Chris Knight grew up wanting to be Steve Earle or John Prine, and wound up himself. All the scruffy strummers with their songs about trucks and farms and whiskey, all the No Depression suck-ups and post-fraternity faux-Texans should be so lucky or so cursed. Depends on how bad they want it. Dudes think Billy Joe Shaver is so cool? They should chop off their fingers, get right with Jesus, and then make a CD.
Knight made his last CD, The Jealous Kind, out of the world of Slaughters, Kentucky: his native turf and his bad blood lines, the white trash and true lies, hard work and no work, the dead-end roads stretching to the horizon. He followed them just far enough, paid attention to the stories along the way, spit into the ditches and mine shafts, and got the hell out. Most often his characters don't, but they don't want your pity. The blood-simple lover of the title track just wants his one by-law phone call to go to Maria, even though she won't be answering. Like the singer behind their anguished, angry tales, they're proud and fucked and, at their best and worst, more like you and me than we'd ever confess.
Doors open at 7 p.m. No cover; call 314-770-8100 for more information.