I cannot tolerate a guy that starts off a song with “Hey, how ya’ doin’?” in a goofy, E-Z Cheez affectation. I can’t respect a white boy that croons “And like Kurtis Blow says, ‘These are the breaks.’” I cannot suffer a songwriter who writes lyrics like “These aren’t pajamas, they’re called leisure pants,” or “I don’t want no dried up pico de gallo.” But, for explicable reasons, I can abide Brady Dietert doing all of the above. The tattered, Kleenex-thin shirt of a band that he wears around his Redwood-sized frame fits him to a ‘t.’ Like no other local artist that I have heard (he’s an artist in a town full of hobbyists), Dietert officiates the matrimony of Northwestern indie folk rock with Texas chicken stranglin’, bonfire buildin’, bb-gun shootin’ music like a parson who has overseen more than one shotgun wedding. His record What Maps Don’t Show is one of the single local albums I listen to in my spare time. There are very few S.A. artists that I feel comfortable saying have one issue – media support – standing between them and a full-time money making music gig, Dietert is one such artist.