First off, it's her real name. Second off, she has recorded and produced a baker's dozen of her own studio albums, on her own. Thirdly, she's collaborated with eclectic cools like The White Stripes, Billy Childish and Jim Jarmusch. And fourthest - what the fuck have you done? Poser.
On You Can't Buy A Gun When You're Crying, the first strip of raw hide recorded with The Brokeoffs, we are tossed from the back of a rusted white pick up truck in the middle of a deep thicket of swamp where peat moss shrubbery blocks the sun and giant mosquitoes sting your uncovered ankles in the destitute woods of the deep South. Golightly, former member of Thee Headcoatees and a native of England, has cooked up a fattening buffet of the drinking, fighting, and golden Americana that whistles pure Dixie. Around these parts they shake with a punch in the arm and never take a step without their boots on. Quickly we fall deep in the retreat of Golightly's caress, as she bears the confidence of Patsy Cline, elegance of Hope Sandoval and regal demeanor of Nancy Sinatra. This is a potent tumbler glass full of three fingers worth of fine whiskey. The Brokeoffs, presumably wearing overalls with no shirts underneath, playing everything from fiddle to spoon on the front porch of a wooden shack, are more loveable than the country jug time bears at Disneyworld.
"Medicine Water" had me drunk with the early morning sun. I was screaming at the sky, asking "why why why," remembering one of my many forgettable lovers, and missing them like hell. I'm talking bleary-eyed drunk so drunk that the only thing to do is get even more drunk. This should be a staple in the spine of every jukebox East of the Mississippi. The tumbleweeds blow alongside the title track "You Can't Buy A Gun When You're Crying," which fails to mention how easy it is to buy a gun in America, especially when you're really, really high on prescription pain medicine or in junior high school. "Time To Go" runs us right down that Orange Blossom Special line past Johnny Cash's grave. "I Let My Daddy Do That" is a grimy recording about the sweet benefits of having a good woman who "stands by her man." After a long day of working on the farm we ride deep into the end of the sun along the back of a white passive horse to "Whoopie Ti Yi Yo".
This record hurts like a fork in the eye. It's got the rugged face and calloused hands of a cowboy with the worldly sophistication of a big city Pinkerton. It is recommended that you only listen to this record alone, in the dark, with the safety off.