Molly Hatchet
No Guts... No Glory

There was still a missing review for the fifth album (1983) of this tough southern rock sextet from Florida. I'll remedy that by noting right away that it's the only one in their extensive discography that doesn't have a crudely fantasy cover, usually filled with brawny warriors brandishing axes (hatchet). At first, they were signed by a certain Frazetta, then I don't know who. The braggadocio still reigns conspicuously in this snapshot of ours, taken in one of those western theme parks that dot the United States: dust, cartridge belts, rifles over the shoulder and pistols in holsters, bellies in the wind, dusters, and the inevitable wide-brimmed Stetsons over greasy long hair… it's all there.

However, the proverbial crudeness exhibited, from deep provincial America, is not much reflected in the music. The still young Hatchet were indeed an organized and disciplined group, with a sound that was indeed impetuous, but well-produced and arranged, capable of accommodating three guitarists side by side, taking turns in solos supported by the others, or sometimes in duet, behind a solid and efficient rhythm section.

The brash component of the lineup was nonetheless elevated by frontman Danny Joe Brown, the one co' la panza de fora in the photo. He was endowed with a unique voice, brutal but with its own sure primitive charm. Diabetes and hepatitis, contracted since he was a boy, had kept him away for a few years and for a couple of albums, but this work marks his temporary return, and the group gains in terms of personality and grit.

The album in question is a must-have (I refer to fans of hard rock, southern rock, good and robust harmonies in guitar solos) if for no other reason than it contains the career masterpiece of the sextet, namely the ballad, but with guts, "Fall of the Peacemakers."

It’s an eight-minute affair, divided into two sections: the first is the true ballad, valiantly supported by a marvelous arpeggio in A minor, enriched by elegant beats of rhythm, and pervaded in turn by Danny's cavernous voice and intermezzo solos, concise but very lyrical, of two of the guitarists. Then halfway through the song, there's a break, the tempo doubles, and a tight, stratospheric layering of lead guitars begins, harmonizing with each other or launched in solos in rotation; all with a constant, remarkable melodic and epic charge.

The lyrics of the piece narrate the sorrow and sadness for some tragic deaths of iconic people (Lennon, Kennedy)… it's the "Fall of the Peacemakers" the title announces, exploiting the similarity and proximity in English between "step" and "peace": ultimately, a hell of a piece, immortal to me.

Not so immortal the poor Molly Hatchet: almost all the musicians of this album have passed away today. The lineup, however, still exists, held together poorly by a couple of elements that joined in the late eighties. They live on heavily relying, in concerts, on the initial repertoire of these good southerners, among which this "No Guts… No Glory" shines, meaning no guts (in Italian we would say no liver), no glory. Peace be upon them.