Back in the early 90's, I was a DJ at my university's radio station. Sounds cool, I know, but our listenership was limited to one small dormitory, its cafeteria and the halls outside the station. Other than making with the witty banter between songs with my co-host (sometimes Flipperson Wheyside, and sometimes Dr. Jimmy Mahonahan), my favourite part of the college DJ experience was discovering music I'd never hear otherwise, since the only place in town to hear new music was on the campus radio station which didn't broadcast to where I ever was. Aiding in my musical exploration was Section 3 of the Broadcasting Act that requires Canadian radio stations play 35% Canadian music. I'm a canucklehead from skull to toes, so I relished the opportunity to spin some Canadian wax for myself and, possibly, for some foreign students alone in their dorm rooms. This was how I discovered Jerry Jerry and the Sons of Rhythm Orchestra.

He's drunkenness. El Borracho. A drinking, lurching, shouting testament to the joys of excess.

"Mexican In Me" from the album Battle Hymn of the Apartment was the first track by Jerry I'd ever heard. It had the "Holy Crap" effect on me that only truly good music can. I dove into Battle Hymn, then into his first album, Road Gore: The Band That Drank Too Much. My hunger was insatiable, so I combed through indy Canadian compilation albums for scraps of Jerry. The evidence was piling up. "This could possibly be the greatest band of all time," I thought," and I think they're speaking directly to me." And then I saw them live.

People from Saskatchewan have a history of delusional fascination with singers. Farmer Robert Kieling planned to marry Anne Murray, whom he believed was communicating to him though her songs. Now, I'm not saying I wanted to marry Jerry Jerry, but I did find myself in the grip of a near religious furore when he took the stage. Though I'm going to attempt to describe a live Jerry Jerry show here, I'm approaching the attempt knowing full well that I will fail. This is something that has to be experienced to be fully comprehended. Jerry, on stage, isn't just drunk. He's drunkenness. El Borracho. A drinking, lurching, shouting testament to the joys of excess. One part Dean Martin, one part Hunter S Thompson, one part Elvis. I don't know if it was his penchant for shoving one of his boots in his pants, his attempted self nipple lick, the specific tone and/or pitch of his punkabilly caterwauling, or the message in the music, but I'd found a spiritual leader. Like a Dead Head, I followed Jerry to other cities (well, just Calgary, but I was poor), swaying in rapturous rhythm to the hymns of my new dogma. In retrospect, I think my reverent gaze frightened him, but that's neither here nor there. He played within easy driving distance regularly, shows I faithfully attended, and suddenly, he stopped.

As if he was called home, Jerry vanished. Not a peep was heard until he released his new set of scriptures, The Sound and The Jerry, in '97. The local diocese (my co-dependant drunken posse) had a listening party that was briefly interrupted by the death of Lady Di. I figured it was a sign of some kind, so I sold all my Royal Wedding memorabilia on Ebay the very next day. Through The Sound and The Jerry, I reacquainted myself with Jerry's freestyle way of thinkin', but it wasn't like a live show. What I needed was a live show to find my way again. Through some contacts in the Edmonton area, I was awakened to a dream come true. Jerry Jerry was going to record a live CD. This, I couldn't miss.