By Corey Deiterman
By William Michael Smith
By Jef With One F
By Craig Hlavaty
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Sonya Harvey
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
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Charleston, West Virginia's Yeager Airport sits atop a mountain, which is typical in a state that enforces few, if any, building codes. Request a window seat if you ever drop in; the views are spectacular. Green hills roll forever, with soft "fairways" notched into the landscape as though it were God's own country club. Charleston has golf courses and other spoils sprung by the same out-of-state interests that have come in and pillaged West Virginia's resources (coal, oil and gas), but like the Matewan miners who taunted the National Guard into action, the true treasures of West Virginia run wild and extreme by the coal fields outside city limits. That's where you'll find Hasil Adkins, anyway.
Up until last year, Adkins -- standing six-foot-two, with serial-killer-sunken yet soft-as-a-prayer blue eyes -- lived alone in a tarpaper shack tucked in the Boone County hollow where he was born. The shack caved in a few months back, so the 62-year-old now sits, strums, screeches and hollers in a 14-by-70 trailer parked on his pay-as-you-can leased property. Littered around his trailer are broken-down autos, a Jeep and an old GMC city-transit bus with "The Hunching Bus" spray-painted on its side. As a visitor approaches, Igor -- Adkins's fat, black, tire-biting shepherd mix -- lets out a welcoming, or not-so-welcoming, bark.
Then the legend steps to the trailer door and waves, a rope of shoulder-length gray-yellow hair billowing from beneath a blue baseball cap. He grins through rotting teeth, delivers a chuckle harshened by years of exposure to tar and nicotine, and drawls, "Welcome to Sanford and Son!"
Inside, rock posters from his concerts with sometime label mates, such as The Flat Duo Jets and Southern Culture on the Skids, line the interior faux-wood-paneled walls. On a partition shelf between living area and kitchen is a human skull wearing a fright wig, and some horrific rubber Halloween masks. (Adkins has been performing in wigs and costumes since the 1950s -- "way back before all that started.") His CDs and 45s are nailed to the walls around the living room, and prosthetic severed limbs and feathered talismans hang randomly from the ceiling. He walks back into the living room, bends his bones onto a ratty couch, lights the first of many generic cigarettes and holds up a Polaroid of an adorable nine-year-old neighborhood girl.
"She took my vodka away," he says. "She inspired me to write a song called 'Drinking My Life Away.' " He sips a mysterious red liquid from a yellow plastic cup. "You ever put tomato juice in your beer? Keeps you from getting sick or drunk or anything. Some girl taught me that one time."
Some girls, liquor, meat and the Lord have given Adkins something to wake up for over the years. That, and his music: Ever since he picked up a guitar after hearing Hank Williams on the radio fortysome years ago, he's been plying some of the most primal rockabilly skronk that's ever seeped out of the backwaters. He spent the '50s, '60s and '70s performing his one-man-band freak show at whatever dives would have him and sending out tapes full of tweaked home recordings to anyone who would listen. Eventually, people did listen.
The Europeans began touting him in the early '80s, and, in 1986, a couple of U.S. rock primitivists named Billy Miller and Miriam Linna made Adkins the flagship act on their newly formed Norton Records, a label that went on to issue/reissue a series of vintage Adkins platters. The progenitor of such post-punk Luddites as the Cramps and Jon Spencer had, at last, found an outlet for his unaffected combination of urgency and lunacy. In the years since, his audience -- and his legend -- has only grown. After a bunch more records and a few aborted label deals, he hooked up with Fat Possum Records, who released the brand-new and typically raw What the Hell Was I Thinking; coupled with a nationwide tour and a recent documentary on him, 1998 looks to be Adkins's biggest year yet. And one a long time in coming.
As Adkins recounts, he was born at the tail end of the Depression, the youngest of ten kids. His papa wheezed to the ripe old age of 71, despite being handed a retirement package of black lung disease and other ailments from a coal company 30 years earlier; Hasil's mama lived in the dilapidated shack outside until she passed in '86. Hasil started singing as a preteen, accompanied by a milk can. He switched to a lard bucket, then a ten-quart water bucket, and finally got his first arch-top Gibson guitar in exchange for a particularly potent batch of home-brew.
The legend behind his one-man-band concept has him listening to Hank Williams on a tube radio for as long as the car battery it was attached to would hold out. He heard the announcer say, "And that was Hank Williams," and naively assumed Williams was the only artist playing all the instruments. To this day, though many have tried, no one can accompany him -- especially when he's deep into his own grooves.
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