The Chickens started their journey around the time of the Summer of Love. No, there were no flowers in their hair back then, just miles of cactus and coyote bones, and a car with a sun-baked trunk full of beer looking for the next desert Boon Docker.
These Chickens ain't no farm boys. No sir. All I can tell you is when the Mercury reaches 110 degrees, these Chickens will sing like Angels and put the drink-on like the Devil, Americana style.
Well for one, you got the Chicken Man (John). He's the tunesmith guy. Been scratching out lyrics and laying down melodies for quite some time now.
He sketches songs like portraits. Singing about the losers, the lovers, and the landscapes and old neighborhoods that serve as life's backdrop. Stuff you can listen to and like.
Then there's Wildman Fudge (Kim). He once polished a chicken bone and made it into a slide for his guitar. When his hand gets all sweaty on that chicken bone slide, it's the best chicken broth you'll ever listen to. He's got the Mandolin thing covered too. That Mando will cock-your-doodle-do every time you hear it.
We got Chicken Picken (Rick) too. He plays the thickest strings on his Bass this side of the McDowells - regular transmission lines. He's the heartbeat of the band. That Bass is always thumpin, poundin, thumpin, poundin, keeping the music blood flowing, keeping the Chickens alive.
Also got Elmo P. (Jon). Elmo plays the harmonica. Hearing that harp.... makes you think about putting some bacon grease on your beef burrito - Hmmmm...Oh so good. It should be. He was mentored as a young child by Howlin Crotchrot Hamilton a little known blues legend. Now Elmo can bring a train home from 500 miles away with that harp. Tell you that for sure.
So, if you get a chance, set yourself down a spell. Give the Chickens a listen.
