The Dirty Little Betty’s


Virtuosity takes countless configurations, and The Dirty Little Betty’s, while not actually virtuous, are a startling example of virtuosity. The collective talent pool is still deep and spring fed, a diverse and perpetual well of the creative force that manifest fascinating entertainment or to quote the band camp diary, “It’s really just a bunch a whoo ha bull crap we made up and we hope you dig it.”

These “Magical Mystics” are not spring chickens. They are more like a cabalistic chicken burrito with sprinkles, acquired from that inevitable taco truck from our lady of perpetual infundibulum at the corner of Tranquil Terrace and Tantric Tantrum, just down the narrow lane from way out there.

In ancient languages there was no word for art, and thus, it ensues in the current era, that there is no word for The Dirty Little Betty’s, or their style. To simply say, it is immersed in creativity is a desperate grasp at metaphor, like the pot calling the kettle weed, but I will try to break it down for the uninitiated barbarian hordes.

First remember that the Betty’s are closer to Tripgrass than Bluegrass, though they are hipper than a millennial beatnik banging Lady Gaga. The synergy is magnificent. The final product is greater than the composite parts by an entertainment factor of ten.

Take Sam the Banjo man and his universal roll. I am not referencing an Eskimo croissant with Asian squid juice, but an ability to make a banjo (a very awkward instrument) fit into any of the ecumenical stylistic conglomerations that are the Betty’s, and in a way that makes one wonder why it is not on every recording since ever.

Clinton Avery Tharp (CAT), is the gravitational center of the ensemble. When he was born his mom dipped him into a fountain of ingenuity so the only regular part of his body is that part of his heel where she held him. I would say he was the front man but the Betty’s are a sphere, more like a cat toy and very nonlinear like a saxophone. His sense of humor is amusing.

David Bruster is adaptable. He can twirl guns and tap dance. The only musical instrument he can’t play is the Swiss Alpine Horn. He actually refuses to play it for political reasons having to do with a lost code for a numbered bank account and something to do with cheese. He is a master musician and plays guitar in the band without looking. He once set the stage on fire, literally.

Andy Adams is the bass portion of the positronic rhythmic foundation of the Betty’s groove. He has more pocket than a pool table and more balls. He has read more books than any other Betty and has the best turntable. In the music community he is known as a collaborator and has written songs with the cream of the okie crop and participated in the overthrow of several third world countries by humanitarian means.

Scott Buxton is the senior member of the group. To call him a drummer would imply that he spent his days beating on skin heads. Scott is a percusionic technician first class. He is a certified Wizard at holding the groove hostage. He is the technically the most sane Betty. The previous statement has no implied meaning in the real world.

And there you have it, the story of the Dirty Little Betty’s. A wayward conglomerate of talented eccentrics breaking all norms in the reddest state this side of China. In review, these humans are entrenched in the creative process and they want to share it with you in an effort to raise your mental state to ecstatic. If you take them home with you it voids the warranty.

Bob Moore (of Moondog)

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