Big Sandy & His Fly-Rite Boys 

With Hayshaker Jones. Saturday, July 22, at the Grog Shop.

Retro movements generally suck. They're usually populated with high-handed trendoids who won't acknowledge you unless you're "of the body" (i.e., adhere to their dress code). Most of them probably didn't even know who Dean Martin, Johnny Burnette, and Louis Jordan were eight months earlier. You can bet the rent Big Sandy and his posse do.

Big Sandy & His Fly-Rite Boys are the real deal -- they know rockabilly inside 'n' out, but not as over-moussed, by-the-numbers poseurs. They've traced the source of American music via the coalescing/colliding of pop, country players hopped-up on bennies and suave, irreverent jump-blues singers (like Jordan). At it since '93, the Boys have so much swinging suss, they don't need to play it loud and hyper to convince that they're for real. Their lissome guitar and steel licks glisten like holy water at a sunrise service, while Sandy's stunning voice is as smooth as Dino, earnest as Ritchie Valens, as boisterously cool as Big Joe Turner and Dion.

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