Western Swing & Texas (and Other Punchy Thoughts) - III.
III.
“You would have never found this place on your own.”
Beau is correct, I wouldn’t have.
It seems we’ve crossed the river and back numerous times while angling off roads opposed to conventional turns of hard rights or lefts before pulling through a gate towards a long bungalow-style ranch house. Beau puts a case of beer in my hands and I drop my bag by a side door as I approach a card game being played on a kick drum case in the dark. Pat Lyons, Jake Groves, and Colter throw down their cards and cigarettes - I dole out a round of beers amidst handshakes and hugs. Colter, wearing a ballcap with his Rafter CW brand on the crown and its peak bent in a shape to slightly match, hollers into another corner of the dark stone patio, “Ron, this here’s Blake”.
With his band becoming almost as close to me as my own, I’ve yet to be as acquainted with their new drummer, Aaron Goodrich having recently replaced former wildman, Solly Levine. He’s formal in tone and handsome in appearance, carefully grown lengthy hair and comb-shaped mustache - Ron - a fitting handle.
He’s providing background music and the voice coming from his phone speaker is familiar.
“Sounds like Ben Haggard, you’re playing there,” I say bemused knowing Ben has yet to release music beyond his social media channels, this, having a studio tone to it.
“That it is,” says Ron, “and Andy Gibson on steel.”
As the game of Rummy continues, Beau pulls in closer to the small fire and Ron fills me on some work he’s overseeing with the son of Merle Haggard. I’m as excited about him knowing Andy through my fandom of Hank III and albums such as Straight To Hell. One in which Andy plays the pedal steel. The break from background music is filled nearer the card game as Colter hops on the opportunity to curate, singing along with the harmony on his selection.
And we said, “Let’s change his name to High and Mighty”
He bucks higher than he should
And he’s mighty hard to ride
And on a saddle bronc that’s High and Mighty
If he can’t buck you off, you’ve learned to ride
“You ever hear of this guy?” Colter asks as the fiddle turns the chorus around.
“No idea,” which is usually my reply in the back and forth song selections we had over the last few years.
“Abbey, Saskatchewan. Lewis Martin Pederson,” holding the screen of his phone in my direction. The image of a rodeo cowboy atop a white bucking horse, fully extended, his shirt matching the blue of the sky with Rodeo No. 1 Sport, Lewis Martin III in the top left corner.
Beau is shrugging his shoulders in rhythm to the fiddle, “...here-ni-nee, here-ni-nee, here-ni-nee,” laughing as he impersonates the instrument, finishes his second beer and grabs a third. He offers one in my direction, I wave it off.
Colter is always humming, occasionally stammering into lyrics but for the most part moving through musical pitches as he walks from the darkness towards the fire’s heat and back again. Needing a shower and responding to my name not being said twice now, it’s best I find myself a bunk. Jake offers to show me to the sleeping quarters and gives up what looks to be the most comfortable and desired mattress for me to sleep. He insists. I revel in a cold shower, imagining three days of suffering large groups of people, travel annoyances, and whatever else I picked up by not taking care of myself as being cleansed from my body and circling down the drain. Over and over, mucky emotions and shortcomings completely washed away with a couple days of dried sweat.
***
“Is Bandit in there?”
A door opens into the studio’s common room and out runs the happy boy, a quick sniff passing Ron’s kick drum and a shake at my feet hoping for some attention as I make my way out of the bunkroom and into the open kitchen for a coffee. Small clicks on the tile as he prances his paws excited for the deep scratch to each side of his muzzle. His brownish-red roan coat left under my fingernails, his ears perk to alert and he scampers into the control room.
“Damn, that was a good take.” Colter laughs, stepping out from where Bandit just exited. “Morning bud, get yourself a coffee,” he points over the piano towards the corner of the room.
A collection of instruments guide me through what would be a living room in a more conventional usage of the space. Ron’s drums set up in front of the stone fireplace, a trio of mounted mascots overseeing his playing; a whitetail deer with sunglasses and headphones, a cryptid jackalope and a female pheasant. All above the mantle around a white sign with black lettering: TO MEXICO. The soul of the room, a dark brown grand piano, its top propped fully open and interrupting the line of sight from drum kit to coffee pot.
I’ve yet to see bassist, Jason Simpson. I hold a fist in the air and make eye contact with him through the glass of a closed door into a separate tracking room. Big white teeth, greying beard, shoulder length hair and cowboy hat. Self-admitted curmudgeon, he carries a special connection to both Melanie and I. He and Colter, cutting their parts in the same room, bleeding into each other’s microphones. The song’s playback comes from the control room speakers as I pull a mug from the cupboard, one of an identical few dozen each reading: I love the smell of Acetate in the morning, Yellow Dog Studios, Wimberley, Texas.
I lean against the doorway to the control room with good mornings and more introductions. Adam Odor, a near dopplegänger to my old bassist, J.R. Lewis, greets with similar mannerisms. I had met Adam in passing last year having tagged along with Beau to a Mike and The Moonpies video shoot for their song “Country Music’s Dead”, Beau playing a liquored-up patron and Adam serving him the booze. Casey Johns, Bandit’s human and studio assistant is as pleasant welcoming me to have his seat. Like last night’s beers, I smile and wave it off and keep my arms against the doorframe.
Rocky Mountain Rangers, ridin o’er the plains
Serve all the western Cavalry, there’s none any stranger
Rocky Mountain Rangers, well equipped for danger
Mounted high in the year of ‘85
...Disbanded in the year of ‘85
The take ends with Colter throwing down Bill Monroe’s interpretation of the Flatt run, an old bluegrass lick first recorded on Monroe’s version of Muleskinner Blues. Its usage becoming so prevalent in pop culture, Colter’s knowledge of such isn’t given the credence deserved. I assume so as he leans on its more basic usage as the main motif on “Thirteen Silver Dollars”, the opening track to his self-titled. I listen for a few minutes before walking through a full control room to join Bandit outside, my input isn’t needed with bandmates, engineers and Beau agreeing with Colter that it’s a take and then agreeing with him that he should do one more.
Jake is sitting in the same low slung plastic wicker lawn chair by the fire pit as he was in before setting me up with my sleeping arrangement last night. Smoking a cigarette with a pump action BB gun across his lap. I lift my coffee cup to him as he flicks the cigarette butt into the fire pit and pulls out his harp, chunking along to the music coming from the open door to the control room just off the patio. Predominantly in a state of zen, Jake is my favourite to break character into the good-timin’ Kentuckian ever-rich in affection, heavier in drawl and startling in energy. However, his usual personality is as gentle as the nod of a head.
The walk down to the river is a two hundred yard decline. Bandit jumps into the water, able to get a few feet in before beginning to paddle with the downstream current. I roll up my pant legs and follow him. Minnows flash as my foot breaks the water’s surface, the Blanco River is shallow and warm. I plan to return with my notebook and make the quick climb back up to the studio.
“The first half of the solo was perfect.”
Colter comments as he stands cross-armed behind Adam who is still at the console. I walk in and recognize the song, first shown to me last night upon arriving. Pat is on the other side of the pane of glass behind his pedal steel and confidently laying down options for their take of the Lewis Martin Pederson song, “High and Mighty”. They stayed true to the original feel with the exception of a much more sparse intro currently coming through the monitors. As the band kicks in with the first course, bed tracks had already been captured in yesterday’s session prior to my arrival. Pat’s steel licks cradle the lead vocal as the two inch tape rolls, the Sony JH24 syncopates a shick-shick-shick to the beat of the song with every rotation of its reels. The band cuts out as Ron’s kick drum accents the hook - such an unassuming drum tone to use in the recording but they are all clearly committed. More mid-toned and papery than the usual low punch one would expect. A couple choruses in and its features have grown on me quickly.
As if summoned by my thoughts, Ron walks through the control room with a towel on his head, shirtless and going to the river. Pat requests one more run at the track from the top as Colter and I change out of our jeans. We follow Ron’s path back through the control room and into the Texas sun as Jake is lifting from his seat with the BB gun sighted towards the water. Clearly aiming well above the green Lonestar beer cans lined up along the foot of the wire mesh fence twenty feet away he tracks movement beyond them and pulls the trigger. The snap of the gun is followed by the yelp of a drummer with a howling band cracking yet another round of beers.
The party continues into the night and I, once again, challenge my sleeping schedule.