When: Fri., Jan. 8, 8 p.m. 2016
I cannot tolerate some guy that starts off a song with, “Hey, how ya’ doin’?” in a goofy E-Z Cheez affectation. I can’t respect a white boy that croons in mesquite-ese “… and like Kurtis Blow says, ‘These are the brakes.’” I cannot suffer a songwriter who writes lyrics like, “These aren’t pajamas, they’re called leisure pants,” or “I don’t want no dried up pico de gallo.” But, for explicable reasons, I can abide S. Brady Dietert doing all of the above. The tattered, Kleenex-thin shirt of a band that he wears around his Redwood frame fits him to a T. Like no other local artist that I have heard (he’s an artist in a town full of hobbyists), Dietert officiates the matrimony of Northwestern indie folk rock with Texas chicken stranglin’, bonfire-buildin’, BBgun-shootin’ music like a parson who has overseen the union of more than one jig-sawed couple. His record What Maps Don’t Show is one of the few local records I listen to in my free time. There are few S.A. artists that I feel comfortable saying have one issue — media support — standing between them and a full-time money-making music gig, Dietert is one such artist. With Daniel Thomas Phipps & The Kinfolk and Marshall John Anderson.