The clock passed midnight. A metamorphosis would soon occur.
The eclectic crowd, varying from the 80-year-old hillbillies
that came to see the ghost of Hank Williams, to the 18-year-old
punk-rock degenerates with mohawks that came for the pit, awaited
Hank III’s second and more intense set, which, he forewarned, would
drive out the crowd.
“This is somethin’ I been doin’ since I’s a teen,” Hank III said
as he took the stage. “And if you don’t like it…well then, what
He picked up his jet-black SG guitar and began strumming like a
madman. A bombardment of fast, crunchy, distorted power chords
ensued and it became very apparent that Mr. Hyde had emerged.
The man who only twenty minutes earlier was playing up-beat
country rock while wearing a beaten up cowboy hat and duct taped
boots vanished. He disappeared without a trace.
A man dressed in dark clothes, who carried a wicked presence,
replaced him; repeatedly swirling his long hair and screaming into
the mic furiously.
With his new band, AssJack, comprised of a bass player, an
additional singer and a double-bass drummer who has to be addicted
to methamphetamines in order to play as fast as he does, Hank III
played music that could bring demons to their knees. He sang songs
about his contempt for those who deemed him white trash, loving
whisky, doing cocaine and more.
And just as he said, a substantial amount of the fans left.
When the concert ended, he politely thanked the people that
didn’t leave. He stuck around afterward, signing autographs and
talking to those that stayed and appreciated his harsher side,
arguably the release of his true art form.