Waylon once laid it down plain: “Don’t You Think This Outlaw Bit’s Done Got Out of Hand.” Later he slowed it into “Outlaw Shit,” the sound of a man realizin’ the ride was catchin’ up.
Now Shooter Jennings and Benjamin Tod got hold of it, and Lord, they didn’t just dust it off — they lit it on fire. Shooter’s outlaw blood rode it out like dusty boots draggin’ across a sawdust floor. Every note he lets loose feels like an ode to the bloodline he carries — same blood that once ribbed Willie Nelson for singin’ through his nose, but did it with love only outlaws can share.
Then Benjamin Tod steps in — and he’s spillin’ his guts on the table. That voice of his cuts jagged, like a rusted blade that still finds a way to cut your throat. Together, the two of ‘em don’t sound like a tribute act — they sound like the next chapter in the same rough western novel.
It ain’t pretty, it ain’t polished, but that’s the whole damn point. This cover don’t just honor Waylon — it brings him back to life, sittin’ right there by the fire with a crooked grin, noddin’ in approval.
Pancho.