![]() I am not a motherfucker who does fucking lunch." "Yeaaahhhh…that's where all the big Nashville stars go these days, to learn how to turn questions around and act like they love that family-values shit and deflect subjects about drugs and whoring, but I can't do that. They tried to send me to media school six fucking times." My producers hate it when I talk in public like this. And now the radio doesn't even play my shit anyhow. They tried to make my album commercial and radio-friendly, and that is not what I am all about, man. The next album I'm doing, it's all gonna be filled with all my own songs, or fuck them and I'll see you in court. Hank-3 seemes to have never heard that tenet about not telling journalists every single little thing you think, do or want, which is why he's saying, "These people at Curb are all fucking assholes. He's griping about what a hard time he had getting Curb to put even a measly three of his own songs on his debut album (which is a very impressive and totally rocking country production called Risin' Outlaw-and the three original cuts are the very best part of it, thank you very much). And he's bitching about his recording label, Curb Records. Tonight the grandson of Hank Williams is perched on barstool, balancing on his bony ass, smoking cigarettes as if there were some kind of contest for it and drinking whiskey just as competitively. It would be like if Elvis Presley had a dead-ringer grandson who someday tried to walk around Memphis without getting any attention. And you cannot hide the face of Hank Williams in this town. He's the only six-foot-two-inch, 144-pound, twangy-voiced, heavily tattooed, longhaired skeleton walking around Nashville these days who looks exactly like Hank Williams. Hank-3 is a little hard to miss, mind you. The grandson of Hank Williams bears the Christian name Shelton Hank Williams, but he is better known around these parts as Hank-3, so that's why I call him that. Me and the grandson of Hank Williams are sitting in some honky-tonk dive in downtown Nashville, listening to some mediocre band churn through some weepy old set of country-music standards.
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