I am pleased to announce the release of the third Igniter book. You’ve gasped as Bozo the Clown was almost assassinated while running for President; you’ve vomited in your mouth as The Last Living Slut walked onto that Buckcherry tour bus dripping with blood. Now prepare yourself for…..the incredibly intense true-story of The Louvin Brothers.
First, a little background:
I started Igniter Books because I began receiving so many great ideas and emails from people with incredible stories. And I couldn’t write them all.
So, instead, along with a writer friend, we decided to team up great stories with great writers, and make sure they saw the light of day. And instead of writing the books, we trained the writers, edited their manuscripts, and oversaw the design.
And the story of The Louvin Brothers has been on my mind ever since I first started writing…
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CUE FLASHBACK
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…I was an intern at The Village Voice, and one day the big poobah rock critic there asked me to cat-sit at his NY apartment while he was gone. And I said “yes,” because I secretly wanted access to the incredible vinyl and CD collection he had amassed over decades of trailblazing the profession of rock criticism.
And amidst the cat-shit and urine, I discovered the greatest murder ballad of all time–“The Knoxville Girl” by the Louvin Brothers–as well as the greatest album cover of all time, “Satan is Real” by the Louvin Brothers.
(Take a moment to listen to the lyrics.)
Yes, both were by the same obscure band from the 1950’s.
Who were these guys? Elvis Presley was a fan and toured with them; Johnny Cash
idolized and toured with them. In fact, almost every roots-musician I admired said the Louvin Brothers were the greatest American harmony duo of all time.
And the story of their lives bowled me over. It was like a Coen Brothers movie waiting to get made.
One thing I’m sad to say is that Charlie Louvin passed away soon after completing this book. Much like Larry Harmon (the man behind Bozo the Clown), he never lived to see his own story published. However, I am thankful for the opportunity to have met someone who has contributed so much to the culture—and to have made sure that his story did not die with him.
While this book is NOT for everybody on this list, I’m proud to say that in addition to great coverage coming in the Los Angeles Times and Wall Street Journal, it’s already been declared “the best book cover of 2012” by Paper Magazine (who said there probably won’t be a better one all year).
So if their story is to your taste, here are a few places you can order it:
Here’s a chapter from the book, exclusively for the website. Enjoy:
Chapter 1
~ My Brother’s Keeper ~
My older brother Ira and I were finishing up a stretch of shows, the last in Georgia, and we decided to stop by the Mama’s and Papa’s place on Sand Mountain for a quick visit. Of course, we’d barely got on the road before Ira reached under his seat and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, and he drank the whole damn thing on the drive. When I pulled up to the house, I stepped out on my side, and Ira just kind of poured himself out on his.
Mama was out in the front yard, and you could tell how excited she was to see us. She came running up to try to hug him, but he put his arm out to hold her off. He was wobbling on his feet, barely able to stand upright.
She knew what was going on. Mamas know everything. “Aw, honey,” she said, “Why do you have to do this to yourself?” She wouldn’t even take communion in a church unless they had grape juice instead of wine. She didn’t use alcohol and she didn’t understand anybody who did.
She should have known better than to say that, though. Nothing pissed Ira off like when somebody tried to put a little guilt on him. “Aw, leave me alone,” he said. “I ain’t hurting nobody.”
“You’re hurting yourself,” she said. “That’s who you’re hurting.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t remember asking you,” he said, and tried to light a cigarette. He was so drunk he couldn’t even get his lighter to make a flame. “Goddamn it,” he said.
“That whiskey don’t do you no good,” she said. “It don’t do nobody no good.”
Finally he got his lighter to work, and he poked his mouth at the fire to light the cigarette, but he missed the flame.
“Your father’s in Knoxville,” she continued. “I sure am glad he’s not here right now to see you like this.”
Ira threw the still unlit cigarette on the ground. “Will you shut up, bitch?”
I can guarantee you the fucking fight was on then. I beat the shit out of him right there in the front yard. He was lucky it was just words, too. If he’d have touched her I’d still be in prison. Shit, if Papa was there, he might have killed him anyway, but I just kicked his ass all over the place. Then I stuffed him in the car, and we drove away.
“I know you ain’t asleep,” I said to him once we got on the highway. He was curled up on his side of the car, holding onto his busted face. “I’m only gonna tell you this once. If you ever talk to her like that again, I’ll beat the shit out of you again. I’ll do it every time. You can lump it or try to change it, but that’s the way it is.”
“Oh, hell, I didn’t mean nothing by it,” he slurred. “That was just that old whiskey talking.”
“That ain’t no excuse,” I said. “Nobody forced you to drink that stuff. And you’d better not ever do it again.”
Then I stopped talking and just drove, fuming. And I thought about that day, twenty-two years ago, when I saw Roy Acuff driving past the farm in his big air-cooled Franklin. I thought it must be just about the best thing on earth to ride in a car like that. Now I was driving down that same road, a Grand Ole Opry star in an automobile almost as nice, and it felt like I was suffocating. Like I was being buried alive in it.