Western Swing & Texas (and Other Punchy Thoughts) - IV.
IV.
Mornings are still at the ranch studio. The coffee brews slow and a clean-up is pending. I’m surprisingly rested after only a few hours of sleep. Embers smoulder as I take a discoloured beer can from the fire pit and toss it over the patio’s stone perimeter onto the grass. Back and forth through the screen door off the side of the kitchen grabbing yet another plastic bag to fill with remnants of last night’s carousing. The screen door hinges give a high wail from behind me as Colter is up and pouring us both a cup of coffee, each as black as acetate.
“Thanks for cleaning up, bud.”
He joins me to finish the job before pulling up beside the pit of ashes and lighting a morning cigarette.
His hopes to make an album amidst a family spirit is inclusive with his partner, Beth, arranging to work a couple weeks out of the ASCAP office in Austin. Both of them out of their Nashville home and into a camper trailer which Beau pulled to the edge to the Yellow Dog property. I had first met Beth in yet another surreal setting a couple years ago in Nashville as Colter had just finished recording a performance with Steve Earle and Emmylou Harris to only be invited to a private speakeasy on Lower Broadway; Beth, charismatic and talkative, Lucinda Williams, sagey and cool. Blake Berglund, stoned on the experience.
It’s nice to have her here as her Texas roots come with a natural sense of hospitality. She’s up with us and ready to leave for the day as Adam arrives and begins playback at the console. Yet another track with the drums and bass already recorded, one which has been played live for a couple years now - Marty Robbins’ Big Iron. Adam does some small adjustments bringing Colter’s voice into clarity. Any other artist would call the vocals recorded alongside the beds a “scratch” but there is no reason for what I’m hearing to be re-done. Verse after verse after verse.
Bandit roars in with a couple quick spins and lands underneath the console, the first before a clatter of bandmates, all up and at it. Warming up his vocals for the day, Colter sits with one leg crossed over the other on the piano bench humming along as he plays up and down the neck of his Martin, occasional lyrics slipping out:
Goodbye old paint, I’m leaving Cheyene
I’m leaving Cheyanne, going to Montana
Goodbye old paint, I’m leaving Cheyenne
Back to humming.
Jake emerges from the bunkroom, instrument in hand, filling his other with his morning coffee.
“I think we’ll start with this one,” Colter yips over the piano without ceasing to play.
The traditional has found its way as an old cowboy standard interpreted by ramblers for almost 100 years. Best known for his recording of Big Rock Candy Mountain, Harry McClintock (Haywire Mac) was also the first credited with introducing “Goodbye Old Paint” into the American songbook. From there a slough of cowboy enthusiasts from Tex Ritter and Pete Seeger to Michael Martin Murphey and Ramblin’ Jack Elliott. Now, being recorded in a medley by yet another, fittingly so.
Colter and Jake move behind their microphones for a take.
With its similar equestrian title, “I Ride An Old Paint” is the meat of the tandem interpretation. Another song with its place in cowboy culture “discovered” by American poet, Carl Sandburg and included in his “American Songbag” anthology. The song was later placed at the top by the Western Writers Association as the greatest western song of all time.
The simplicity of Jake tying Colter’s lyric to guitar could have only been more authentically replicated if it were recorded last night at the fire. The hiss of the analog tape filling any space available.
“Play that harp, now” Colter commands.
Jake is guiding in his melodies and quick to snag dissonance using it as leads toward more harmonious phrasing. Colter steadies the waltz feel giving his counterpart a trail to meander down as his partner delivers quick skips and long bent howls. They are a simple yet mighty duo.
I have the back of my head resting on the glass to the door behind me taking in the performance through the control room monitors. I spin around to a tapping on the pane. Jason stands ominously like the antagonist in a slasher film, playing up his sullen look, dead pan eyes staring through me holding a look void of emotion. He breaks and he lifts his cigarette to his mouth laughing as he takes a drag. I jump up and head outside to join him as Colter and Jake come into the control room to hear their takes.
Jason has kept to himself since my arriving, usually occupying the second stone patio to himself off the back end of the bunkroom. As the sole surviving member from the Speedy Creek Band his loyalty to the ongoing project is genuine as it obviously comes from a place of gratitude. The most veteraned to the lifestyle he existed on the fringes of earlier “alt-country” movements a couple decades ago but now holding strong placement in this current one.
“Morning Blake.”
“Morning bud.”
“Sounds good in there.”
We can both hear that Colter and Jake are sussing through takes as Adam rolls playback.
“How’s Melanie?” Jason asks, taking another sip of his coffee.
I offer her greeting as she was aware I’d be spending time with him. As far as their aligned desires to be on the move, Jason and Melanie are cut from the same cloth. Devoted to the pursuit of the road, they’d each much rather be onstage than idle in their own homes. She was admittedly envious that I was continuing my travels as we wrapped up our tour four days ago. I fill Jason in on what everything looks like for us once I get home, one more tour from Saskatchewan to the West Coast before we settle down for the remainder of the year.
The door to the control room is still open and another version of Jake’s melody lines waft outside, this time the one that will clearly make the record.
Colter stands up and walks out the door towards us, looking back at Jake happy with the performance, “not bad for a guy with no shoes on,” he laughs.