25 years ago an unsigned band out of Athens, Georgia named Drive-By Truckers recorded the equivalent of a tree falling in the forest with no one there to hear it. A very big tree. It was a double-album colossus broadly about, as one of its signature songs put it, “the duality of the southern thing,” though its sonic motif owed more to The Replacements than Athens’ other most famous musical sons, R.E.M. Due to the sweltering conditions in their make-shift studio in a 2nd floor uniform shop, it was accomplished exclusively between the hours of 6:00pm to 6:00am.

Combining the genre with which they were most closely identified and the thematic concept first pioneered by The Who on “Tommy,” they called it “Southern Rock Opera.” Then, with finances drained when it was done, they were only able to manufacture and distribute the album after soliciting individual investments from family and friends – in a pre-Kickstarter world – allowing them to raise $23,000, produce fewer than 5,000 copies, and buy a used van for a hoped-for tour.

The buzz “Southern Rock Opera” generated among fans and critics alike was immediate; the band was signed by Mercury Records, and the record was re-released for worldwide distribution with Mercury subsidiary Lost Highway Records in 2002. A short time later Drive-By Truckers were named Band of the Year by industry heavyweight No Depression journal. An 11-album, decades-long career of spectacularly ragged glory (apologies to Neil Young) has ensued. More than anything else, think a heavier-sounding “Exile on Main Street” period Rolling Stones, an often-relentless onslaught of purposefully sloppy guitars and occasionally unhinged vocals, a squall of sound with a southern twang, but composed with the densely-packed, hyper-intelligent and socially conscious storytelling of the band’s two founders, frontmen, and constants: Patterson Hood and Mike Cooley.

This past weekend Drive-By Truckers brought their ambitious anniversary tour, “Southern Rock Opera Revisited” to Portland’s venerated State Theater. And although I’d seen their delightfully raucous performances live several times before – one of which was memorably the 2nd loudest concert I’ve ever attended¹ – my expectations were still especially piqued by the unapologetically epic nature of the album to be re-produced. Here in Portland, I wanted to do something in the way of a pre-show activity to try to get into the southern groove.

Alas, despite its well-deserved reputation as a diversified foodie city, to my knowledge Portland lacks a true southern restaurant. I set my sights on the nearest facsimile I could conjure, the “fine diving” Congress Bar & Grill, for their locally renowned spicy fried chicken sandwich (and favorite full-wall photo from “The Big Lebowski”). Unfortunately, it’s also the nearest proximity-wise to the State, and by my 6:15 arrival was already filled with fellow concert-goers. Instead, we quickly decamped a block down High Street to the always-reliable and homey Little Tap House, where our convivial waitress Victoria was excited to inform me of a recent menu addition: a spicy fried chicken sandwich (it was indeed excellent, if a close second to CBG, as was my wife’s beet salad, over which both she and Victoria raved).

Back at the theater – now solo, after counseling my wife that the anticipated three-guitar thunderstorm might not exactly be to her liking – there was just enough time to grab a beverage, a creamy dark lager brewed by Sacred Profane, a relatively new addition to Portland’s embarrassment of riches craft beer scene (I highly recommend the entirety of their brewhouse options: dark and pale lager). Then I nestled in just a few body-widths back from the stage on the GA floor. Incidentally, I do not do ear plugs; I’d no sooner restrict the ambient sound booming out of loudspeakers at a concert than I would partially cover my eyes while viewing paintings at a museum. Volume is a defined part of the presentation.

As on the album, DBT opened with the song ‘Days of Graduation,’ a gruesome narration over eerie accompaniment of a car crash death in which the length of the song ‘Freebird’ becomes a significant gory detail. As much as the band is capable of revving up the raunchy-sounding rowdiness – as they would on subsequent tunes such as ‘Ronnie and Neil,’ ‘Guitar Man Upstairs,’ and ‘Shut Up and Get on the Plane’ – this is unmistakably an album with dark overtones: the inherent conflict of southern pridefulness viewed through the unblinking eye of both civil rights-era and modern history is inescapable. At one key point of the show, during their riveting re-creation of ‘The Three Great Alabama Icons’ – a number possibly like no other “song” you’ve ever heard before – Hood changed the lyric cited earlier to “…the duality of the American thing,” a certain sign that Drive-By Truckers resolve to a decidedly and defiantly blue state vantage point despite emanating from their red state locale. In all they played 18 of the 20 tracks from the original release, while mixing in numerous other catalog highlights plus a couple of smart encore covers, in a draining but rousing two-and-a-half-hour showcase of blunt musical force. Yet, as I made my brisk walk home through fresh-falling snow, I did have an honest realization: I thought it could’ve been a little louder.

Awaking still in the mood for another form of southern hospitality, I mobilized to Bayside’s Wilson County Barbecue, where I brunched on tasty chicken & waffles and what turned out to be an even more filling side order of loaded grits. And, taking a break from the legion of superb locals, I washed it all down with a classic Miller High Life. Does anybody know why Miller, seemingly alone among old-school domestic brews, is featured at so many happening Portland establishments as a ridiculously low-cost option? My bartender Stephannie was as baffled as me, but no less happy to pour a frosty 20 oz. draft for $3 that brought me back to surreptitious parking lot imbibing in high school.

Check out #20 on the draft list

Like this one, my prior Drive-By Truckers concerts have all taken place in the Northeast: one each in Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Philadelphia. Directionally, you might say that’s at least in a marginal southern orientation. Taking into account, however, a band as culturally and attitudinally associated with the sweeping region below the Mason-Dixon Line – discordant as that alignment may be – I’d have to enter it onto my bucket list to experience them another time while in an authentic southern venue. Portland wasn’t quite that, but it is, after all, at least readily identified as being in the small corridor known as southern Maine.

¹Dinosaur Jr. at Terminal 5 in NYC is number one. My ribcage was rattling.