The Black Ale Sinners' mixture of honky-tonk, bluegrass, feed caps and tennis shoes should be familiar to local drinkers -- it's that scary, dangerous, perhaps mulberry-enhanced homebrew misjudgment uncapped only after 3 a.m., when all other libations have been sucked down and the store is closed. The group's tales of whiskey (every song), graves (every other song) and the alleyway parts of country peg them as a late entry to the always-thriving Dust Bowl-and-booze camp of local music. The Sinners still seem most comfortable on a tiny outdoor stage, but they uncork some fine moments anywhere. The fast songs occasionally spin out on turn three (no sin there), but the band just as often cradles singer Steve Hammond's last-gasp vocals with bleak, gorgeous mystery, sometimes slowing things down to an "oh, my gawd, that's the sun comin' up" crawl.
