The Snowman Goeth, Dept.
Well, the Good Lord gathered unto Hisself one of our nation's fine'n'funky pickers. Jerry Reed passed on August 31.
Now, somewhere in Sobsister Manor, there is a box. A record box, like you used to use to keep all your bestest and most favoreet 45s. And inside this box that has defied my every motherfrackin' effort to find it are a number of classic bits of vinyl. Nestled there, maybe cheek by jowl with "Rain Dance" and "Mr. Big Stuff" and other klassic kuts, is "Amos Moses," as fonky a slab of Southern fatback as you could ever hope to find.
Now, I didn't know Mr. Jerry Reed from his movies like Smokey and the Bandit or Hot Stuff or High Ballin', films that I know have won a warm spot in the collective heart of those who enjoy seeing the humiliation of stupid sheriffs and the unassisted flight of 18-wheelers and the like. But this one plateful of chicken-pickin' heaven alone etched Mr. Reed indelibly into my brainbox.
So, now, direct from deepest, darkest nineteen-hundred and seventy-one, Amos Moses.
I double-dog dare you not to bobblehead to this one.