“Merlin wasn’t real.”
“Fuck you Merlin wasn’t real.”
“It’s a story.”
“Merlin was part of King Henry’s court and he fucking won all the wars for him ’cause he cast spells. Fuck you, man. That shit’s real.”
“He was part of King Arthur, not King Henry…”
“Yeah, it’s a fable. A fable is history.”

Ah, FUBAR. Amazing. But you know something? Deaner got it absolutely right. A fable is history. The divide between truth and fiction has long since vanished and wizards walk — or, rather, rock — amongst us. I know. So what you’re about to read, everything I’m about to tell you of the outlaw Gideon Smith and his court of motorcycle madmen, The Dixie Damned, may sound like pure cowboy fantasy, a Southern-fried fairy tale full of tumbleweed, rattlers, whiskey, blood, dust, ghosts, and backwoods psychedelia, but it’s simply this: the narcotic we desire most.

Gideon, the Charlotte, North Carolina native, began life as a wizard when he apprenticed at the faithful and frenzied school of Destructo Maximus as a roadie while under the bloody-faced tutelage of Jeff Clayton and his band of wrestlin’ lovin’ murder junkies, ANTiSEEN. The years he spent in that chaotic foxhole, surrounded by barb wire and explosives, arm in arm with the Confederacy of Scum, would spark in him a desire to branch out on his own. So, in 1997, Gideon took that giant leap into outlaw territory with some former Animal Bag members, now dubbed The Dixie Damned.

Gideon Smith & The Dixie Damned spin a swampy brand of blues-infused doom rock, a heavy dose of Southern boogie n’ groove with a hairy chest and meat cleavers for hands. They mix the super-sized spirituality of The Cult with the chain gang riffs of Circus of Power and end up with a shamanistic brand of trippy, bad-ass, redneck biker rock. Gideon’s vocals might be some of the most recognizable in all of rock n’ roll, rolling out of his diaphragm like they’re coming up from the bottom of a well, where Elvis’ bloated carcass floats face down in bong water. The band released a self-titled EP some time after forming, but it wasn’t until 2004′s full-length, Southern Gentlemen, that word came down that there was a new wizard in town.

But, like a wizard is wont to do, Gideon vanished for a few years, appearing only on various tribute albums and compilations. He spent his years in exile dealing with death and cultivating is outlaw way of life, recording some spoken word/poetry stuff on such themes as paganism, the occult, the power of positive thinking, beauty, creativity, and strength, and writing his manifesto, Way of the Outlaw Spirit. Gideon Smith & The Dixie Damned returned to the fold with a six-song EP, Dealin’ Decks, and their second full-length in 2008, South Side of the Moon.

So, what’s Gideon up to now? How goes it in the world of this particular wizard, this rock n’ roll outlaw? What bearded mischief has he been up to? Well, I take council with the man himself, my brother in both wizardry and beard, and we discuss such epic matters as his new album, what it means to be an outlaw, what it means to be a wizard (and how we can’t actually discuss anything to do with wizardry because it’s all top secret), and, of course, beards. There’s even an uncomfortable moment when I mention something about a girl and some chains. This is the stuff you crave, my friend. This is the fable of truth.

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The Dangerous Aces
…Deny All Responsibility
Self-Released

I’ve got a gonzo rock journo friend over in Merry ‘Ol who I wrote with for many years when we were both stalwarts of Sleazegrinder’s legendary jive cotillion. We spent a lot of time in the trenches together doing our part for the Super Rock Revolution. His name is “Medicine” Stu Gibson and he’s the finest, marbled-mouthed, mutton-chopped, pub crawling, rabble rousing psycho cowboy you’ll ever have the fortune of reading. His lust for loose-lipped loquaciousness knows no limits and is matched only by his love for late-night libations, which no doubt leaks into the lackadaisical lyrics of his lordly lamentations. You have to read him to get him, and even then you still might not get him, but that’s okay because Medicine Stu can play a git’ just as well as he can stroke a pen. He’s not afraid to put his pounds where his pucker is, and as such is best known as the soused singer and axe slinger for country punk heroes The Medicine Bow. But when the Bow breaks, the cradle must continue to rock, so Medicine Stu is gutter-bound with his guitar to find stardom among the sewer rats with a rag-tag racket of Manchester mayhem, The Dangerous Aces.

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I’m a solid four-and-a-half hour drive from Edmonton on a clear day, and there’s not many of those after the month of September in Northern Alberta. Autumn is but a whisper here. Hunters have just a few weeks of crisp, calm conditions in which to kill a cow elk and feed the family for the winter or else they’ll be searching for a clear shot through the swirling snow. It’s not unusual to see a wild rose bloom one day and the mercury drop out the bottom of the thermometer the next. You’re not insane if you put snow tires on your truck in August, you’re thinking ahead. So the thought of driving to Edmonton in the winter, even with the snow tires on, is enough to send me into permanent hibernation, but not even the blinding white wrath of Höðr will keep me from making it to the big city in late November. You see, all this frozen prairie wasteland nonsense, well…that was prior to the fire.

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