Talk American

Hey Zoo Freaks, it's the Zoo Crew rustlin' up that hillbilly howl here at THE ZOO with "Talk American" by Unknown Hinson off his razor-wire ripper Target Practice—darn it all, doesn't it just stomp in like a boot on the porch, demanding you drop the fancy talk and spit out some straight-shootin' English with a twang? Holin' up with those back-porch interviews, Hinson drawled in a Flagpole chinwag how the ditty's his firecracker salute to keepin' it real in the land of the free, penned back in the early aughts when the world's accents were startin' to swirl like a bad batch of moonshine. "Folks come over here expectin' to jaw in tongues, but I say learn the lingo or load up the wagon—it's America, darlin', not a babel tower," he cackled, admittin' the riff sparked from a rowdy bar yarn 'bout a fella barkin' orders in broken bits till the whole joint broke into guffaws. Over on X, @FreeThinker1956 slung it last summer in a dust-up over some foggy-tongued cop clip, hollerin' "Talk American by the great Unknown Hinson" to a chorus of thumbs-up from punters who reckon it's the cure for every muddled meetin'.

And here's a hoot from the holler feeds—back at DragonCon 2010, Hinson ripped it live with a sideburn-missin' swagger, explainin' to the geek horde how the tune's his "patriotic primer" for invaders who forget the stars and stripes come with a side of Southern drawl, leavin' the crowd stompin' and quotin' lines like "Speak the king's English, or get thee gone" till the wee hours. In a Cleveland.com yarn from his Ruby Tuesday rampage, the scribe pegged it as the set's knee-slapper supreme, with Hinson quippin' post-show, "It's all in fun, but if you can't chew the fat proper, you best skedaddle back to the old sod—ain't no room for mumblin' in my honky-tonk heaven." X lights up with echoes too; @SLF1776 pondered back in '20 why we can't all just jaw American, tyin' it to Hinson's growl, while @akafaceUS got a nudge from @steven_dignan last July to crank it for a laugh amid the babel blues, rackin' shares from folks who swear it's the soundtrack to every flag-wavin' family feud. Even in those bootleg clips from Reggie's Rock Club, the faithful belt it back like a battle cry, turnin' satire into singalong gold that bites just sweet enough to swallow. It's got that rebel yelp, freaks, like hollerin' over the fence that the eagle don't flap for foreign fiddles.

Now, let's saddle up and trot back through the briar patch on this Carolina crypt-keeper, 'cause Unknown Hinson's sprout is a whopper of a whirligig tale that'll have you howlin' at the harvest moon. Born Stuart Daniel Baker in '54 amid the misty knobs of Albemarle, North Carolina—music slinger by day, picker extraordinaire by dusk—he first fiddled with strings as a tyke, bangin' out blues and country licks from his folks' stack till the calluses calloused. But the real thunder rolled in the mid-'90s when Baker hopped aboard that rowdy Charlotte public-access romp The Wild, Wild South, birthin' his Hinson haunt alongside pal Don Swan for skits that skewered the backwoods with a wink and a wallop—sideburns slapped on, teeth blacked out, pompadour slicked high, and a drawl deep as a well to spin yarns of a 400-year-old vampire roughneck, orphaned young after Mama vanished post-one-chord tutorial, framed for carnival killin' in '63 and stewin' 30 years in the clink, honein' riffs off radio ghosts. When Swan shuffled off in '95, Baker spun it solo into The Unknown Hinson Show, nabbin' "Best Public-Access" nods four years runnin' from Creative Loafin', then ditched the tube for the trail in '99, haulin' the act to honky-tonks and highways with debuts like 21 Chart-Toppers and a Capitol hitch for My Love for You Is Revolution come 2002. From shed strums lampoonin' the honky haze to snarlin' as that squid-slingin' scamp Early Cuyler on Squidbillies for nigh on 15 seasons, it's been a cyclone of chrome, chords, and chicanery, provin' one fella's fancy dress can whip up a whirlwind bigger than a twister in a trailer park.

Stoke that Hinson heat in the hollows of the web, you backwoods bards—the official roost at unknownhinson.com rustles tour whispers when the fates allow, merch to gussy your git-fiddle, and vaults of those chart-bustin' howlers. Hitch up to Facebook for fan-forged frolics and clips that'll have you heel-toein' in the hall, or slink through Instagram for glimpses of the greasepaint gospel drippin' dark delight. No steady X roost these days, but the echoes bounce through shares on the 'gram and yonder. For the lore hounds, the wiki thicket at Wikipedia brims with backstory brew and platter plots, while fan thickets on Facebook call: Unknown Hinson: Fans of the King for crownin' cackles and relic raids, or Unknown Hinson Fan Discussion and Appreciation where worldwide weirdos wax over wails and wanderlust. It's a rowdy rabble out yonder, freaks, all twang and twilight—keep the fire cracklin', the banjo's beckonin' for more.