In the words of David Allan Coe: “What the hell’s happenin’, Jesus Christ?, Ain’t there nothin’ sacred no more?” For the Beaumonts, “no more” doesn’t even register, because it’s pretty clear from the Lubbock quintet’s third studio LP that there was nothing sacred to begin with. Over the thirteen songs that the country mockers offer up, there are moments of bestiality, domestic violence, incest and sex in every lewdly possible configuration and situation, church burning, and, of course, drinkin’, drinkin’, and more drinkin’ (with a healthy dose of weed and speed thrown in). Yet as opener “Say What You Want” declares: “You can say what you want to about me, but I never gave my husband Chlamydia.” Fair enough.
The Beaumonts aren’t purely trading on shock value, however, as they are a talented bunch of Lubbock veterans plying some expert if unsurprising honky-tonk, and Get Ready for is about what you might expect from a country album put out by local imprint Arclight Records (Lions, Amplified Heat, Tia Carrera). But for those fans of Jon Wayne, or even Coe’s raunchier side, the Beaumont’s are a welcome addition to the rowdy, bawdy, and unrepentant country pantheon.
At their best, there are some great tunes that endure even after their lyrical amusement wears off. “Lubbock Pt. 1” is an ode to small towns and small mindedness that is just a good time rip behind Troy Wayne Delco’s burly growl while “Let’s Get Drunk” is actually a worthy anthem to fucking off for no other reason than there’s nothing better to do: “Let’s get drunk and high and fuck around all day.” And “The Caprock,” while celebrating touring on bathtub speed, lays down the prevailing ethos of the Beaumonts fairly well: “Let’s sing another song about pussy, let’s harmonize on methamphetamines, let’s pack up that old van and shoot on down the road, country music ain’t what it used to be.”
After these tunes, however, the album dives into a bit more schlocky territory. “Oh, Maria!” is fast-paced romp of vengeance and violence that mid-way transitions into some tasteless sexual escapades whose delightfulness eventually begins to wear thins. “East Texas Girl” fairs better as a ribald duet with Molly Hayes, basically a raunchy version of “It’s Not Love (But It’s Not Bad)” with each spouting “I don’t love you baby, but we can fuck ‘til something better comes along.”
From there it’s pretty much all gimmicky, with songs like “Butter Face,” “Strip Search,” and “Big Fake Boobs,” unloading about what you’d expect from their titles. “Money For Drugs” celebrates the aphrodisiac charm of, well, money for drugs, and “Mayonnaise” is just disgusting. (Think of the latter as “She Don’t Use Jelly” as interpreted by incorrigible hillbillies). By closer “Burn ‘Em Down,” a passionate sermon against religions’ dire crusades against all things that the Beaumonts stand for (“’cause if you can’t jack off in a movie theater, score a little eight ball or golden shower, you might as well burn ‘em down”), the band has pretty much dug its boot hills into every shit pile they can find. What the Beaumonts do, of course, can’t be half-assed – it’s an all or nothing aesthetic. So whether you’re amused or not (and you probably should be), you have to give the band credit for owning every last bit of their blasphemous bliss.