ingram news at his website.

Tonight, just one night from one of the longest travel days I've endured, I am hopelessly flipping through channels looking for one station brave enough to not show the President or reality TV--yes folks those are mutually exclusive terms. Thank heavens in the name of Ted Turner that we have cable.

Politics aside, I was actually briefly in the nation's capital yesterday. As I sat in the terminal of Dulles Airport and thought of how lovely the cherry blossoms would be, I decided a quick listen to Tommy Womack's Washington D.C. would be quite suitable for this otherwise ugly day. As the chief cheese sang, "Sometimes a little bit of sex is a dangerous thing," I pined for the days of Bill Clinton. With a sigh, I knew that Tommy was right and that would be the undoing of a fairly moderate America--a little bit of sex.

Of course Tommy wasn't singing about major party politics nor was I particularly addled by the current administration--I'm learning to drown myself in Bob Dylan's past advice. I'd give a nickel to ask the old man how to find the courage to sing for change today. I'd give a dime if he'd simply sing out himself against it.

I don't travel often but it's certainly heavier than normal recently. That said I have a checklist of chores for you to accomplish while I waste away living on airport food:

• Buy both John Prine and Bruce Springsteen's new albums. Don't call me until you have listened to both twice.
• Buy a Tommy Womack t-shirt. While hanging out on Tommy's site listen to "Fluorescent Light Blues" and tell me you love your cube when you're done. I told Tommy that he can sue me because I intend to sing it myself and give him absolutely no credit.
• Do you all have the new Amy Loftus disc as well as Peter Cooper's The Clown Juice EP? If not you're missing two fantastic young talents.
• If you're anywhere near Texas and plan on going to the Americana Music Jam next month look for my pal Sam who just recently moved back to Texas and is quite thrilled with the music. If you're not going ask yourself, "Why not?"
• Go check out Pawless Guitars and my pal Vince finishing up my new guitar. Check out his new webcam while there. Actually watching your guitar being built is absolutely fantastic. Since I told you to buy something from everyone else, buy a guitar from Vince. Then send it to me.

Until then I'm saving my airline pretzels for the first one of you that actually sends me a guitar.

Singer-songwriter Danny McGuinness has drawn rave reviews throughout his career and has been compared to the likes of Bono and Eddie Vedder. Danny's newest release, Room 809, stands as an original. Besides, we all know Nirvana was better than Pearl Jam--likewise Danny's originality merits his own praise.

Room 809 is the product of a demo-gone-right in a hotel room in Los Angeles. Along with sturdy accompanying guitarist Kirk Van Der Kolk, McGuinness recorded what would have been ruined by a studio--a magical evening that could only be captured by the invigorating play between two musicians steeped in each other's ability.

The songwriting is what you would expect from McGuinness if you owned any of his prior work. Both communicative and esoteric, the duality of his lyrics are rich on cuts like "Whiskey" and "Forever Be Mine" when he hints at bigger issues than he reveals. The ambiguity of the familiar helps the listener identify with something without fully understanding exactly what troubles Danny. From breakup angst to careful consideration of the human soul, the songwriting exudes a confidence that Danny understands fully that he actually doesn't truly know all that much. Trust me--you'll be delightfully confused and comforted at the same time while searching and finding the deeper meaning of his writing.

Like all albums I tend to gravitate toward, this album allows the strength of songwriting to star while pairing it with no less than magical musical underpinnings. The straight-ahead rock tendencies are balanced by the acoustic nature of the album but leaves plenty of toe-tapping room. The sharp guitar work from Van Der Kolk plays nicely with the complex textures of McGuinness' songsmithing. Deep down you can tell that these guys would love to plug in and rock out however. Personally I hope they resist the urge because the album shines as it stands.

You can learn more about Danny and his newest release at www.room809.com.

Although far from related to music, I cannot resist mentioning that Sharkbitten pal, fellow author and Saint Augustinian Rogers Cadenhead is the current rage of the so-called Internets. Rogers registered several potential future names for popes some time ago and has the honor of owning the papal domain--www.bendictxvi.com.

First let me say that Rogers is far from a quack nor is he looking to get rich quick. He simply is a guy that is capable of finding the humor in life. He's not selling this to pornographers as some have suggested. Personally, I doubt he even did it for the publicity--he's an accomplished author, pundit, and blogger in his own right. If anything I believe he's enjoying the incredible amount of commentary he's receiving--heck I would.

So folks, lighten up! Have a pope and a smile!

Despite my on-going love/hate relationship to Jeff Tweedy's musical path I am anxiously awaiting the rumored Golden Smog project to release something new. This alt-country/rock/whatever supergroup that features a revolving set of musicians has most recently been set in motion with former Jayhawks' frontman Gary Louris and Wilco's Tweedy at the center of the known universe. Listening to past efforts featuring these guys brings me to tears because the collaboration is better than anything Louris or Tweedy made with their famed former counterparts in the Jayhawks and Uncle Tupelo respectively.

Anyway, my sources say that the project is forthcoming. I only hope there are some gems like "He's a Dick" on this new album.

Todd Snider's appearance at the Social in Orlando this week was cancelled. As I read the sign on the door my heart sunk through my feet into the nasty sidewalk below and beside me stood my pregnant wife looking somewhat the same. We had each gone to great lengths to take the time off, drive, get a hotel room, and plan a nice time for the two of us. Now we stood in the middle of a city of which we are not particularly fond with nothing to do but share our dismay with other saddened fans.

We found our way to what must be the only other basement in Florida outside of Ernest Hemingway's limestone wine cellar and sat down for a drink. After whining our story to the bartender at Tanqueray's he handed my wife a cup of dry-erase markers and said, "Put him on the board and invite him to play here." So she did.

Needless to say Todd did not play Tanqueray's that night either but not for a lack of trying on my lovely wife's part. She had contemplated writing "Fuck Luckenbach...drink with us" but had settled for "Todd Snider...play here instead."

At some point the next morning it came to me. It was a gorgeous day in Florida and I had my favorite person beside me for a road trip. So we made the best of the day and I must say that even Todd Snider couldn't have made it better even if she sings a bit off-key. Indeed, I am a lucky man.

Lately the real world has encroached upon my feeble little musical empire. Things like budgets, hierarchy, and deadlines have replaced chaos, anarchy, and "what day is it?" Constant supervision has ensured that I wear a shirt with a collar every day. They didn't say I had to wear a clean shirt with a collar so I snickered as I put on a second-day polo this morning.

Alas, my woes are no worry to you reader! Here are the tasty tidbits for the morning:

• Tommy Womack, the aforementioned hero of wrecked vans, tells me that he and John Deaderick are going to be mixing the new Daddy album in the very near future.
  LATE BREAKING NEWS: Tommy's concert in Ames, Iowa on April 23rd will feature Jason Walsmith of the Nadas! Now there's a show! You can email here for information.
• Tonight you can catch Todd Snider at The Social in Orlando, Florida. This is the first of a string of shows for Todd in the Sunshine State. Of course I'll be there...
• Charlie Robison has crossed over to mainstream with his latest release from Good Times titled "El Cerrito Place." The video has landed at #3 on the CMT video charts! Now if they'd make a video for "Love Means Never Having to Say You're Hungry" I'd be happy.
• Both John Prine and the Billy Joe Shaver tribute album are moving up the Americana charts these days. My pals Jack Ingram and Todd Snider both make appearances on the album. In fact when I mentioned to Jack that the album was coming he said to me, "Am I on that? I remember signing something..." Something tells me you'll all remember his contribution once you hear it.

That's all until the next time my boss wanders away from his desk! Keep your socks up kiddies...

The last couple of weeks have felt something like a Hunter S. Thompson novel minus the drugs. I'm over that.

• If you're in Florida then you'd be remiss not to catch Todd Snider's shows next week in our fine state. His last album, East Nashville Skyline is my favorite of his career and fulfills the label many have put upon him--our generation's Dylan. You can get more info on the travelling sideshow at his website.
• Tift Merritt was in town this week. My roving reporters tell me that both she and Chatham County Line put on a whale of a show. You can read my spy's review here.
• As if my weeklong jaunt through the desert wasn't enough to get me stirred up, I've been listening to Tommy Womack's Washington D.C.. It's a fine rock album if you don't have it. Anyway, Tommy has a new rant in which he bemuses what a great guy Russ Riddle happens to be. Folks, if you don't know Russ, he's the best friend an indie artist could have. He's helped produce albums for Tommy and Will Kimbrough, is a faitful driving partner, and reliable pal. Russ deserves this kind of praise.
• Our pals from The Devil Makes Three are touring France this month. If you're across the pond you can catch one of the best up-and-comers out there. I guarantee you won't find this kind of music too often on the banks of the Seine.

Have fun kiddies and buy lots of records!

Every now and again I tune into the mainstream country channels in town just to make sure I didn't miss some breakthrough like someone playing real country music. Of course I'm just asking for it because I know I'll hate whatever I hear and get angry about it for some time--which leads me to today.

Peter Cooper calls it "hot country crap" and I have to agree. Anytime I hear the words "hot" and "country" I instantly think the worst. When those words are mentioned it inevitably means that we're going to hear some act that sounds like they aspire to be the next Poison instead of the next Hank Williams. It always means we're not going to hear anything decent--save a few acts that somehow manage to maintain some modicum of countryfried legitimacy.

This doens't mean I'm living in the past, as Paste suggests of most Americana musicians. In fact I'm living for a better day. Today it may seem as if we're relegated to the likes of Toby Keith and Gretchen Wilson but have faith good folks--there are tons of great young talents out there that are being heard on indie stations and being featured in less-mainstream publications like this one. There's a reason it's called "alternative country."

That said, it's the phrase "hot country" that gets me steamed. A heaping pile left behind on my lawn by the neighbor's dog it hot for a period of time--that doesn't mean I want to see it twelve times in twelve hours.

Boys and girls, if the station uses the term "hot country" I'm fairly certain that's a good indicator to turn the dial. Trust me when I say it's not "hot" but rather "reheated."

Gear for a guitarist is somewhat personal. Once attached to a piece of equipment you often never stray. For instance, I have several guitars and pedals that I've had for years. The only guitars I've sold are the very first cheap acoustic and electri I had. Since then I've found quality instruments and amps with which I've bonded.

Recently I decided to rework a cheap Telecaster I had however in attempt to get a more authentic twang. I replaced tuners, pickups, and all the electronics. Buying a new Tele would have been cheaper but I wanted something very specific.

Last night I strung up the vintage slot tuners and cursed as I tried to get the thing setup properly. Once in tune however, the beast growled to life and it set the clock back to 1969. It had all the hiss and hum of a Telecaster but cut through it with the squeal that only a single-cut Fender can provide.

Now the end-result is far from as versatile as my Epiphone hollowbody but I wasn't building anything other than a howling hotrod for that buttery country sound. It sure as hell doesn't look near as good as my Epi but it certainly looks tough.

Once again, I bonded with a new axe. I have a feeling this one will stick around like the others.

Todd Snider often says he can handle the driving but air travel isn't his favorite. Unlike Todd's experiences, the airline magazine and SkyMall did not inspire a song. Instead I spent my time sitting next to the airline's "deadhead" who talked to a flight attendant during the entire trip in a Spanglish version of airline jargon.

Slightly nervous due to the already bumpy trip, I became abnormally suspicious when the worried looks and airline lingo switched from English to Spanish--as if they knew something was quite wrong and frightening me would only make it worse. I tried my iPod. If I couldn't block out the conspiracy to keep me from knowing the plane was headed for true disaster perhaps Kristofferson could.

Folks, I love Kris. I wouldn't do what I do if not for Kris Kristofferson. As the Rubber Duck, he was a childhood idol. As a songwriter whose brave voice was unlike any I'd heard before, he was an influence on my own writing. As an actor...well let's just say Millenium wasn't his finest effort.

That said, let me offer some advice--if you've flown through several time zones over two days with no breakfast and have a natural tendency toward conspiracy theories, Kris Kristofferson will offer no consolation while nervous.

His drug and protest inspired rants actually got me a little more hopped up than I should have been. Like a bad caffeine trip, my anxiety reached new heights as Kris sung about the man keeping me down. They kept changing languages and looking around. Shit...I knew those airline people were hiding something.

Eventually my little Buddy Holly plane touched down and everything was OK despite my suspicions. My blood pressure slowly dropped and I tucked Kris back into my bag, thankful that those bastards' whispering had not been indicative of impending doom.

What the fuck did I think Las Vegas would be like, if not the glamorous images the travel brochures seemed intent upon convincing me? In my head the rash half-truths of Hunter S. Thompson rattled about my brain leading me to believe that anything could be had in Las Vegas given a sizeable stash of cash. I had decided long before my cursed foot left the airport that Las Vegas was not Sin City but rather the cradle of all that is decadent regardless of your vice. The obese could dive into pools of Twinkies, licking their jowls while taking in the processed sweet goodness. The wicked could lie in the arms of as many sweaty lovers as their bed could hold, waking only to the kind of freedom from love that the selfish can enjoy. The righteous would have at their feet a city of people whose ways presented a dire need to be saved so that the so-called chosen may ignore their own shortcomings. And me? My devilish contempt for mainstream music would be soothed by the old-timers like Wayne Newton holding court over the waves of decadent wanderers.

Instead I got Kenny Chesney and Pat Fucking Green. Nary a sighting of Wayne’s perfectly dyed black hair or even a meager Dean Martin imitator. Hell, I didn’t even see Elvis, whom I’m told is multiplying into a virtual subculture of Elvi amidst the desert heat.

Just Pat Fucking Green.

Admittedly, I own albums by both of those guys and would say that given the common alternatives, like Toby Keith, I would choose Pat Fucking Green rather than their mainstream counterparts. Pat sure is a much better songwriter than say, Celine Dion, who currently reigns over some kind of Vegas show that looks obliquely like concert. Pat sure as hell wouldn’t be caught dead singing in a Prince tribute band such as the one the Boardwalk hosts. Pat certainly would a better choice than the upcoming Reba McIntyre/Terri Clark/Brad Paisley debacle that’s about to occur. But Wayne Newton he is not.

So the decadency of Vegas is quite in question. While you can still get a stripper and given enough work a hooker, you cannot lie in the arms of all your ambitions, as the brochures would suggest. You cannot roll in piles of pork chops stacked from Henderson to Heaven as the $3.99 buffet myth insinuates. And certainly you won’t find too many committed savers of souls seeking the wicked to escort to the Pearly Gates. Hell, you can’t even get Wayne Newton these days--just Pat Fucking Green.

While most folks I know have suspicions that this week was to be more akin to a bad trip through a Hunter S. Thompson novel for me, it was more like Robert Earl Keen's "Coming Home." No wild nights spending piles of cash on strippers, booze, and bad bets--instead it was spending long days and nights dreaming of returning home.

It's something that really happens all the time to me. When I'm on the road I often find Robert Earl's words comforting. From "Leaving Tennessee" to "Rolling By" he paints an often sorry tale of being away from where he wishes he was or lameting where he happens to be. With "Feeling Good Again" it's about being somewhere else in the course of life--a mental displacement. For some reason it's weeks like these that make me want to sit on my back porch and pick nothing but his music.

Robert Earl, wherever you are tonight, know that an old friend who you've yet to meet is thankful that you're with him in a very lonely Las Vegas.