Daddy's Farm
Daddy’s Farm is bluegrass for metalheads. One of the strangest (and fastest) hybrids of metal, bluegrass, country you've ever heard,
Inelegant lyrics, incomprehensible time changes, indecipherable artwork, commercial indifference and critical indignation. The legend of Scroat Belly won’t die...
Let’s just put it out there—if you don't love Scroat Belly, you’ll hate them. If you don't get their logo tattooed on your body, you won't be able to get to the record shop fast enough to sell this back. But if you fancy yourself the musically adventurous sort and you don't take a chance on one of the strangest, most exciting and frightening hybrids of metal, bluegrass, country you've ever heard, then you probably should just go back to sitting quietly at your nearest open mic night listening to comfortable singer-songwriters who "speak to you."
Daddy's Farm is a journey into the Heartland of Darkness, where drugs, poverty, incest, violence and alcohol form the lifeblood that beats black and fierce in more hearts than you want to think about. Scroat Belly took that lifeblood and crafted a 16-song concept album that is 46 minutes of feeling like a bull in the chute right after that flank strap’s been pulled tight.
While metal and rock and hip-hop got together and gave us everything from Body Count, to ICP (the horror) to Jay Z and Linkin Park (ugh), no one has ever had balls enough to try that with bluegrass and metal and whatever else you can throw in the hopper. Unlike the spawn of Scroat Belly, Split Lip Rayfield, who play metal for bluegrass freaks, Daddy’s Farm is bluegrass for metalheads. This is the loudest, fastest record we’ve ever put out. It’s not music for quietly sipping green tea and reading the Sunday New York Times. A band that’ll fuck you as soon as kill you doesn’t play it for yuks. (Though they can get their brand of honky tonk balladry and fist in your beer weepers on like ""The Booze Won't Let Me Down" or the "The Whiskey's Gone".)
More than 15 years later, the legend of Scroat Belly remains. You told us then this record was years ahead of its time; well it's time for you iPod-toting slack motherfuckers to step up to the plate.
CHOICE CUTS:
Born In A Barn
Drinkin' and Flailin'
Pistol
New Orleans
