I can now proclaim Rap is dead. I wondered into a club charging a fifteen dollar cover to see and hear a “band” called Lacs, a group of white, redneck Georgia boys who believe they are the new wave, performing what they call “Country, Southern Rock, Southern Rap.” Not only did they make me squeal like a pig at their dirt, back road rap music, but their stage performance was nothing more than a group of rednecks taking sips from long neck bottles of beer.

     The place was packed and outside their tour bus kept the band members warm during a cold spell that hit south of the Mason- Dixon line all the way to Florida. Three hours a local warm-up band played, and Lacs were acting like stars after their tour up north, most likely through some frat houses who heard their studio music which sounded like a musical Photoshop for pimply Georgia boys beating on Mama’s trailer, and thought this would be hip.

      Their following is all white, southern, self- proclaimed rednecks who proudly boasted that moniker as if halting all growth to aspire toward the next cultural level of ceasing to spit in public.  I saw one woman who had a handgun tattooed from her shoulder to elbow and thought, damn girl you might as well put a shotgun on your arm and take it to your wrist. All the men seemed to wear jeans, with a few added accessories like straw cowboy hats, and mud on their work boots.

     Hard liquor and bottle necks were being consumed so quickly it must have felt like a third helping of greasy pork chops in their stomachs. It has been a long time since I saw a crowd falling down drunk by 11 p.m. The fat bouncers wearing their orange T-shirts would say over and over again to patrons; “Let me see you walk.” If it was met with a glassy-eyed stare, as if the word “walk” was French, they were promptly pushed or carried off the premises.

     Now Lacs took to the stage drinking from their long necks. Between every song, the lead talker (not a singer in the bunch) always used the word redneck; “How are all you crazy mother fucking rednecks?” or “This next song is for all you crazy mother fucking rednecks.” or my favorite; “It’s great to be south of the Mason-Dixon line with all you mother fucking rednecks.”

     On both side of the stage 5 guitars of various types were displayed as if to say; “hey, we can afford them but we sure don’t know how to play them.” They did songs they called, “Kickin up Mud,” and “Another Shot.” I’m sure they will be releasing a love rap about pork rinds shortly.

      Here is how their bio reads: “The LACS are from the sandy dirt roads of Baxley, Georgia. A South Georgia town more famous for its sawmills and turpentine stills than for having successful southern musicians. The LACS consist of Clay “Uncle Snap” Sharpe, and Brian “ Rooster” King. With a blue collar background they have worked shutdowns with the union and framed many a house to earn enough money keep their music dreams alive. The LACS debut album “Country Boy Paradise” has just been finished and already has created a buzz with its contributions from Average Joe recording artist Colt Ford on the song “Shindig”. The album also features Danny Boone(Rehab), Matt Stillwell, and JB and the Moonshine Band. Executive producers for the Lacs are Phivestarr and Shannon “Fat Shan” Houchins.”

      They quickly should start working on their stage performance if they ever hope to make it. Rap is dead and so unhip now that white rednecks from Baxley Georgia are doing it far from the urban cities up north. Reminds me of when rock and roll crossed over to elevator music.  I wish  LACS lots of LUCS.

Categories: Humor, Life, Observations, People, Places

Tags: Country, Country Rap, pork rinds, Rap Music, Rolling Stones Magazine, Southern Rap Music, The Lacs