Live At Trader Dicks by The Settlers: A Rustic Gem That Still Shines
If you’re a sucker for raw, heartfelt bluegrass and country vibes with just enough twang to make your boots tap uncontrollably, Live At Trader Dicks is the album that’ll have you grinning like a possum eating sweet taters. Released in 1978 on Butter Bean Records (how can you not love a label named after legumes?), this record feels like sitting around a campfire with old friends who know how to pick strings and tell stories.
Let’s talk about two tracks that stuck with me long after the needle lifted off the vinyl. First up, there’s “Silver Threads And Golden Needles.” Man, oh man—this one hits different. It starts off slow, almost shy, but then builds into this achingly beautiful lament about love gone sour. Buddy McEwen’s vocals are so genuine they might as well be sitting right next to you, whispering their heartbreak into your ear. You can practically smell the sawdust on the floorboards while Doug Batchelor’s banjo dances circles around Gary Pierce’s steady guitar work. It’s the kind of song that makes you want to hold your dog closer and call your mom.
Then there’s “Orange Blossom Special,” which is basically what would happen if joy had its own theme song. This track rips. Seriously, it’s impossible not to move when Ned Turner’s fiddle kicks in—it’s like he’s daring you to sit still. The energy here is electric, like someone spiked the punch bowl at a barn dance. By the time the whole band joins in, harmonizing and trading licks faster than a card shark deals cards, you’ll forget whatever was stressing you out earlier. That’s the magic of live music, isn’t it? It doesn’t just entertain; it transports.
The production has this warm, lived-in quality thanks to Hack Dodds’ engineering and remixing skills. Larry Nix did wonders mastering this thing too—it sounds crisp without losing that down-home charm. And props to Howard Bezold for the artwork and R. H. Walker’s painting because let’s face it, an album cover should feel like a hug from an old friend. Suzy Wickizer’s photography adds another layer of authenticity, capturing the band looking like they just stepped out of a dusty road somewhere in the American South.
What really makes Live At Trader Dicks special, though, is how human it feels. There are no overproduced layers or glossy sheens—just five guys pouring everything they’ve got into every note. Listening to it now, decades later, feels like finding a letter from someone who knew exactly how to say what you needed to hear.
And hey, here’s a random thought: If aliens ever landed and asked us to explain Earth through music, I’d hand them this album. Not only does it showcase some of the best parts of Americana, but it also reminds us that sometimes all we need is good company, great tunes, and maybe a plate of butter beans.
