Bob Wire: Press/Reviews

Artist: Bob Wire
Album: Sentimental Breakdown
Website: http://www.bobwiremusic.com
Genre: Blues/Roots Rock
Sounds Like: Sun Records rockabilly, George Jones, Buck Owens
Production/Musicianship Grade: 9/10
Commercial Value: 8/10
Overall Talent Level: 9/10
Songwriting Skills: 9/10
Performance Skill: 9/10
Best Songs: My Heartache and Me, Hotel Maximillian, In Defense of the Raisin
CD Review: I’ve been taking life too darned seriously lately, and Bob Wire's Sentimental Breakdown is just the remedy for that affliction. Like he did on his previous album, American Piehole, Bob Wire fills this set with often-goofy, well-played country and rockabilly numbers that would fire up a tavern on a Saturday night.

“Cadillac Jones” leaps off the disc, followed by the careening “Adios and Vaya Con Dios.” I love the story of “Cadillac,” “Adios” is a fun kiss-off rocker, and both are fueled by David Colledge’s stinging guitar. Colledge is also on fire on the wacky “In Defense of the Raisin” (yes, it is an ode to the dried-up grape, and it rocks) and the barroom blues “Call Mr. Fix-It.”

Next up are two of my favorites, “My Heartache and Me” and Jesus In My Heart.” “Heartache is a good ol’ cry-in-your-beer weeper with sing-along backing vocals, and Bob Athearn’s Floyd Cramer-esque piano ripples nicely. “Jesus” is Wire’s most clever lyric, and I was able to play my new banjo to the straight-up acoustic arrangement (with a churchy organ thrown in for the bridge).

“Rescue Yourself” and “Hotel Maximillian” are strong departures from the general silliness. “Rescue” is a loping tale of two what-have-we-got-to-lose folks who find each other, if only for a moment, and “Hotel Maximillian” is an eerie, twangy tale of tragedy.

The disc closes with Wire and his band’s deep-fried take on one of my favorite songs of all time, John Denver’s “Take Me Home Country Roads.” It’s an unexpected, smoking set-closer.

I should add here that Mr. Wire’s vocal delivery throughout the disc is top-notch, rich and infused with just the right amount of country pathos. And he has put together a nifty batch of tunes to sing.

Bob Wire’s latest overflows with classic country characters: heartbroken boozers, lovable transgressors, oblivious fools and a Coup de Ville enthusiast named “Cadillac Jones.” But the local musician—aka Ednor Therriault—doesn’t play his characters straight and he will not be backed into a corner of tear-in-your-beer schmaltz or self-important, pop-country crap. Even tunes that appear classically sentimental like “My Heartache and Me” can’t completely escape the tongue-in-cheek tone of the album’s title.

That’s not to say Sentimental Breakdown isn’t serious
. On the contrary, it’s a dangerously engaging album. It may be less aggressive than the last Bob Wire effort, American Piehole, but his subtle wickedness and buoyant mockery here are just as potent as any face punch. The clap-happy “Jesus in My Heart” saddles itself to lines like “I’m prayin’ and I’m grinnin’ but I go right on sinnin’, long as I got Jesus in my heart;” each time the chorus becomes more deliciously unapologetic. And in “Adios and Vaya Con Dios,” a guy breaks up with his smoking, drinking, enabling girlfriend lest he go early to his grave.

You can’t beat the candor on Sentimental Breakdown, and the rowdy cover of “Take Me Home Country Roads” is Bob Wire’s proverbial cherry on top. (Erika Fredrickson)

Bob Wire’s on a mission, first to save country music from itself - he figures most of it contains far too much lame-itude - and second to save himself.

The former is up for debate, but the latter he explores in “Jesus in My Heart,” the alt-country crooner’s new CD, “Sentimental Breakdown.”

“I’ve got Jesus in my heart, every week I get a brand-new start,” sings Wire on this 11-track CD. But if you think Wire’s got a new religion, think again, because this is no revivalist CD. “But I’m praying and I’m grinnin’, cause I go right on sinnin’, as long as I’ve got Jesus in my heart.”
*
Yes, Wire loves hypocrisy, relationships torn apart by cigarettes and booze (“Adios Y Vaya Con Dios”), the glory of raisin-farming (“In Defense of the Raisin”) and other such mundaneness and trivialities of life that he finds - and makes - so amusing.

This is good ol’ country with a punk mentality, if the punkers had a sense of humor. And if you’ve ever seen Bob Wire in his ubiquitous performances around Missoula and elsewhere, you know you’re in for a good, hearty laugh with a side of grits - as well as a raucous cover of John Denver’s “Take Me Home (Country Roads).” And no, there is nothing irreverent about Wire’s cover - he wouldn’t dance on anyone’s grave now, would he?

Here's a fabulous review of Sentimental Breakdown from the popular internet roots radio show, Rootsville in Belgium. I don't speak Dutch, unfortunately, so I ran it through a free online translation thingy. I can't even tell from this if it's positive or negative, but it's pretty damn funny:


That you something groundlessly must never take over was us already clear become with the debut album "American Piehole" of Ednor Therriault aka Bob Wire. Fans or Steve Earle, Dwight Yoakam, Jason & the Scorchers and the Bottle Rockets sit really not to wait on this honky tonker from Missoula, Montana and we ginger it then also from out that Bobke yet many sandwiches with choco or plates cornflakes had to consume in the slipstream of bovenvermelde artists to attain.

Apparently has the man its eetgewoonten what adapted to the rough americana / roots world and let he now single half liters beer and a double Mo want to advance for breakfast .....het reflects self all in a number songs that somewhat more sturdily for the day come. The blues - rock guitar on "Alabama Hoodoo Witch", "Cadillac Jones" and "Call Mr. Fixit", the Chuck Berry gitaarrrif on "In Defense or the Raisin", the plain fizzy drink - tempo country tunes "Our Praise Is Solid" and "Adios & Vaya Con Dios" and a successful "breakneck" version (featuring two guest led guitarists) of "Task Me Home Country Roads" (John Denver) are best to swallow and for who it in its head dares to get round 'any reproduction honored distribution pine written license' to consider is with These warned... "It's prohibited by law ...and if Bob Wire catches you ....punishement want be swift and terrible! The funny "Jesus in my Heart" and "Rescue Yourself" link refers to the work of Robbie Fulks, the Floyd Cramer -style barrelhouse piano on "My Heartache and Me" to the 50' s then Faron Young, Lefty Frizell and Ray Price responsible were for the honky - tonk shuffles.

Is the albums "Sentimental Breakdown" a multicolored mix of "irreverent lyrics and rootsy, will play is dance - floor - ready arrangements" from the present and past, or Bob Wire also a role of meaning in the future yet a? only this disk opens a number of amusing perspectives. (SWA)

The title came at me a little weird, then I got the Don MacLean reference. But Bob Wire (also known as Ednor Therriault — seems like a fine Cajun name to me!) is an excellent songwriter, with a sense of humor. There’s Roots Rock here, but plenty of Country too. His band is called the Magnificent Bastards, and they’re from Missoula. The two guitars, bass & drums lineup is augmented by harmonica, fiddle, accordion and steel guitar on the CD. His songs, like “Laundromat” and “Too Tired To Cheat” tell good stories. Though he’s not a great singer, the quality of the lyrics makes up for this most of the time, and the band plays the right stuff. Some of you might prefer that “he could sing the phone book” type of singer. Me, I’d rather hear some great songs, and this is a place to come for some. I like it best when the singer/songwriter couches his stories in danceable rootsy genres, and Bob Wire is driving right down the middle of that road. Dig this line, “I paid less for my house than I did for my pickup truck,” from “White Trash Paradise.” He may have borrowed the line from Jeff Foxworthy, but it’s a good’un. That one is kind of a faux Lynyrd Skynyrd tune, perfect for the group being satirized. While Bob may have a toe or two in the Folky camp, he manages mostly to avoid the majority of clichés that they find unavoidable. “King of the Honky Tonk” could be a sequel to “Queen of the Silver Dollar,” though he’s not in Shel Silverstein’s league. He does remind me of Tom Armstrong though, and that’s a good thing. I hope Tom puts out another CD one of these days! And, for the kids he’s included a couple of tunes full of violence, “Cold Blooded Killer” and “Rio de Muerte.” While it’s a bit up and down, “She Took a Powder” is another one that remindes me of Armstrong. Looks like he wrote the second to last song with his dad, and then dedicated “Saigon” to him.

Hokey country bluesman is actually better than he pretends to be
by Robin Cracknell

‘Bob Wire’ , aka Ednor Therriault, hails from Missoula Montana and, between raising a couple of kids and doing freelance graphic design he occasionally tours the local bar circuit with his band, The Magnificent Bastards. With a cheesy title like “American Piehole”, the impression is that of a middle aged man’s side-project, a chance for some free beers and dragging out the old rock and roll fantasy for a couple more years. He says ‘he writes songs for adults who have a sense of humour and aren’t afraid to think for themselves’ although, on the evidence here, his talents exceed that naff bravado and the jokey hokum may just be something to hide behind if the critics turn nasty. Despite the corny lyrics and self-effacing redneck humour, Wire (they call him ‘The Burlap Fog’) has a nice line in retro-country vocals and his band, although they may have their best years behind them, sound tight and professional--certainly more punch than paunch. The real surprise here is that the songs themselves are actually far more sophisticated and interesting than the tongue-in-cheek presentation suggests. The humour of lyrics like ‘White Trash Paradise’ has all been done before (and Robbie Fulks he ain’t) but when Wire takes the mask off and plays it straight as on ‘Saigon’, ‘Rio de Muerte’ and ‘Tucson’ he transcends his own goofy pastiche and actually sings and plays like a seasoned pro. Take away the hackneyed jokes and repackage the cd with a sepia picture of a something like a saguaro cactus or some scuffed-up cowboy boots (come on, you’re a graphic designer!) and this could almost pass as a legitimate piece of contemporary Americana. Don’t be put off by the jokes. In an unusual inversion of traditional marketing methods, Bob Wire is actually better than the cartoonish pastiche he pretends to be. Usually, it’s the other way around.

In real life, we all appreciate the guy or gal who can make us laugh, but can also be serious when the occasion demands it. Nobody likes somebody with no sense of humor or someone who takes nothing seriously. So why is it that in music we demand artists be one or the other? Sure, Tim McGraw's done a couple near novelty songs, but for the most part we don't want to hear Cletus T. Judd singing about anything that matters or Martina McBride cracking wise.

Too bad cuz Bob Wire and the Magnificent Bastards are too talented to be limited. They can be funny ("Too Tired to Cheat" "White Trash Paradise"), but that doesn't mean they can't be serious as well. "Dirty Paradise" is a brilliant look at the cost of pollution and "Saigon" confronts us with the uncomfortable truth about how war turns ordinary men into monsters, and some men like it for just that reason.

But they're probably at their best when they skate the line between comedy and tragedy, as on "She Took a Powder" where a man laments the loss of his true love because (among other things) his hand is getting sore and the taste of tears is ruining his oatmeal. On "As For Me," Mr. Wire decides he'll forego the promised land and live forever on earth. Lyrics this good (and a great honky-tonk sounds behind them) are way too good to by limited to just one demeanor.

Bob Wire
American Piehole
self-released

Ednor Theriault—his onstage alter-ego is Bob Wire—is a songwriter. His first full-length effort, American Piehole, is a songwriter’s album: crisp and orchestrated, showcasing the craft of construction ahead of the ensemble performing the tunes. That said, his backing band The Magnificent Bastards is capable and canny, ably executing Wire’s earnest writing, which aims at telling stories both serious and silly.

Those stories might make a listener cringe, often enough intentionally as on “Too Tired to Cheat,” which instructs a long-suffering wife that “if you pick up the phone and there’s a girl on the line, won’t you please tell her ‘Maybe some other time.’” Other times, the cringe comes at the expense of the writer and not the character he’s teeing off on, as in “White Trash Paradise,” which deftlessly exclaims, “I keep things simple ’cause I don’t like to think too much.”

At its best, which is more often than not, Wire tells his stories with sly insinuation—e.g., the aforementioned simpleton celebrates “getting Christmas cards from the folks at the Rent-to-Own”—illustrating scenes obliquely but vividly. And when the consistently ingratiating music on American Piehole winds up behind lyrics that resort to tedious telling or forced rhymes, well, you’ll just have to forgive on first listen, because you’ll be singing along anyway by the fifth. (Jason Wiener)

When I read the bio that accompanied this disc, I thought, “Hot dog!” It referenced the Bottle Rockets, Jason and the Scorchers, and one of my all-time favorite long-lost bands, the Beat Farmers. Back in college, those bands made me fall in love with punkish rockabilly, and they led me to seek out outlaw musical heroes of yore.

While Bob Wire’s America Piehole won’t change my life the way the Beat Farmers’ Tales of the New West did, it is still a fun romp. Of the 14 songs on this disc, three are great and five are darn good. And even the rest are probably fun to hear on a Saturday night in a Montana bar.

“Too Tired to Cheat,” the first of the great numbers, reminds me of something I heard on Hee Haw when I was a kid, and I mean that in a good way: “I need something to eat, I’m running on empty/I would’t have what it takes even if she could tempt me.” Grace Decker on fiddle, Gibson Hartwell on steel guitar and David Colledge of guitar provide the authentic twang.

Bob is capable of clever, funny lyrics, but a few songs fall flat: “White Trash Paradise” relies on the usual clichés, and the lines that aren’t don’t make sense: the proud rednecks I know don’t drink wine from a box or hang pictures of the Pope. And “King of the Honky Tonk” is a nice idea – a country idol who is lonely deep down inside – but the rhymes sound forced.

It hit me as I was doing yard work this afternoon: “Tucson” reminds me – in spirit if not exactly in sound – of the great Statler Brothers song “Class of ’57.” The lyrics tell a poignant tale of two old friends reuniting (I couldn’t help but think of Brokeback Mountain, even though I don’t think it’s meant that way). Colledge contributes more of his Buck Owens-style picking, and Dan Funsch’s accordion adds to the nostalgic vibe.

“Cold-Blooded Killer” and “Rio De Muerte” have a similar minor-key tale-of-the-old-west feel. The guitar-fiddle dueling of “Killer” smokes, and it has cool couplets of doom like this: “Wyoming’s population shrank/when Johnny robbed a couple banks.” I found myself closely following the story of the Indian girl in “Muerte” to find out what happened next.

There have been so, so many songs written about America’s natural splendor being pillaged for the sake of industry. But “Dirty Paradise” holds its own against any of them, and it’s Bob’s best lyric on the album.

Bob’s humor is at its best on “As For Me,” in which the hero proudly states his refusal to grow old and peacefully die: “I’m gonna be right here, sippin’ cold beer, six feet over the ground.”

Even cuts I don’t dig as much, such as “Clean Livin’” (not too fond of the lyrics, but the guitar punched me in the gut) and “All Liquored Up,” probably work great in front of a partying crowd. There’s no doubt this band swings, and some of Bob’s wordsmithing sounds better after a few drinks – I tested this theory.

Nice job, Bob (and his buddies) – I used to skip class to listen to records like American Piehole. And now that I think about, even on that Beat Farmers album, there were a few songs I didn’t like.

Bob Wire's Sentimental Breakdown

Years ago I had a 1976 Cadillac El Dorado, green, with a white top. It was a huge vessel; the backseat alone was cavernous enough to host an orgy if I’d had a mind (or the means) to. A band could have used the hood for a stage. I loved the car, but it needed a lot of work, so I ended up selling it for $500. I could tell the guy who bought it loved it more than I did the moment he laid eyes on it. He was an older guy, small and wiry, and had the gritty drawl of a chain smoker. His hair was swept up in an Elvis-styled cut that made me wonder where the ducktail ended and the sideburns began. He said he’d take the caddy, left, and came back a couple hours later with his money. $300 in cash, and the other $200 was a mix of quarter rolls, dime rolls, and a big jug of mixed-up change that we counted out together on the hood of the caddy.

I had not really thought of that car, or the character who bought it from me, for years. Then it all came back to me as I was nodding along, beer in hand, as Bob Wire and his Magnificent Bastards ripped into a tune called “Cadillac Jones” during a live show I attended a couple months ago. It surfaced again when I popped his new album into my CD player to listen, and the song kicked the record off to a rousing start. I recognized the hook immediately, and smiled.

The eternal struggle for bands who thrive when stumbling around on stage is to capture the energy and vibe of the live show on tape, package it up and deliver it. I don’t know whether or not Bob Wire made an effort to do that, but intentionally or not he pulled it off. Sentimental Breakdown, Wire’s second release since going solo, is everything a kick-up-your-heels-and-yee-haw country roadhouse show is all about, minus the bad breath and beer stains.

Country music is not just big hats, shiny boots and pickup commercials. The foundation of the art form is built on folks coming down out of the hills with their instruments, laying traditional melodies down in one take, and having that recording blasted out over North America courtesy of the old border radio stations of Texas and Mexico. Or Hank Williams strumming his guitar and pouring out his soul through a single microphone direct to acetate. The music of the early days was immediate, intimate and heartfelt. Modern country is a mishmash of million dollar recording budgets, limos and award shows that have totally lost the plot. Successful? Very. But in a glitzy, hyper-processed, pop music kind of way that seems light years from the muddy origins of country music.

Bob Wire understands this. That is not to say this is some analog obsessed, vintage-gear-or-no-gear-at-all outfit. This record was tracked in Wire’s home studio over a period of several months, using home recording technology that guys like Faron Young, Lefty Frizzell and Ray Price couldn’t even dream of. It is, however, an approach that takes the music back from The Man. Rather than wait around for his music to be “legitimized” by some suit deciding that maybe he can make a buck or two off a guy’s creativity, Wire decides, “Fuck you, I’m taking it directly to the people myself!” The internet has picked up where the border basters left off. In an era that sees the spreading ripple effect of a recording industry squeezed by the actions of people fed up with decades of being spoon fed only what a handful of executives want them to hear, it is the DIY ethic of artists like Bob Wire that provides the best hope for not just country music, but music and musicians in general.

Of course none of this matters at all if the songs suck, and they don’t. Eleven songs – ten originals and one cover – comprise the recording. These songs are lean and mean; precise arrangements, compelling melodies, and a dedication to “don’t bore us, get to the chorus!” proves that Wire takes the craftsmanship of songwriting seriously. Most of the cuts I could remember having heard from that live show, which proves the hooks are sharp and set themselves deep. Like the best of what we call country music, these songs are character driven, whether it is the caddy loving protagonist of “Cadillac Jones” or the angry, at wit’s end police officer of the epic “Hotel Maximillian,” a track which reminded me of Springsteen’s “Highway Patrolman” (from his stripped-down masterpiece, Nebraska) not so much in sound or style, but in sentiment. In this case, however, the man at the center of the tale has a different take on the bonds of family than did the Boss’s Joe Roberts.

Simply put, Bob Wire writes songs about people, not about the songwriter telling the world how country, rich, or otherwise badass he may think he is. He doesn’t want any boots up anyone’s ass, he wants them on the dance floor. Even the songs rooted in humor – and it wouldn’t be a Bob Wire record without them – still revolve around some kind of loveable loser, blissfully unaware of how the world really works. It all wraps up with a foot-stomping romp through John Denver’s “Country Roads,” a crowd pleaser live that works just as well, if not better, closing a CD as it does a tequila-fueled third set. At least when I roar down the highway singing at the top of my lungs, I don’t have to worry about getting doused in beer.

Sentimental Breakdown is an excellent release from one of underground country’s finest characters. I recommend it for living room dance parties, road trips, and as something to fill the space between pilgrimages to the road house. Hell, if these guys would only turn up to 11, it would damn near be a rock album!

May 4, 2006

Hats off with Ednor Therriault

Ednor Therriault orders beer and a double Mo burger for lunch. At least I think I’m eating lunch with Ednor—the 46-year-old freelance graphic artist and father of two who’s dressed in shorts and Chacos on this spring-bordering-summer afternoon—and not his alter ego Bob Wire, but that’s only because the guy across the table’s given me a simple criterion for distinguishing: “If I’m wearing the hat, it’s Bob. If I’m not, it’s Ednor.”

Still, every once in a while, despite the hat’s absence, I’m pretty sure it’s Bob sitting across the table, mainly because, as Therriault puts it, “Bob will say things in public that I would not say—usually involving the word vagina.”

As, for instance, when my interlocutor, whoever he is, gleefully relates how Bob Wire got Ednor Therriault in trouble by reciting a nugget from chucknorrisfacts.com—“When Chuck Norris breaks up with a girl, he doesn’t break up with her. He just punches her in the vagina, and she goes away”—that made its way into some patter during a recent show at the Union Club. The reaction? “I had some woman read me the riot act after the show.” Reflecting on the incident, and Bob’s tendency to crassly refer to genitalia in inappropriate settings, Therriault says, “You know, it’s just not worth it.”

Maybe not, but it’s unlikely Therriault’s Bob Wire persona will get retired anytime soon, since this Saturday Bob Wire and the Magnificent Bastards release their debut CD, American Piehole. The studio effort, coproduced by Magnificent Bastard bass player Ron Setzer, sports 14 tunes of straightforward, traditional country music driven by storytelling and a reflective equilibrium honed with Bob Wire’s aesthetic sensibility: “Every time I write a line or the music to it, I immediately think of how it’s going to go onstage at the Union Club,” where Therriault spent scores of nights playing as part of Bob Wire and the Fencemenders, with whom he released Waiting for Dark in 2000.

While gigging with the former band (the Fencemenders still occasionally reunite, by request), Therriault explains, “I wound up becoming Bob Wire sort of by default” because, at the band’s inception, “none of us were going to be Bob Wire…But after playing live with that name people started calling me Bob Wire—like Deborah Harry being called Blondie—and I thought this is kind of fun to get up onstage and play this character.”

Therriault’s story of hooking up with the Fencemenders, a project which Garth Whitson—now of The Countryists—shared the fronting duties, foreshadows Bob Wire’s emergence. About six months after moving to Missoula in 1993, and a brief stint with the stalwart bar band Betty for Sheriff, Therriault hooked up with Whitson, who was then playing in a three-piece called Small Town Deputies.

“I put an ad in the Indy in the music section: ‘Guitarist, singer looking for a band. Style is Johnny Cash, a stick of dynamite up Jerry Lee Lewis’ ass and Hank Williams lighting the fuse’,” remembers Therriault. “These guys called me up. They just wanted to see the guy who had written the ad. They had no spot in the band. So I kind of tried to ingratiate myself into their band…Pretty soon it imploded, and I kept on with Garth who was the drummer. So he and I found a harmonica player and bass player, and we formed the Fencemenders after that.”

That was 1995. Bob Wire and the Fencemenders stopped gigging regularly in 2004, and Therriault sees Bob Wire and the Magnificent Bastards as more than a personnel change.

“The Fencemenders have always played about 90 percent covers, some fairly obscure covers,” he says. “The new band is almost inverse to that, about 75-percent original. Also, I look at the hierarchy a little bit differently. Garth and I pretty much ran that band, made all the decisions. I look at the new band as a solo artist and his backing band.”

Taking that sort of control seemed essential to Therriault for achieving his “ultimate goal” of making a living as a songwriter. “I put [the Magnificent Bastards] together with the specific goal of putting together a CD of all original material, saying, okay, you guys can help me arrange the songs and bring them to life but here’s the songs.”

Many of those songs, captured on American Piehole, wouldn’t seem to fit well on the dedicated country music slots of the FM dial, which Therriault acknowledges.

“I’m not really prone to wrapping things up in a nice little bow at the end,” he says. “People tell me that all the time, ‘Why didn’t the guy make up with his dad at the end of the song?’ ‘Why didn’t the guy get the girl?’ That’s what you expect. I just want to challenge people a little bit.”

He doesn’t hear that challenge on contemporary country radio, which instead features what he describes as “feminist soft-rock country, soccer mom empowerment tunes. They’re all built around a bumper sticker, some clever phrase…I just can’t write like that. I’m a writer at heart, with words.”

That means, says Therriault, “putting together stories with interesting characters and a good story arc—a beginning, a middle and an end.” And if stories about a Midwestern killing spree (“Cold Blooded Killer”), or putting off an imminent reckoning with a self-destructive hell-raising streak in favor of one more day of crapulence (“Clean Livin’”), or a soldier in Vietnam who’s so well-adjusted to dystopia that he doesn’t want the war to end (“Saigon”), or even just a “Rio de Meurte (River of Death)” in the mountains outside Oaxaca, Mexico, don’t appeal to the people radio is aimed at, Therriault is unapologetic.

“I would rather fail at trying to get my stuff on the radio,” he says, “than to learn how to write the stuff that’s on there now.”

Still, he aims for commercial success, saying, “I’m hoping the pendulum has swung far enough towards pop culture that it’s going to come back toward something more authentic.” And either way, Therriault (or maybe Wire) isn’t in an accommodating mood. “I’m not going for the big demographics…Personally, I consider myself a feminist, but I have a hard time writing songs from a woman’s perspective. I gotta write what I know. I don’t have a cock holster. I’m a guy.”

Even if Nashville fails to move to Therriault’s position, Missoula suits him just fine. “I feel I’m very, very fortunate to be in a town, especially this size, where I can get away with playing mostly original music and people respond to it…Here, if you work hard and get together some decent material and have an entertaining show, it doesn’t take long for people to start coming.”

And as far as keeping a handle on his handle, Therriault has found a balance that suits him for now. “I’ve tried to maintain some separation between Bob Wire and Ednor,” he says. “Anything to do with music, I’m Bob Wire; anything to do with getting paid, I’m Ednor.”

Bob Wire and The Magnificent Bastards throw a CD release party for American Piehole on Saturday, May 6, at the Union Club. 9:30 PM. Free.

May 4, 2006

GET WIRED

There was a time when Bob Wire seemed to be everywhere. As front-man for Bob Wire and the Fencemenders back in the late ‘90s and early ‘00s, Wire often performed twice a week or more around Missoula and western Montana.
Publicly, he’s been considerably scarcer in recent years; and the Fencemenders have officially broken up.
But don’t think Bob Wire has stopped playing. If anything, he’s been more focused on music than ever before.
“When I quit the Fencemenders in 2004, it’s because I decided I really wanted to concentrate on songwriting and developing that part of my musical life,” explains Wire (whose real name is Ednor Therriault). “I’ve been really focused on that ever since.”
So focused, in fact, that although he is just about to release his first new album since 2000, Wire already figures he’s got the material together for his next record.
First things first, though: This week, Bob Wire will release “American Piehole,” a 14-track run of jangly honky-tonk tunes, all of them written by Wire himself and performed with the Magnificent Bastards, a backing band that includes guitarist David Colledge, drummer Jack Barnings, and bassist Ron Setzer.
“I considered calling the group Bob Wire and the Bob Wire Band featuring Bob Wire, but it didn’t fit on the bass drum head,” Wire says.
Such quips sound like classic Wire, who is known equally for his tasty country music and his comic stage banter between songs. Wire knows all too well that his comic tendencies might make him seem less like Johnny Cash than Weird Al.
He says his newest album is, in a way, an attempt to balance that well-known irreverence with through-written music built around earnest topics.
“I try to write mature music for adults who have a sense of humor,” says Wire.
Indeed, sometimes these days, he just tries to write mature music. Take the song “Saigon,” which tells the tale of a young soldier in Vietnam who has just received a “Dear John” letter from his stateside love.
“I researched that song for over a year so I could get the details right, even though Vietnam is just a background to the song,” says Wire. “There’s nothing there that’s funny; it’s a pretty straight story. It’s probably the closest thing to a folk song I’ve written.”
Of course, a moment later, he can’t resist to add a punchline: “Too bad I’m 30 years behind the times.”
Wire admits he misses spending so much time bathed in the spotlights.
“After being off the stage a year and a half, I find I really need it,” he says. “It’s a release that very few people ever know. It saves me a ton of money in therapy.”
So catch Bob Wire when he returns to the stage, along with the Magnificent Bastards, at the CD release party for “American Piehole” this Saturday, May 6, at the Union Club in Missoula. A special drink called the Magnificent Bastard will be available at the bar, and the first 200 people to arrive receive free beer cozies.

Feb. 10, 2005

Bob Wire Restrings With New Band

Bob Wire has stopped mending fences.
Well, that may sound more harsh than is actually the case. But the popular local honky-tonk musician has amicably parted ways with his longtime band, the Fencemenders, and launched a new band.
“It’s just a change of direction for me, just to focus on my own material more,” says Wire (aka Ednor Therriault).
“The Fencemenders have three other really good songwriters in the band, and now I’m working on recording a CD of all-original material, so I decided to go out on my own.”
If this sounds like a familiar tune, it’s worth recalling that Bob Wire and the Fencemenders have broken up numerous times in the past, only to reunite for one-off shows that end up turning into full-blown, ongoing reunions. Most recently, the band played a tribute to Johnny Cash at Sean Kelly’s last September.
Despite that on-again, off-again relationship, the band has been a staple of the Missoula scene - and, in particular, the Union Club - for a full decade. Their brand of upbeat country swing, rockabilly and honky-tonk has been a regular draw at area venues, and the band’s on-stage antics have been an important part of the group’s identity as well.
Although Wire insists that his new band will focus on “less bombast, less schtick,” it’s hard to imagine him restraining himself when he takes the stage. For that matter, it’s hard to imagine less schtick and bombast from a band called - ahem - the Magnificent Bastards.
“I guess really I can’t avoid having a sense of humor about the whole thing, because the worst thing is to take this stuff too seriously,” admits Wire.
What he is taking more seriously these days is his own songwriting. With the Fencemenders, Wire says the mix was approximately 20 percent original music, 80 percent covers of classic songs. In the Magnificent Bastards, those proportions are almost exactly reversed.
“I’m trying to make my avocation my vocation, so I’ll be peddling some songs to Nashville and such,” says Wire. “If you don’t live in Nashville, it’s an extreme long shot; but I’m not willing to uproot my family to move there, so I’m just gonna do what I can do and see what happens with that.”
As to the dissolution of the Fencemenders, Wire says it has been a fun run with the band, but it just felt like time to move on. The other members of the band have already been performing for some time in a Wire-less configuration as the Hayrollers.
“Garth (Whitson, longtime member of the Fencemenders) and I have been playing together 10 years, and when you’re together that long you start to fall into patterns and default to the same styles,” he says. “I think this is good for everyone all around.”

The Magnificent Bastards make their Missoula debut this Saturday, Feb. 12, at the Union Club. Admission is free.

Here's a little piece I wrote last fall about my attempts to gather all of Missoula's mayoral candidates around the poker table.

Politics and Poker: a Honky Tonk Idea Dashed
by Bob Wire

The idea was simple, and a potential powder keg: invite the half dozen candidates for the mayoral primary to a friendly poker game with me, a guitarist/singer/loudmouth in a local honky-tonk band.

The purpose? To gather away from the spotlight for a couple of hours, sip an adult beverage or two, and talk about their different visions of Missoula’s future, as well as the personal style they’d bring to the office of Mayor. I would then report on the game for a local media outlet.

My plan was to ask questions, but not about infill, annexation, growth management, or any of that other mumbo jumbo they’ve already answered a hundred times. I wanted to float some fresh, hard-hitting queries out there, like, Who do I have to kill to get a Krispy Kreme shack in this burg? Can someone take Will Snodgrass for a long walk in the woods? Has anyone else had it up to here with cilantro? Van Hagar or Van Halen? Stuff like that.

So I set the date: Tuesday, the day after Labor Day. Surely they’d all be back in town by then. There was a Democrats Picnic scheduled that evening, but it would be over by 8:00. I bought a couple of six packs and a fresh deck of Bicycles.

I contacted each candidate by phone, then sent a persuasive, well-crafted e-mail that spelled out my intentions. I presented it as a chance for them to get together without the glare of the media spotlight, or a room full of disgruntled plebes asking the same questions over and over (read a newspaper, people), and without a gaggle of reporters ready to misquote them at will. They could relax, I told them, and have a free-wheeling discussion couched in a friendly, nickel-dime-quarter poker game at a neutral site: my kitchen table.

Well, the responses from the candidates varied from amusement to wariness to confusion (“Bob who?�?) to thinly-veiled annoyance. One candidate, a quick-witted Missoula native, said yes right away. He/she saw the exercise for what it was, and felt confident enough about his/her own chances in the election to risk getting mixed up in this potential Vietnam of seven-card stud. Another candidate begged off, citing “previous commitments,�? but I caught a whiff of disdain in his/her curt e-mail. Must have heard about my anti-gun stance. Believe me, I know disdain when I smell it.

Another candidate responded with a qualified maybe, and a veritable laundry list of concerns:
- I don’t like playing poker with seven people.
- I don’t like playing with more than one wild card.
- I won’t participate unless all the candidates are there.
- I’m not sure about the legality of gambling at your house.
- Do the others know how to play poker? I hate having to explain how the game works.

Once I overcame my paralysis, I realized that I would soon be sharing a poker table with Woody Allen. I made a mental note to provide cheat sheets for any poker greenhorns.
Another candidate communicated with me through his/her campaign manager.

“I have forwarded your request to Candidate X. Candidate X is very interested, but has the Democratic Picnic to attend that evening. Candidate X would like to come if time permits. Candidate X welcomes the opportunity to share his/her views with a different group.�?

Hmm. Something tells me Candidate X might be a tad insulated if he/she were to gain office.

Another candidate, a self-proclaimed “outsider�? (what does that mean? He lives in a tent?) spoke with me on the phone for twenty minutes, railing against the status quo like Ross Perot on a three-day meth jag. I hinted that he should save it for the poker table, but he was already in fourth gear.

“Listen,�? I tried to interject. “I won’t let you keep me,�? trying to extricate myself from the conversation. But there was no stopping him. One issue that really frosted his balls (I’m paraphrasing here) was the movement to encourage Missoulians to use alternative transportation, and drive their cars less. Drive less! This is just stupid, he said. Everyone drives cars! They need to drive cars! They love their cars! Oh yeah—he sells cars for a living. After a few attempts at saying Good Day Sir, I finally hung up and checked him off my list as another “maybe.�?

The sixth candidate said he/she would think about it, but even after a couple of follow-up e-mails and the mention of some candid photos in my possession, never contacted me again.
I suppose I can understand the reluctance of these people to open themselves up to a local entertainer who was once accused of having an “abberant personality�? by the daily newspaper. But get this: I was actually approached to run for mayor myself. Me, Bob Wire, a man who once drank a jar of Barbecide onstage. A man who appeared naked in front of a roomful of New Party members (I could swear the guy on the phone said “nude party�?). A man whose tequila-fueled rants in public venues have been known to alienate and disgust even his band mates. A man who would not pass even the most cursory background check. A man who occasionally writes about himself in the third person.

But I had a plan…

Two plans, actually. The first plan was to run on a populist platform that promised all things to all people. Once I was swept into office, I would immediately banish all members of the City Council to a cabin on West Petty Creek, and hire a city manager. That would free me up to be a figurehead, appearing at KFC openings, ribbon-cuttings, key-to-the-city ceremonies, that sort of thing.

Once I was informed that I would have no such authority, I devised my second plan: I would choose a very level-headed and capable lieutenant mayor, and as soon as I was elected, I would fake my own assassination. Then I could live out my days in a cabin on West Petty Creek.

But I digress…

Anyway, the poker game never happened. The wheels came off before it got out of the showroom, and in the end I was called away on business (no, really). But the mere specter of such an event was enough to bring out the true colors in most of the candidates for Mayor of our fair city. I may not be the world’s best poker player, but I can generally tell when someone has some juicy cards, is betting on a weak hand, or when they have no business being at the table in the first place.

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