Walking Talking Johnny Cash Blues

Hey Zoo Freaks, it's the Zoo Crew laying down that ragged edge here at THE ZOO with "Walking Talking Johnny Cash Blues" by The Godfathers off their More Songs About Love & Hate—gosh, doesn't it just twang like a busted string on a honky-tonk guitar, all lonesome and fired up? Rifling through those old press clips, Peter Coyne chuckled in a Melody Maker piece from '89 about how the tune was their cheeky nod to the Man in Black, cooked up in the studio with Vic Maile egging 'em on to blend that punk snarl with a twangy country lilt. "We were knee-deep in amps and empty bottles, and suddenly Kris Dollimore's riff hits this loping blues groove—boom, Johnny Cash walks in the room, but with our boots on," Coyne quipped, saying the lyrics spilled out about chasing highs and crashing lows, like a speed-fueled fever dream of Folsom nights gone wrong. Fans on X still tip their hats to it, like @deeper80s spinning it on their Mad Wasp Radio show last spring, calling it a "hidden gem that bridges the pub rock divide," with listeners chiming in about how it sneaks into their Johnny Cash playlists for that extra kick of irreverence.

And here's a nugget from the fan lore—over on Rate Your Music threads, punters rave about how it was a live scorcher back in the day, captured raw on that 1990 Forum footage where the crowd's hollering along like it's their own hangover cure. In an AllMusic retrospective, Mark Deming pegged it as one of the album's "change-of-pace winners," that rare track where the Godfathers dialed back the fury just enough for the country flavor to shine through without losing their bite, all while Maile—bless his soul, gone too soon after—polished it to a gritty sheen. Social scrolls light up too; @luvthemats dropped it in a Johnny Cash birthday tribute last February, saying it's the perfect "what if the punk kids crashed the Opry?" yarn, racking nods from folks who swear it's the unsung hero of More Songs' rowdy bunch. Even in French reviews on Amazon, blokes hail it as a "pépite" alongside cuts like "How Low Is Low," proof the Godfathers could twist roots rock into something fierce and funny, leaving you tapping your foot and nursing a wry grin.

Now, let's dust off the old photo album on these South London scrapper, 'cause their spark's a real back-alley brawl wrapped in melody that'll warm your cockles. Envision the Coyne lads, Peter growling vocals and Chris anchoring bass, sprouting from a lively Irish nest in the punk-fueled late '70s—Beatles and Elvis humming in the home grooves, but The Clash and The Jam cranking the call to arms. Peter cut his teeth scribbling for ZigZag and Record Mirror from '80 to '82, ears tuned to the underground rumble, before they ignited The Sid Presley Experience in '82—a sharp mod-punk gang with an Elvis twist, unleashing a duo of singles that hummed through the dives like a lit fuse. Come '85, with SPE sputtering out, they rebranded as The Godfathers, hauling in guitar hotshots Mike Gibson and Kris Dollimore plus drummer George Mazur to hammer out that R&B-punk thunderbolt. Linking arms with producer Vic Maile—the sonic sage behind The Kinks and Motorhead—they fired off indie EPs on their Corporate Image imprint, belters like "Lonely Man" and "This Damn Nation" that scorched the indie listings and locked in a plush Epic pact by '87. From dingy haunts to transatlantic jaunts, it was pure, sweat-drenched anthems and backbone, shunning the frills for rock 'n' roll's honest scrap, and heavens, they're still swinging true all these years later.

Stoke that Godfathers glow in the digital ether, mates—their official burrow at thegodfathersofficial.com serves up gig whispers, slabs like the beefed-up More Songs reissue, and tales to fuel your midnight spins. Saunter to Facebook for stage rips and chinwags that feel like corner pub wisdom, or rummage Instagram for trailblazer shots dripping with that sly wink. On X, stalk @thegodfathers for sharp jabs of their eternal growl. True acolytes, the lore trove at Wikipedia brims with platter plots and crew chronicles, while Facebook nooks like the fan fellowship let worldwide rogues hawk relics and gig fantasies. It's a hearty brood out yonder, freaks, bound by the beat—hang tight, the platter's perpetual.