Step out of the woods and into the flickering, hazy light of a neutral camp. “Smokehouse Deals” is Boone “Dusty” Maddox’s take on the wasteland economy. The track is built on a nervous, clicking percussion—like the sound of brass shells being counted out on a wooden table—and a bluesy, low-slung guitar riff that feels like a conversation you aren’t sure you should be having.
The Barter of the Brave
In Sector 8, the “Old World” paper is just kindling. Here, value is found in a sack of jerky, a handful of shells, or a blade that’s true. Boone captures the tension of the trade perfectly: even when shaking hands, his “hand don’t rest.” Every bargain is a calculated risk, a “blade held close to the chest.”
It’s a song about the heavy social tax of survival. You don’t just trade goods; you trade trust, which is the rarest commodity in the ruins. As Boone puts it, you “weigh each offer on a scale of dust.”
Reaping What You Sow
The smokehouse is a place of shadows, both literal and metaphorical. While some trade honor for a “glint in their eyes,” Boone remains the pragmatist. The line “Me, I trade to keep from growin’ old” isn’t about vanity—it’s about the brutal reality that if you don’t get that blanket or that grain, you won’t live to see your next birthday.
The final refrain, “Barter your heart… just to stay alive,” is a grim reminder of the Maddox philosophy: sometimes survival requires giving up a piece of yourself to keep the rest of you breathing.
SMOKEHOUSE DEALS
by: Boone “Dusty” Maddox
Got a sack of jerky and a handful of shells,
Trade for a blanket where the cold wind dwells.
Man at the fire’s got a squint in his eye,
Trust is a gamble when the stakes run high.
A pint of corn liquor for a blade that’s true,
A spool of thread for a boot that’s new.
We shake on the deal, but my hand don’t rest,
A bargain’s a blade held close to the chest.
Smokehouse deals, where the shadows trade,
Every word’s a debt that’s gotta be paid.
Take what you need, but you give in kind,
A man’s only rich what his heart don’t mind.
The smoke curls thick where the traders meet,
Each word’s a risk in the fire’s heat.
A rusted canteen for a sack of grain,
Every trade’s a step through the hunger’s pain.
Some offer stories, some offer lies,
Some trade their honor for a glint in their eyes.
I weigh each offer on a scale of dust,
In a world gone broke, it’s the heart you trust.
Smokehouse deals, in the fire’s red glow,
You give what you got, or you reap what you sow.
One trade, one nod, one chance to survive,
You barter your heart just to stay alive.
Some trade for love, some trade for gold,
Me, I trade to keep from growin’ old.
The smoke don’t care for the deals we make,
But I barter my soul for survival’s sake.
Smokehouse deals, in the fire’s red glow,
You give what you got, or you reap what you sow.
One trade, one nod, one chance to survive,
You barter your heart just to stay alive.
Barter your heart… just to stay alive.