You can call Dale Watson lucky if you want. And he’s undoubtedly had some good fortune over the years — like being born with a rich set of well-deep pipes, a decent amount of guitar-pickin’ talent and the ability to grow the finest pompadour and sideburns this side of a Louisiana truck stop. But the real secret to his continued success is just plain old hard work. Over the past 25 years or so, the prolific Ameripolitan singer-guitarist has released about that many albums loaded with honky-tonk twangers to the simple joys and sorrows of life. His umpteenth release Call Me Lucky is cut from the same faded-denim cloth: A dozen lighthearted, easy-going odes to dumb guys, mean women, mama’s smile, ’57 Fairlanes, trucking farmers (or farming truckers, depending on the time of year) and the love of June and Johnny. Speaking of The Man in Black, Watson’s sound and style often reminds you of Cash at his most playful and relaxed — when he doesn’t sound like Elvis Presley at his most countrified. Except neither Johnny nor The King ever hosted games of Chicken $#!+ Bingo at their own Texas roadhouse. I’m not totally sure who the lucky one is in that scenario. But no matter. Either way, you can’t lose with this sucker.
