SOUTHERN COMFORT
One loud Sunday night in the 90s, at a rock bar called the Nine Lives Saloon in Atlanta, Charlie Starr was born. Not literally, of course. But as the young singer/guitarist christened Charles Gray thrashed out AC/DC, Rolling Stones and Motörhead classics, his bandmate inadvertently gave him the name that the rest of the world would come to know him by.
“He and I had a cover band that played there every Sunday, and he started calling me that on stage,” Starr recalls. “And this was over a period of a few years, so people started calling me that all the time. I never really thought about it as a ‘stage name’ per se, or a persona. It’s nothing like that, it’s just a nickname that stuck.”
Nickname or otherwise, it pairs well with the affable frontman’s southern timbre, Keith Richards threads and beautiful vintage guitars (all of which are on display on our Zoom call) – the sort of romantic rock-star ideals upon which rock’n’roll was built, with songs to match. It worked for the Stones, and it works for Blackberry Smoke.
“We’re firm believers in not overthinking much,” drummer Brit Turner, all shaggy beard, glasses and trucker cap in the Atlanta sun, reasons on a separate Zoom call from his van. “I think people can tamper with the music so much that it doesn’t sound real.”
They make good on that ethos on part celebration of the dulcet nostalgia they do so well, part love letter to their motherland, and, in the title track, an exasperated look at the Deep South stereotypes embedded in American culture. Straight-shooting matter with a wry edge. If you like Blackberry Smoke, won’t change that.
