We never planned on callin’ it nothin’. Just cranked out songs the way we felt ‘em. No rulebook. No big-shot studio. No “this is how country’s supposed to sound.” Hell no.
It started with noise. Crunchy guitars, boots on gas pedals, voices with too much whiskey in ‘em. You hit play, and it moved. That was enough.
Then came the videos. At first, they were just there to dress it up. Something to slap on YouTube so it ain’t just a black screen.
But damn if they didn’t start growin’ legs. Next thing we knew, the song wasn’t carryin’ the picture — the picture was carryin’ the song. And both of ‘em started doin’ somethin’ bigger than either one could alone.
They stopped bein’ “tracks.” Started actin’ like scenes. Like you weren’t just watchin’ or listenin’. You were in it. Pickup’s hummin’, pawnshop light flickerin’, she just slammed the door and ain’t comin’ back. You don’t hear that. You feel it.
Someone — can’t remember who — called it “Cinematic Redneck Rock.” Not like we were startin’ a genre or nothin’. Just a way to explain what the hell was happenin’. It stuck.
‘Cause it fits.
This ain’t radio bait. Ain’t polish. Ain’t Nashville polishin’ boots. It’s grease, gravel, tension and release. A busted tail light and a shotgun on the dash. It ain’t here to please. It’s here to haunt.
Sometimes it hits like a slow burn. Sometimes like a wreck. But it’s always somewhere. You ride with it. You don’t skip it.
So yeah. Cinematic Redneck Rock. That’s what we call it when songs quit bein’ songs and start actin’ like movies your cousin filmed with a six-pack and a busted heart.
We didn’t plan it.
It just started actin’ that way.