Stickpony
Hometown: Austin, Texas, USA
Influences: The Hickoids, The Replacements, Uncle Tupelo
Website: http://www.stickpony.info
Our Story:
Stickpony formed in 1997 and went nowhere fast. They then proceeded down a path of drug and alcohol abuse, mental illness, catastrophic physical illness, arrests, probation, constant line-up change, and occasionally playing music, touring and recording. This gauntlet of excess somehow forged the band into a professional, hard hitting, critically acclaimed country rock/cowpunk act with hooks and chops to spare. That was them honing their hooks and chops at an Austin shithole called The Parlor in that picture up there. Releases: "Smilin' Into Nowhere" (2000), "Texas Tabloid" (2001), "Underneath the Beer Light" (2004), and the Stephen Belans produced EP "Head First Through the Sound" (Club De Musique Records 2007). Stickpony imploded under the weight of their own ennui in March 2007 and currently exists only in the minds of about 250 worldwide fans, most of whom were in the band at one time or another.
No videos have been posted by Stickpony
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User Comments
© 2007 Fuse Entertainment Management, LLC. All rights reserved.
Most people don’t know this, but Stickpony was around in the Armadillo days, and in fact, I saw them perform there in 1977. Yes, they were but young tikes, and played on a bill with the San Francisco Mime Troupe, the B-52s and John Prine. The craziest thing happened during Long Way Down. A fuckin SPACESHIP from fuckin OUTER SPACE hovered above the Armadillo and beamed down an ALIEN laser light show that was freeking out of this WORLD, and perfectly in time with the tune. People freaked. After the set, Frank Zappa handed out ice cream cones to everyone.
Seen them a few times. I remember having some song of theirs stuck in my head as I lay in the grass unable to feel my legs. A gypsy girl came up and drew something on my shoe. I think I threw up. Man, that song...
You know those days where you wake up hung over as hell, wearing the same clothes from the night before, with a black eye and no memory of how you got home? The thought of eating makes you nauseous and you know more booze is the only thing that's gonna save your life? Well, Stickpony makes you feel like that all the time. I mean ALL the time. God bless 'em.
These guys rock. If your in the mood for some good ol' fashioned southern gothic punkrock, here's your band. Catch 'em live and find out why Nick Cave says they make the Gun Club sound like Muzak. Party with them and see why The Who won't tour with them again...
Love ‘em or hate ‘em, Stickpony is a force to be reckoned with. Hell, sometimes you hate yourself for loving them, or you just hate yourself in the morning, after a particularly great show. In any case, Brit Jones is one hell of a song writer. The man can spin an evocative yarn like very few writing today, and that’s where the strength of Stickpony lies. Some tales impart the listener with an absolute case of the creeps. Many simply remind us that people make some really stupid choices. And every once in a while, one of his songs will make you feel great about your own damn life – at least you didn’t kill your girlfriend this morning, right? Do yourself a favor and catch them live if you get the chance. This four-piece may lack all grace, but they make up for it in balls and chops
I first met Stickpony in a bar in Brooklyn in 1951. Little did I know they would later become Mrs, Joe DiMaggio.
Seriously, good shit, Maynard.
Me and my housemates heard Stickpony on the internet and thought they sounded pretty cool. We saw they were playing in Topeka so we laid in six cases of beer and went to the show. They were alright, and we invited them to a party at our house after. They came over and started drinking like crazy. We went outside to smoke a joint (they don't smoke pot - strike one against them) and when we came back there was no beer to found. Then, they would distract us by doing shit like having thedog lick peanut butter off of one of their ball sacks, and when we'd finally look up, the other three would have beer. This kind of shit went on for hours. We thought about saying something, but they didn't seem quite right in the head and we didn't want to set 'em off. When it came up that we were all white supremecists they got real quiet, like. We finally all went to bed, and when we woke up they were gone. They had spray painted "FREE NELSON MANDELA" on our living room wall. Didn't they free that rabble rousing jigaboo like ten years ago? Then we started finding beer hidden all over the house - in the toilet tanks, in the vegetable crisper, in the washing machine, everywhere. All I've gotta say is this - if those bastards ever come back through Topeka they better come large. Fuck Stickpony!
Brit Jones runs Stickpony like a sailor on shore leave. It works about the same, too. Things happen, and the sailor leaves feeling hungover, but still soulfully satisfied. Go see 'em and you'll never need to go out to sea again! And, uh, bring protection.
I used to represent these psychotic miscreants before a total nervous breakdown took me out of the game for a while. How they manage to so brilliantly combine garage sludge, old school country authenticity, and pop brilliance, all while living a lifestyle that would make Keith Richards hide under his bed, completely eludes me. Listen to their music. Download their song. Buy rheir records. But, for the love of God, don't hang out with them if you value your sanity and soul. This isn't a Gwar schtick - these guys may not look it, but they are seriously evil, twisted dudes. You've been warned.