Listen once to Blame Sally’s new album, and you’ll immediately wonder, “where did these guys come from? Here are a few current theories floating around the misc blogospere.:
Some time in 1998, Joan Jett meets Annie Lennox at a Lower East Side bar, where they discover mutual infatuations with Pabst Blue Ribbon and Fleetwood Mac. After downing six beers and treating the crowd to a killer version of Crystal, the two drive to Vermont, get married, and ask The Edge to donate sperm for their first child. For nine months, Joan and Annie soothe their child in utero with a mix tape of Mavis Staples, early Beatles, and Lucinda Williams. That child is Blame Sally.
David Crosby, David Hidalgo, and Patty Griffin find themselves seated together on a flight to New York. During a storm, a freak surge of electricity scrambles their iPods, melts the hard drives, but magically disassembles and fuses the playlists. The surviving iPod is left behind in Patty’s front seat pocket, where it is found by Blame Sally band mates Monica Pasqual, Pam Delgado, Jeri Jones, and Renee Harcourt, moonlighting between gigs as United Airlines maintenance crew members. They briefly consider sending the iPod to Mutt Lange for Shania Twain’s comeback album, but quickly reconsider and keep the eerily melodic, hook-laden songs for themselves.
In 1999, in a little-known but epic logistical meltdown, the Lilith Fair and OzzFest are accidentally booked into the same Indiana venue on the same hot August night. While Paula Cole and Rob Zombie wrestle for control of the venue, fans—including the 4 members of Blame Sally—are blown away by unusual blend of black metal and estrogen-tinged folk. Monica, Renee, Pam and Jeri , waiting patiently for Sarah McLachlan’s autograph, are rocked to their musical cores by the sight and sound of the Indigo Girls and Missy Elliot jamming with Pantera. The rest is history.
Well, those are the theories. Maybe that’s all they are. Musical urban legends. Rock & roll tall tales. Maybe what really happened is 4 women practiced ‘til they were tighter than a gnat’s ass, quit their day jobs, and hit the road.
You listen. You decide.