J. R. Fisher an alright guy, a guy you can hang out with at the bar, a guy who’s got a day job, a guy who’s got a couple of close friends, your average Joe, your average townie. I used to live in Central Pennsylvania, and he reminds me of the blue-collar vibe of every small town sprawling suburbanly past the local bar and hardware store. I have a real soft spot for that vibe. For J. R. Fisher, it helps that he writes damn good songs for acoustic guitar. He’s not your average Central PA bar band shmuck in that sense – most of those guys just cover classic rock or country and call it a night. That’s right, Fisher’s got a repertoire of decent material – and a big ol’ chip on shoulder against Mayans, apparently, as “Mayan Punks, Fuck Off” would suggest. Besides that opening digression, he rails with humor against all kinds of backwater burg life issues, and it makes me chuckle in a wink-wink-nod-nod way. I mean, the biggest pain in his ass is “The Alternative Station” that “still sucks fucking shit.” I hear ya, J. R., I hear ya. The songs on Fever are as bare bones as it gets, but they’re nicely done. Pop a PBR and get on with it already.
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