Unvarnished Truth 3 bands sing about real reality

Jazz Fest looms, and I will say a few words about The Best Festival In The World below. But I want to spotlight three groups who are “keeping it real,” as the kids say.

THE DRIVE-BY TRUCKERS, besides having one of the greatest band names ever, are building momentum steadily, threatening to become accepted by what passes for the mainstream. They are a southern band by birth, accent and nature, but their vision is way broader.

Patterson Hood, leader, lead singer and writer, is the son of David Hood, bassist for the Muscle Shoals house band on immortal soul classics of Otis Redding, Sam and Dave and Aretha (among many others). Besides releasing their own stuff, they’ve recently backed-up venerable soul artists Bettye LaVette and Booker T on their latest projects.

The Truckers have now spanned three decades and have just released their 10th album, “THE BIG TO-DO.”

Although the band has touted this as a return-to-form of their earlier records, I’m of the opinion that it’s of a piece with their complete body of work, which is just fine. Raw melodies, rawer arrangements and raucous guitars dominate the music once again.

Lyrically, they never flinch from looking failure, disaster or hopelessness dead-on, and therefore gain strength from that courage.

Hence we get tales of a dead father whose kids believe is still flying the friendly skies (“Since Daddy Learned to Fly”), an alcoholic who’s ignorant of even the concept of denial (“The Fourth Night of My Drinking”), southern gothic (“Drag the Lake Charlie”), blue-collar rage (“This F@*%ing Job”) and a circus high wire act whose defiance of gravity takes an ugly turn (“The Flying Wallendas”).

All of these tunes were mainly written by Hood and feature his whiny, but winning twangy vocals.

The Truckers have an ace in the hole, however, in singer/guitarist Mike Cooley, whose whiskey-soaked baritone has belted out some their best songs. Here, he’s limited to just three tunes, but they’re all winners.

“Birthday Boy” tells the tale of a stripper doing her job (‘Which one’s the birthday boy?’ she said / ‘I ain’t got all night.’) and contains the memorable line, “pretty girls from smallest towns get remembered like storms and droughts.”

“Get Downtown” stars a housewife telling her husband to get off the couch and get busy providing. Bassist Shonna Tucker even contributes two keepers, with “(It’s Gonna Be) I Told You So,” a driving girl-group rave-up.

Add these poignant short sketches to ragged glory crashing guitars, with just-enough-innovative chord progressions and kicking-yet-funky beats and you’ve got an irresistible force.

They recently did a two-night stint at Tipitina’s and tore it up. They solidified their hipster bona fides by paying tribute to New Orleans native legend Alex Chilton (Big Star and The Box Tops) by noting his recent passing.

Get on board the Truckers’ caravan.

BLOODKIN is a real music snob’s dream – a band that’s been around for years, making records (eight!) and grinding it out in bars and minor venues, while drinking and fighting itself to and through rehab.

They call Athens, Ga., home and the two principals, Eric Carter and Daniel Hutchens, have been together over 22 years. They’ve cleaned up and have recently garnered a mini-boom in music press attention.

Their latest, “BABY, THEY TOLD US WE WOULD RISE AGAIN,” is certainly to be taken literally. It features weary and wise odes to survival, without any revisionist whitewashing or preachiness. They confront their demons head on and sound glad just to be still around – to wail on, with defiance and even joy.

“The Viper” gets things off with measured ode to all things pharmaceutical and material. It creates no doubt where the band’s sentiments lie and throws a marker down for what’s to come.

“Easter Eggs” talks metaphorically about what “goodies” club-hoppers leave strewn around town. “Ghoster Runner” is a snarling swampy tale of spirits filled with baseball metaphors.

Meanwhile, “Rhodendron” is a country power ballad with a description of first principles: “a touch of Old Testament iron/And a whiff of wild rhododendron.” “Heavy With Child” is filled with exuberance and twin-guitar bliss, while “A Place to Crash” marries the southern thing to Kiss-like swagger.

“Little Margherita” lays sunny and strummy chords to a bad-boy’s ode to the titular heroine. “Wait Forever” lays a classic-rock tarpaulin over a love letter from a very faithful partner. And “Summer in Georgia” is close to pastoral but still has an undercurrent of menace.

Bloodkin has already been in it for the long haul, and gives every impression there’s more to come.

THE MALDIVES hail from the Pacific Northwest but its leader, Jason Dodson, is a Virginia native. His southern sensibilities inform The Maldives’ sound and message. Their new record, “LISTEN TO THE THUNDER ,” is darn near irresistible.

Keeping with this column’s theme, I’m happy to report that “Thunder’s” more bucolic tone is still full-throated, true and in-your-face. Musically, the band uses its nine pieces to flesh out the sound, with horns and fiddles as warm flourishes. Lyrically, think Hemingway rather than Faulkner.

“Tequila Sunday” may be the greatest coming home song ever (OK, “25 Miles” still wears that crown). “Say Nothing” is all heartbreak (with survival never in doubt); “Do You Still” sounds like something Andy could’ve crooned to Helen Crump; while “The New One” gets a lover’s loss (rage and jealousy) just right. “Blood Relations” and “Walk Away” are both epics, in subject matter and length. Building to crescendos in both, the band never feels melodramatic, just involved and invested.

The Maldives are relatively new but sound like seasoned veterans. Their sure-footed gait ought to lead them to success.

Jazz Fest is here again. The line-up once again makes the head swoon, the heart race and booty quiver with anticipation. George Clinton, Van Morrison, Aretha, Jeff Beck and Simon and Garfunkel immediately stand out, but it’s the as-yet-unheard, the unexpected discoveries that usually delight the most. And the food. And the palpable real feeling of love – for the music, for the city that hosts it, for the people that share it.