By Isa Jones
By Mary Willson
By Brian Turk
By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
But to quote Merle Haggard, things aren't funny anymore.
In January, Rundstrom came out to Colorado to go skiing. His back was sore and he couldn't swallow. "I'd just done 58 shows in a row," he recalls. "I thought it was because I was singing every night and the pain in my back was from the road. I was healthy -- no drugs, no fast food, no alcohol."
He was immediately diagnosed with squamous-cell carcinoma, the most common and lethal form of esophageal cancer. The disease usually hits men over 50; Rundstrom is 37. Despite four months of non-stop chemotherapy, the cancer invaded his aorta and lymph nodes. The doctors gave him two to six months.
Rundstrom, who has lived to tour and toured to live his entire adult life, called off the chemo and started making plans -- not for a funeral, but for another run of shows, a run he plans to see through to the end.
"I haven't left home since January," he says via phone from Wichita. "I'm a human pin cushion. Every day I am off the chemo, the more I get the drugs out of my body, the better I feel. I'm just now getting the strength to form the chords. But if for some reason I only have a little time left, I don't want to spend it in a bed. I know where chemotherapy puts people. I know where it put me. They've offered me more chemo, with no chance of stopping it, but with the chance of prolonging my life. I don't want to live like that. I'm forcing myself out of bed every day, to get my foot out the front door. To take positive steps toward my cure.
"I think," he pauses, then corrects himself, "I...I am going to beat this."
Before the death sentence, Rundstrom's story followed the contours of the alt-country archetype. In his early twenties, he screamed and thrashed in abrasive punk bands Red Lizard and Technicolor Head Rush, but in the heartland you can no more avoid country than you can growing up.
"Two things happened," he says. "I listened to Willie Nelson's Red Headed Stranger. And I went to this bluegrass festival in Winfield, Kansas, and saw people rocking on acoustic instruments. I realized there was more to music than Ministry and Pigface."
In 1995, Rundstrom formed Scroat Belly, a quasi-industrial, quasi-twang band assaulting uncouth novelties like "Born in a Barn" and "The Booze Won't Let Me Down." Even the bangers at Bloodshot Records found Rundstrom and company beyond the pale, but the underground punk scene in Lawrence and Kansas City embraced them, and they built a following at warehouse-district parties and opening slots for bands like the Bad Livers. The rest of the Midwest, however, proved to be an exception; burned out and broke from slamming their heads against empty rooms, Rundstrom and then-tour manager Jeff Eaton retreated to Wichita.
"It was back when we were a three-piece, at Kirby's Beer Store," Rundstrom says of Split Lip Rayfield's Wichita origins. "We were just screwing around. We were all broke and wanted beer. We convinced the owner we were a band, and we played for free beer. At that gig, another bar owner hired us to play every Tuesday night at Panama Red's. We took the name from a friend of Jeff's, one of the Rayfields from Gumbo, Missouri, population 82. His mom would always talk about how one boy would let his lip get all dried out and cracked."
Split Lip's unplugged formula wasn't calculated, and Rundstrom never predicted the second coming of progressive bluegrass and acoustic jam bands heralded by O Brother, Where Art Thou? and Leftover Salmon. But with mandolin, banjo, stand-up "stitchgiver" bass and dreadnought guitar, he found he could play as fast and hard as he ever had -- and cream a room, regardless of volume.
"You put electricity and drums behind us and we're a rock band," he says. "We play bluegrass instruments, but we don't do covers; we don't wear rouge or bolo ties. I don't know any traditionals. I couldn't play a flat-pickin' song to save my life. I'm a hack of a guitar player. Eric may be one of the best guitar players I've heard, but we forced him to play banjo. I don't know what Wayne is doing; he's just shredding his mandolin. I wouldn't even want to be associated with the state of bluegrass today. It's lounge music."
Needless to say, bluegrass purists hate the band. But as much as any alt-country outfit before or after them, Split Lip has bridged the divide between punks, thrashers, tie-dye twirlers and acoustic freaks. To speak of the act's evolution over eight years and four albums makes as much sense as charting the historical maturation of bar-room brawls. Even in the context of insurgent country, Split Lip's records aren't very good -- too long, somewhat monochromatic as hillbilly parodies go, almost the antithesis of the group's live onslaught.