Lana here, with some gloriously sad…COUNTRY??
“The peanut butter and the “yo”s, sure, we can take that,” remarks the finger-wagging British customs officer, “but your darned country music? No way in hell you’re bringing that in here!”
But in fact, I rebut, Dougie Poole tows the country-noncountry genre-dashed line, much like the “so, is it a liquid?” TSA- indeterminability of a can of spray cheese.
Dougie Poole’s music is a refurbished Chevy Camaro. Spanking new paint job, freshly detailed interior, perhaps even a pair of galaxy-printed plush dice hanging from the rearview mirror; but same 1966 metal skeleton, same desert roadside forlornness embedded in its foundation.
Though he grew up in Providence, host to more aggressive real-world rumination, now-Brooklynian Dougie Poole soon developed his very own brand of musical discourse: Country Music.0, its new iteration for the 21st century. Musing on the timeless loneliness of the human condition, Poole’s classic country baritoneness, put through exaggerated womps of Cathedral-sized reverb, weeps of the troughs of his long-term relationship, of losing track of weekdays, of the friendly glow of a computer screen driving companionless insomnia. His fiddle-like synth bends paired with a new age drum machine, his pigtail-riding cowboy hat and teal New Balances… Dougie Poole fuses a masterful linkage between the tradition-entrenched Americanness of country and the Saran-wrapped glimmer of plugged-in transnationalism, revamping the pertinence of American country’s honest despondency for the amplified loneliness of the modern era.
Open your ears to Dougie Poole’s 2017 release Wideass Highway, and get to the gig, you lovely New Yorkers.