I readily admit that music fans have been key in getting behind a few bands and helping them parlay local success into leaps at national fame. We’ve seen the likes of The Sharks, Jeffrey Gaines, The Badlees, and Live (just to name a few) take it the next level, and there is no doubt that Central Pennsylvania-transplants Fuel attribute some of their recent success to cutting their teeth on local stages for several years.

But for every local band that’s made the jump to nationals, other highly-talented bands — for reasons unknown — just haven’t caught the imagination of the fans or local radio.

Which brings me to Robbie Fulks.

While Fulks may not be known locally, and he has not yet registered on the popular music radar screen, his hometown is none other than York. (Although many natives may not take kindly to Fulks announcing in a recent article in Spin magazine that the city smells “like crack cocaine, Peppermint Patties, and bluegrass music.”)

Fulks recently released his major label debut, Let’s Kill Saturday Night. In his Geffen Records media photo, he looks like the kind of clean-cut guy any girl would love to bring home to meet mom and dad. But after looking at Fulks for a few minutes, the slight hints of a conniving Eddie Haskell pops out from behind his shy grin.

That shy grin only begins to expose Fulks’ sharp humor and acid tongue.

Part of the reason Fulks is not very well-known here is the musical subgenre where he got his start. Fulks’ first two records were released on the Chicago-based Bloodshot Records. With the tagline “Home of Insurgent Country,” Bloodshot has made a name for itself by delivering down-home honky-tonk covered with a heavy helping of punk-rock attitude. This is not the kind of country that is heard on popular country radio. In fact, it’s anti-country compared to the blather that has flowed out of Nashville for the past 15 years. Fulks tends to mine to darker parts of human existence with songs like “She Took a Lot of Pills (and Died),” “Rock Bottom, Population 1,” and “Barely Human,” while also exposing a genuinely funny soul in pieces like “The Scrapple Song.” Either way, there’ no sugar-coating or image-building here, folks, just in-your-face heartache and everyday tragedy bathed in classic country harmonies.

And while these songs may have shocking consequences, Fulks’ early releases — Country Love Songs (1996) and South Mouth (1997) — display not only amazing songwriting and singing, but scorching country twang that puts much of Nashville’s musical output to shame.

With Let’s Kill Saturday Night, Fulks has raised the bar just a little bit higher. Parts of this CD should find a home on rock radio as well as country. Fulks duets with the likes of Lucinda Williams and former NRBQ guitarist Al Anderson, while mellowing out the twang just enough to deliver straight-edged songs that transcend music boundaries. With Let’s Kill Saturday Night, Fulks leaves a lot of Nashville scratching its collective head wondering why he didn’t jump for Music City’s brass ring, while letting pigeon-holed rock radio wonder what exactly to do with such a unique body of work. Boy, I wish all music did this.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: It saddened everyone at MODE to hear that this is Ed’s last regular column. Although he has promised a cameo appearance from time to time, other committments are more pressing. Thank you Ed for some of the best writing in Central PA. God’s speed!