Juke Box Cannonball The Wreck Of The Old 97 – Hed Stone And The Gravediggers (1954)
Alright, buckle up, because this one’s a dusty ride through time. Hed Stone and his crew of Gravediggers dropped Juke Box Cannonball The Wreck Of The Old 97 back in ’54, and let me tell ya, it’s got that raw, unfiltered country grit you don’t hear much anymore. Released on Oscar Records, this sucker is straight-up Folk, World, & Country with a heavy lean into good ol’ American twang. If you’re looking for polished production or autotune—nah, this ain’t it. What you get instead is Hed Stone’s raspy vocals cutting through like a rusty blade.
Let’s talk tracks. First off, “The Wreck Of The Old 97.” Man, this song sticks to your ribs like last night’s whiskey. It’s got that classic train-wreck storytelling vibe—literally—and Stone belts it out like he was there when the damn thing derailed. You can almost smell the coal smoke and hear the screech of metal tearing apart. The pacing? Relentless. By the second verse, you’re gripping your chair like you’re riding shotgun on that doomed locomotive. This track stays with you not because it’s perfect but because it’s real. No frills, no gimmicks, just pure heartbreak wrapped in steel strings.
Then there’s “Juke Box Cannonball.” Now THIS tune kicks down the door and doesn’t apologize. It’s faster than a jackrabbit on caffeine, with Stone’s voice bouncing off the walls like he’s hopped up on moonshine. The lyrics are simple enough—jukeboxes, love lost, highways—but man, they hit hard. There’s something about how the guitar work scratches against the rhythm that makes you wanna stomp your boots and break stuff. Not bad for a guy who probably recorded this in some rickety studio held together by duct tape and hope.
What really gets me about this album is its refusal to sugarcoat anything. These songs feel lived-in, like they’ve been dragged through dirt roads and barroom brawls. Sure, the recording quality might make audiophiles cringe, but that’s kinda the point. Perfection would ruin it.
So yeah, if you’re hunting for an album that feels like getting punched in the gut by nostalgia, give this one a spin. Just don’t expect any fancy tricks—this is bare-knuckle music at its finest. Oh, and here’s the kicker: I bet Hed Stone didn’t even own a jukebox. Irony, huh?
