“Our goal is to play Louisville on a Wednesday night and get, like, 50 people out,” Joey Plunket, singer-guitarist for Country Westerns, tells the Scene. Right now, in an alternate universe where the COVID-19 pandemic never happened, you’d find Plunket, bassist Sabrina Rush and drummer Brian Kotzur in that happy place. The trio’s Fat Possum-issued, Matt Sweeney-produced self-titled debut was set to come out May 15, with a summer of dive-bar gigs to follow.
The tour’s on hold, but Country Westerns hits stores at last on Friday, and fans of gutsy, heartfelt rock ’n’ roll ought to take notice. Though the band is likely new to most, the members of the three-piece are not newcomers. Rush worked at influential Chicago label Drag City and played violin in Louisville combo State Champion; Kotzur drummed on records by Bobby Bare and William Tyler, as well as the final two Silver Jews LPs that the late David Berman made while calling Nashville home. Plunket, an Atlanta native, has been in bands all his adult life (The Weight, Gentleman Jesse and His Men, JP5), but about five years ago he took a break from playing to focus on Duke’s, the Five Points bar he and his partner Sara Nelson co-own.
Duke’s opened in the spring of 2015 and established itself almost overnight as an essential stop on any East Nashville bar crawl and a go-to post-show spot for nerding out with friends over late-night shots, beers and sandwiches. It was during one such nightcap in 2016 when Plunket and Kotzur, both free agents at the time, decided it was time to get back in the game.
Going in with no plans beyond “making a bunch of noise for drink tickets,” the duo quickly jammed a set list’s worth of songs into existence in Kotzur’s garage. Finding a steady lineup proved harder. Before bringing Rush into the fold in 2019, Country Westerns operated as a three-piece with former Bully member Reece Lazarus on bass, which swelled to a foursome when Richie Kirkpatrick (of Ghostfinger and Richie, also formerly of Kesha’s backing band) joined for a spell and bumped Lazarus to his other instrument, saxophone.
According to Plunket, the Lazarus-Kirkpatrick-era shows “sounded like pure chaos onstage.” However, a pair of short-run 7-inch singles — issued in 2018 by the label arm of East Side scenester Nic Schurman’s eclectic gallery and show space Soft Junk — gave evidence that the songs offer plenty to latch onto. Another person who heard the craftsmanship through the din was Berman, who would regularly crash the band’s rehearsals at Kotzur’s house and shows at the Springwater.
“He was always hanging around, giving us advice, teasing us,” Plunket remembers. “He was really funny. … And not ever shy about giving feedback. Sometimes it was welcomed, thoughtful. Other times we’d be like. ‘Leave me alone, man, this is just what we do for fun — drink beer, play guitar.’ But he was a real champion of the band. He pushed us, influenced us, kept us going.”
The 52-year-old songsmith’s suicide in August rocked Nashville and the entire music world, and happened only 10 days before Country Westerns were supposed to open for his acclaimed new project Purple Mountains at Mercy Lounge. But in connecting them with Sweeney, Berman left Plunket & Co. a parting gift perhaps more impactful than a single show. Not only did the Chavez main man, Bonnie “Prince” Billy collaborator and former Zwan member end up producing Country Westerns — Plunket also credits Sweeney with getting the band on Fat Possum’s radar.
Owing equally to classic rock and college rock, Country Westerns crackles with a conviction and maturity that can’t be faked. The jangly rave-up “It’s Not Easy” and soaring, raucous “I’m Not Ready” hearken back three decades to when The Replacements, R.E.M. and Uncle Tupelo ruled with grit, smarts and chiming guitars. Plunket’s tone is dense yet bright. His electric 12-string adds color, and his raspy vocals evoke Tom Waits covering Tom Petty on ragged-but-resilient numbers like “Gentle Soul” and “Slow Nights.” The rhythm section maintains an energetic foundation while serving the songs craftily, like Rush’s funky walking bass on the soulful “Guest Checks” and the tempestuous drum fills Kotzur fires off on “TV Lights.”
The taut, 11-song, 33-minute LP is the unmistakable sound of seasoned punks for whom the fire still burns. It leaves the listener with just one question: When you’ve essentially made the perfect bar band, but you’re not playing in bars, what do you do?
“We’re slowly getting back into having band meetings, playing acoustic outside and whatever feels responsible and normal,” Plunket says. “A rock record made by three middle-aged white people is not necessarily what the world needs now. But I’m glad it exists, grateful I can hold it, and hope people find some connection to it.”
