The Show: Wednesday, August 15, 2002
A D V E R T I S E M E N T
A D V E R T I S E M E N T
Peach Truck Republic

By Piet Levy

Fort Worth’s Peach Truck Republic has been cruising the South for nearly a decade. The quintet reached what was then its full potential in 2000 with the self-produced Fenceposts, a marvelous two-disc concept album covering all things blues to folk; it plays for 37 tracks and covers more than two hours. Filled with blood and sweat, this effort seemed like the perfect vehicle for stardom — stardom that apparently hasn’t come.

So why haven’t they caught on? PTR is a talented posse of deep-rooted poets whose souls seep through their talents — aside from singing together a cappella, band members incorporate pianos and steel drums into the mix and even engage in profound philosophical debates (as featured on “Bottlemouth Confessionals,” on Fenceposts). The PTR package is far from anything you’ll find on mainstream radio; the group switches seamlessly from southern rock to heartfelt folk to crying blues with medleys in between. They defy easy categorization. Each genre works well, but Peach Truck’s performances are more memorable as a total experience, rather than for any single song. It’s the grandeur of Americana sans the obligatory Chevy truck rolling over mountainsides on a tv screen. Surely, one would think, the O Brother, Where Art Thou? resurgence would have brought these guys along for the ride. PTR is still waiting.

But what the nation may never know has become an institution of Southern pride, built on the way music used to be made before profit became a priority. The PTR’s weekly gigs may stretch no further from home than the exotic terrains of Arkansas, but perhaps there’s no need for them to. The band sticks to its Texas roots. It sings in a past tongue, recalling an innocence the rest of the world’s forgotten and may never again reclaim. In short, PTR would never mix with Spago-dining “musicians” rolling gleefully in mountains of cash. The Peach Truck Republic is just too exotic a fruit. They’re just too real.

Sat with Robot Monster Weekend at The Wreck Room, 3208 W Seventh St, FW. 817-870-4900.



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