Be forewarned – within the four walls of this very bag you hold in your hands sleeps a monster. A flavor monster. The gastro-lovechild of two flavor revolutionists, both hailing from the fertile flavorlands of Downingtown, PA, and each of whom proclaims taste – and taste alone – as the keystone of the human experience. Legend has it this monster was conceived on a fateful Storm King-infused night at the Victory Brewpub, when a drop of Storm King Stout unknowingly found its way onto an unsuspecting slap of O.G. Hickory and knocked the socks off the tongues of all those who tasted it. Others maintain that the origin of Righteous Felon was craft beer itself, and thus Storm King Jerky wasn’t created by Righteous Felon, but rather it created them. Whatever tale you believe to be true, if indeed you possess the courage to push forward and open this bag, you will surely awaken the flavor monster within. With that, its powers will be unchained and it will stop at nothing to instill within you the single virtue its parents bestowed upon it: whether it beer or whether it food, Flavor Always Favors the Bold.
Just a small-time fisherwoman from Maryland, Monroe made a splash in the roaring sixties by kicking in the teeth of the patriarchy and punching the tastebuds of the nation. She’s an icon, a rebel, and a taste-sensation with a spirit as fiery as a molotov cocktail, served straight up. Ask her for her autograph and you’ll get a paper-bag full of Chesapeake Bay Blue Crabs, slow-cooked and jerkified in a marinade more fragrant than Chanel No 5. A major figure in the Flavor Rights Movement, Maryland is no stranger to controversy, caught dehydrating meat with Kennedy in ‘62 after serenading him with “Hickory Birthday, Mr. President.” When she’s not caught stealin’, or smuggling intel for the Flavor Revolution you can find her wiling away the hours at Roseda Beef in Monkton, Maryland. She’s a regular there. Haying the cows, tillin’ the field and dodging any grates that might attempt to upturn her dress.
Like a heat-seeking missile, spicy shredder Voodoo Chile always knows where to tickle the guitar strings. In ‘69 he sent a sonic-boom of fret hopping harmony onto one million fans at Jerkstock, wrapping a marinade-soaked bandana ‘round his forehead so he could hear flavor and taste sound throughout the performance. Voodoo, wizard of Righteous riffs and lawless licks, awaits induction into the Flavor Hall of Fame. Powered by the holy-water that is Voodoo Chile Hot Sauce and a tittle of toasted garlic to wipe the pain away, jammin’ with Voodoo is nothing less than a face-melting experience. Scalp yourself a pair of tickets before it’s too late, his inferno of a show usually sells out. Get in close, but beware the the front-row. Don’t wanna get singed. And keep in mind: backstage passes are reserved for the bold.
And now, a brief timeline in the life of folk flavor icon Baby Blues . . .
May, 1963 - Baby pens pivotal songs for the Flavor Rights Movement.
April, 1965 - Baby creates Subterranean Homemade Jerky in his basement. Becomes first Top 40 Flavor.
July, 1965 - Baby gets booed for going electric at Newport Food Festival.
August, 1965 - Baby releases Hickory 81 Remarinated.
July, 1966 - Baby crashes motorbike while struggling to remove a RF Toob from his fanny-pack.
January, 1976 - Baby distills a highly potent marinade called “BBQ Sweet Kick Sauce.” Pens infamous lyric: “It’s all over now / Baby Blues.”
October, 1979 - Baby goes from B.B.Q. to G.O.D. when converting to Christianity. Proclaims at Chicago concert: “I used to be a jerk. Now I’m a prophet.”
December, 1997 - Baby performs concert for Bill Clinton. Clinton famously says: “He probably had more impact on my generation than any other beef jerky.”
Habanero Escober leaned against a fence on his compound, smoking. A menial worker named Jose passed him an ice-cold Columbian lager. “I appreciate the cerveza, Jose. But it is your sombrero I’m wanting.”
Jose grasped the hat with a protective hand and in a sheepish whisper replied: “Lo siento, Mr. Escobar. You see, my wife, she made me this sombrero and—”
Suddenly, in a motion faster than desert lightning, Escobar pulled a pistol and blasted the Colombian cowboy straight off his mule. The sombrero swayed down—an autumn leaf—right into Escobar’s paws and he adjusted it onto his head. “No Jose,” he said, stamping out the cigarillo underfoot. “It is I who am sorry. And next time you want to talk, please . . . call me Habanero.” Habs. He’s a hot-headed compadre that will turn on you the moment you take your eyes off’m. Starts savory, but once things go south of the border, they get violently hot. You’ve been warned.
When the Founding Felons convened to sign the Constitution of the Flavor Revolution, one jerk and one jerk alone deigned to sign first. And nay, his name were not John Ham-Cock. I speak of course of Bourbon Franklin, a tasteful gentleman and fine patriot in matters of flavor freedom. Solid as brick, ye olde Franklin’s constitution is that of pure vanilla bean and the whiskey that flows from stills across the American plain, the smokies and the redwood forest. When the war began and the Empire of Truck-Stop jerky dubbed us ‘Felons,’ and refused to let us secede, who first loaded his musket? Aye, Bourbon Franklin it were, and Bourbon Franklin, with a smoky whiskey in one hand and a smoking barrel in the other, may it always be. With the Declaration of Marination signed in Philly itself, no other flavor in the Righteous roster embodies independence, patriotism and the American Vanilla Bean Dream quite like Franky-boy. Amazing Grace, the taste resounds.
No single flavor can contain the brave and courageous multitudes of an entire regiment. But with Truffle-O Soldier, we’ve gotten pretty darn close. Truffle-O is Righteous Felon’s lip-smacking homage to the heroes that make our nation great. A flavor of great tact and fortitude and a taste-anthem for the 10th Cavalry Regiment, who fought valiantly in post-Civil War America, tenderizing our enemies from sea to shining sea. This dreadlock rasta is infused with black truffles, making it a formidable flavor and a freedom-fighter. See tracks on the forthcoming EP below:
01. No Jerky, We Cry
02. Is This Habs
03. Truffle-O Soldier
04. Could You Be Rubbed
05. Marination Song
06. We Jerkin’
07. I Jerked the Sheriff
08. Three Little Beefs
"Hey yo! O.G. Hickory comin’!” You hear the words, grab your jerky stash from inside the gutter and ditch the corner as fast as possible. But it’s too late, O.G.’s comin’ down the block. He grabs you. “Hold up!” he says. “You got me wrong, son. I ain’t your enemy. It’s your bosses I got problems with.” He shakes you down for all you got. Plastic-textured jerky niblets. indigestible truck-stop meat-shards. sticks made with mechanically-separated chicken. The food-stuffs of a society bankrupt on taste. Whereas O.G. is the True North that guides the flavor game’s way. The backbone of the snack hustle. A wise ol’ G that always stays true to the game. “Slang this instead, bro,” he says, hooking you up with a couple bags of Righteous Felon. “Not for your boss, not for me, but for yourself, son. Some advice. Next time roll down the alley, you’d do well to keep your appetite unlawful.”
The symbol of the Flavor Revolution for over 60 years, Che is no stranger to controversy, especially when it comes to proliferating Culinary Contraband to the front-line trenches of the beef battlefield. Originally tarred as a fanatic by the dominant Jerky Establishment, various corporate bigwigs knew they had to take Che seriously as a threat once he started turning taste-buds. So began his partnership with Fidelicious Castro, an allegiance that triggered an overthrow of second-rate snacks everywhere. Their dual respect for what tastes great forging the flame that lights the torch of the Revolution. With a bit of bite and mild chipotle flavoring galvanizing Che’s base, the writing’s on the wall: this flavor is no fad. It’s a movement. Traces of Che went dark in 2019, but murmurs among his clandestine coterie say that from solitary confinement Che may rise again