While they might have been singing about war, it used to be that folk singers did so from the safety of the home front. But when Fred Smith sings about “endless fucking dust” getting into eyes and hair, weapons and boots; or, with a slight crack in his voice, urges young soldiers to “go call your mother, call your old man, on that welfare line. Tell them you love them, while you still can, ’cause all good things must die,” it’s from frontline experience.
Smith, 53, isn’t your typical singersongwriter; nor
