Cowboy Poetry Week

Posted by Nina on February 25, 2010 under Performance | Be the First to Comment

I traveled with bands in the 1980s. We performed at the usual spots – Casino bars, small clubs, resorts – anywhere that would pay the motley group of us. Our agent would often book us in rooms that were up to 30+ hours apart – driving distance. Requiring us to close a show on a Saturday or Sunday, pack the equipment and drive the entire distance to grab what sleep we could, only to set up and take the stage in some far away “other town” immediately following Monday Night Football. (It has taken me years to forgive football for those nights.)

One season I was traveling out of the Southwest with a reasonably talented group of musicians, most of whom happened to be of Mexican decent. They were, for whatever reason, intensely interested in the perfect reproduction of all songs “Prince“. I never seemed to mixed well with these guys – they never seemed to accept me. Perhaps it was my Bay Area upbringing, or Rock and Rock musical tastes. And coming from such a liberal community, it never occurred to me how others might view our oddball crew. Until the first day we entered Elko, Nevada – where upon entering town – stretched across the center of the street  – was a HUGE banner that read “Cowboy Poetry Week”.

Not only had I never heard of such a thing as Cowboy Poetry, I was somewhat terrified to step onto a stage where the ONLY audience would be those expecting something more like June and Johnny Cash and MUCH less like the Morris Day and Sheena Easton look-a-likes we were!! I demanded my manager call the agent immediately, who assured us it was no mistake. We were scheduled to rotate on the main stage at The Peppermill Casino with a 10 piece country group called Oklahoma, complete with a slide guitar and fiddler! Holy Shit!  Now even the band was a bit nervous – and I was certain that we would be mobbed.

But I traveled with a wise man, our manager/producer, who insisted we would NOT leave. He said we needed to  learn to “turn the page”. He explained that these audience members were regular people just like the ones at the other Casinos and clubs. Perhaps with a higher concentration of western attire. Something told me that even he was not so sure.  So we set up for sound check and met the other band who seemed nice enough. And I prepared for certain death.

That night at opening, Oklahoma proved to be amazing performers -  they had the audience up on their feet. The room packed with people crowded into this theatre-type lounge – all stomping and whooping to an awesome set – it was a virtual sea of Stetsons. Now I was SURE we were gonners! There was no way to follow this, unless we had Waylon Jennings in the back somewhere, preparing to sit in.

Our bass player – who wore the full Prince regalia by the way – from the long wet looking hair to the purple velour coat – insisted that the only way to “win” this crowd was to blast them with an opener of Purple Rain. But our manager again said, “No”. Instead he had us open with a ballad, me at center stage, pink spotlight on my legs as always. He simply told me they were MY audience now – to “do what I do” with sincerity – to “turn the page”.
I stepped out there onto that big stage feeling so alone in front of all of those big hats and frozen faces. Like a novice, eyes closed, hands cupping the mic – I sang with every bit of love and honesty, and pleading I had. I was certain that when my eyes opened there would be no one left. That they would have all filtered out and we would be stuck playing to a huge empty room. But I was wrong.

I opened my eyes to a standing ovation that night – and discovered what it means to truly “control a room” with vulnerability – 0k… and a little fear. It was deeply moving to be received so kindly – the rest of the night seemed easy. We held the audience, of course, and they danced to all of our songs. They even sang along to Prince! Our manager was very proud of me, of all of us. He must have known all along how it would work out. Best of all there was no mob outside waiting to brutalize my band! By the end of the week we drew as large a crowd as Oklahoma.

I came away with a bit of knowledge about Cowboy Poetry – and great appreciation for the genre I previously knew nothing about. Come to think of it, I began to think Prince was pretty cool too!

The Cowboy’s Dream
Given by Wait Roberts, Double Diamond Ranch,
White Mountains, 1898. Authorship ascribed to
father of Captain Roberts, of the Texas Rangers.

Last night, as I lay on the prairie,
And looked at the stars in the sky,
I wondered if ever a cowboy
Would drift to that sweet by and by.

I hear there’s to be a grand round-up
Where cowboys with others must stand,
To be cut out by the riders of judgment
Who are posted and know all the brands.

The trail to that great mystic region
Is narrow and dim, so they say;
While the one that leads down to perdition
Is posted and blazed all the way.

Whose fault is it, then, that so many
Go astray, on this wild range fail,
Who might have been rich and had plenty
Had they known of the dim, narrow trail?

I wonder if at the last day some cowboy
Unbranded and unclaimed should stand,
Would he be mavericked by those riders of judgment
Who are posted and know all the brands?

I wonder if ever a cowboy
Stood ready for that Judgment Day,
And could say to the Boss of the Riders,
“I’m ready, come, drive me away”?

For they, like the cows that are locoed,
Stampede at the sight of a hand,
Are dragged with a rope to the round-up,
Or get marked with some crooked man’s brand.

And I’m scared that I’ll be a stray yearling,
A maverick, unbranded on high,
And get cut in the bunch with the “rusties”
When the Boss of the Riders goes by.

For they tell of another big owner
Who’s ne’er overstocked, so they say,
But who always makes room for the sinner
Who drifts from the straight, narrow way.

They say he will never forget you,
That he knows every action and look;
So for safety you’d better get branded,
Have your name in the great Tally Book.

My wish for all cowboys is this:
That we may meet at that grand final sale;
Be cut out by the riders of judgment
And shoved up the dim, narrow trail.

from Thorp, Songs of the Cowboys

For a more information and some Cowboy Poems to peruse please visit:

http://www.cowboypoetry.com