Barre Toelken is one of my great heroes. It’s more than the fact that he’s an esteemed folklorist who younger folklorists look up to. It’s more than his wonderful books on folklore, or the hundreds of songs he knows. It’s really the way he conducts his life with courage and individuality that makes him a hero.

We had been friendly and sung together, mostly at the yearly Fife Folklore Conference at Utah State University. When I began working in radio I asked to interview him. We ended up having a good conversation and over the years I’ve gone back to him several times for interviews on a variety of subjects.

A few years ago he asked me if I wanted to travel to Navajo country to visit his family.  I began to see another side of Barre as I watched the way he worked with the Yellowman’s, helping them plow through the bureaucracy to make claims for the deaths of their men from cancer after working in uranium mines in southeastern Utah in the 50s.

Barre Toelken

As he conversed in Navajo I realized he was not just a folklorist, curious about exotic traditions that were far from what he grew up with.  With time, he had become a trusted keeper of the family history, a respected elder. As a non-Indian who married into a large extended Navajo family it was not an easy position to be in.  However, from my vantage he has always acted in the best interests of his kin. For instance he made a courageous choice to return recordings of their stories when he could not be assured the tape would not be used in ways that went against Navajo spiritual codes. With this decision he took heat from archivists and other scholars.

By the end of that trip to the Navajo Nation, Barre and I became true friends. In subsequent visits I have learned a lot about this man that goes way beyond teacher and scholar. Besides speaking Navajo, Barre is a scholar of German folklore. During the Cold War, I learned Barre was part of a group who helped dissident scholars escape eastern block countries.  This was not all letter writing and meetings,  it included midnight boat rides and escapades as thrilling as any spy novel.

When Barre suffered a massive stroke in 2002 he was hospitalized two blocks away from my home in Salt Lake City. His home is 90 miles away in Logan,  and I was close by.  Over those weeks I had the opportunity to spend a good deal of time with Barre as he began to discover what had gone wrong in the stroke, and started the long and arduous road back to a useful life. It was apparent from the beginning that he’d lost the use of his right arm.  I remember, when he began feeling better I brought a guitar to his room, and while he made the chords with his left hand I strummed with my right.  He remembered all the chords and we got a good laugh out of our coordinated effort. Shortly after that day,  a group of his Logan friends came to visit and cajoled him into singing. It was a tough moment since so many words were tangled up in his brain; however,  it proved to be good exercise as he began to find new routes in his brain for lost words.

Barre and Miko Toelken singing with friends at the Toelken home.

I had no idea at the time that a group was forming that would stick with Barre to help bring back his songs. Some of the faces have changed  over the years but those sessions of singing old folk songs and sea shanties still goes on in Barre and Miko’s living room.  For everyone involved it has been an incredibly rewarding  ten years of a grounding in music, each week, rain or shine.

LISTEN to Barre’s singing group.

This past summer I visited Barre to interview him specifically about the experience of his stroke. I returned and recorded a session of music with the group a few weeks later. The short “What’s in a Song” feature Taki Telonidis and I produced for  NPR represents a small amount of the material collected. I hope to continue to interview Barre, and even though he is getting older and his rehabilitation is slowing, his mind and heart are still strong as ever. I value Barre Toelken’s friendship.

LISTEN to Barre’s story on What’s in a Song

TK: Most of what I know about you is related to the music you play.  Tell us a little bit about the family ranch and how you ended up back in Texas to run it.

GB: Our Grandfather V.H. Porter started the ranch in 1912, and 2012 marks the 100th anniversary. We spent our summer vacations working with him and have been interested in ranching ever since. The ranch had been leased since our Grandfather’s retirement and we had been playing music up and down the East coast. In 1983 the lease expired and we decided to combine our music with our desire to get involved with ranching. We continue to run a commercial cow/calf operation, much the same as our Grandfather.

TK:  What led you to playing music?  Did you have any musical relatives?

GB: Our paternal Grandfather, Merlyn Gillette, was a singer and piano player, and our mother played piano. The biggest influence, however, were the records our parents played for us as kids which included many cowboy songs by Cisco Houston, Hermes Nye, Carl Sandburg, Woody Guthrie and Leadbelly.

TK:  What is it like to play with your brother?  You also work together.   How do you keep your relationship friendly and collaborative?

GB: We share similar interests and have always enjoyed being and working together, so it’s GREAT!!!

LISTEN to Jingle Up the Horses

TK: Your music represents many different styles, from Celtic music to minstrel music.  How do the different styles connect to make the music cowboy music?

GB: These were among the popular musical influences of the original cowboy period and came together on the cattle trails when Irish/English/Scottish cowboys worked side by side with recently freed African American cowboys.

TK: Many of your songs are prefaced by stories, some of which are about your family history, some about the history of the song.  What is the importance of history to the songs you play?

GB: It brings the songs to life by putting them in an historical context and illustrates lessons that are still viable. Our Grandfather Porter was a wonderful storyteller and has left us a lot of material.

LISTEN to You Give Me Your Love

TK: Like Sourdough Slim, whom I interviewed a few weeks ago, you play more instruments than the standard guitar.  How is expanding your talents beyond the guitar important to making music?  How do you decide which instrument to play when you are arranging a tune or creating a new song?

GB: The instruments are ones that were popular at the time the songs came into being and are another element that helps to recreate the period. The variety also makes the presentation more interesting for us and, we hope, the audience.

TK: Some of the instruments you play are whimsical or unique.  How do the bones or a harmonica enhance the songs?

GB: The harmonica was cheap and portable and a cowboy staple. The bones have a long and interesting history, in spite of the fact that most folks are not familiar with them today. They were extremely popular in the 19th century. These instruments add spice and diversity.

LISTEN to Brazos River Song

TK: Besides music and running the family ranch, you make bones (a rhythm instrument made out of animal ribs), and host concerts at the Camp Street Café, which you renovated into a theater.  Is there anything you don’t do?

GB: Haha!!

TK: Is there anything I missed?  Anything else you want people to know about you?

GB: Pipp carves wooden decoys in a time honored tradition and makes whimsical masks made of paper-mache.

TK: Thank you for taking the time to answer my questions.

GB: Tamara…Our pleasure and we’re looking forward to another great gathering!!

Meet the Gillette Brothers at the 2012 National Cowboy Poetry Gathering.  You can learn more about the brothers and Camp Street Café at www.campstreetcafe.com.

TK: You play both as a solo musician and with your band, The Bohemian Saints. Some musicians play the same thing solo or with accompaniment, but you have different styles when you’re playing with the band than when you’re playing solo. Why do you play differently with the band?

MB: My acoustic solo shows are more intimate. They allow me to reach right into the folk tradition and be more of a storyteller. As a young boy I got to see a few folk acts that really put an impression on me, Pete Seeger for one. He made you feel like he was in your living room, took you someplace. Arlo Guthrie, too—his Alice’s Restaurant was, in my humble opinion, a direct link to Ramblin’ Jack Elliott. That style of storytelling . . . it just moved me.

I’ve added that element to the band too, maybe a different flavor, but it’s there. Fronting a band is kinda the same—you should be taking the audience somewhere—that’s your job. Otis Redding—he could take the audience somewhere. I try to learn from the greats. The Bohemian Saints are really a west coast band. There’s a lot of freedom, musically speaking, in our sound. We all grew up there, so it’s in our DNA.

TK: Your solo work is a lot of ballads, and you often tell anecdotes and stories to set up the songs. How are stories important to your songwriting and to your performances?

MB: I have always liked a good story and a good storyteller. It’s an art. When I cowboyed for a living, a good storyteller was a plus on the crew, and I heard some good ones, and that affected me I’m sure. The bottom line in a great song to me is how it affected the listener. Did it move you . . . did it take you someplace? Same with a story.

TK: Many of your songs are about people, and “Patrick” is about a horse. What inspires you about a certain person or a particular animal?

MB: In the case of “Patrick” it was a way for me to tell a bit of Bill Dorrance’s life by saying things about Patrick , a horse he owned. A way to tell a story really about Bill. In songwriting, there are no rules, and that’s one of the beautiful things about it!

LISTEN to Patrick

TK: Your music with the Bohemian Saints has been described as being influenced by the Byrds, as well as other rock bands like the Rolling Stones. Do you put on a different persona when you are playing more rock-influenced music?

MB: Not so much. But I do try my best to get my head in that space and just let it breathe . . . just let it create its own place, see where it takes us. That’s the big adventure!

TK: Where is the line between rock music and cowboy music? How do they connect for you?

MB: Is there a line? Not really. I grew up in California. I loved music, and I still do. I cowboyed for a living, and still do a lot of work with horses, so my sound has evolved from all that influence. I did not grow up in Texas listening to Bob Wills (which I love by the way); it was CS&N, Jackson Browne, Byrds, Buck Owens, the Brit bands, The Who, Traffic—the list goes on and on. Of course all that moved me, influenced me. Naturally you become a product of all that.

TK: You got your first horse in third grade, and you were inspired to play music at 13. Like many cowboy musicians you spent some time as a cowboy. Growing up in Monterey, California, you could have found inspiration from many places, like the mountains or the sea. Why did you choose to become a cowboy and a cowboy singer, rather than, say, a sailor?

MB: Well it was almost the sea that took me—came close. But Nevada, the Sagebrush Sea, it got me good!!

TK: You don’t live in Monterey anymore, but you return regularly to play there. Why do you make the trip to Monterey so often? What is the draw?

MB:. Monterey will always be home. I have family there, friends. The Bohemian Saints, we have a following there. It’s beautiful, the coast line, the weather—I can never stay away too long!

TK: You lived a short while in Elko, and you play at the local bar, The Stray Dog, every January during the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering. Why do you come to Elko every winter, even when you aren’t playing at the Gathering?

MB: The Stray Dog is where we’ve played as a band for a while during the Gathering. If you have to ask why we come back there and play every year, well, all I can say is get yourself in there when The Bohemian Saints are smashed together on that tiny stage and find out for yourself. It can be magic!

TK: You’ve lived in Montana for quite some time now, returning there after your stint in Elko. How has each of these places influenced your music? What is it about these places that you can’t shake?

MB: Montana is just a nice place to live. Everything gets more complicated when you leave Montana. You gotta look out for Moose on the road, though, on your way back from late night gigs!!

LISTEN to Don’t Hurt My Heart

TK: Thank you for taking the time to answer my questions.

MB: Tamara, it’s been my pleasure. See ya in Elko at The Gathering!!

You can learn more about Mike and his band at www.mikebeck.com, or meet him at the Gathering. Mike Beck and the Bohemian Saints will be performing at the 2012 National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, January 30 – February 4.

Photo of Zeke and Paul by Kenton Rowe.

Poet Paul Zarzyski’s unconventional style has no-doubt influenced the trajectory of cowboy poetry. Before his first performance at the Elko Cowboy Poetry Gathering in 1987, cowboy poetry rhymed. These days, poets are just as likely to write in free verse as they are to employ the traditional rhyme and meter. Paul has continued to push the envelope over the years with his subject matter, his recordings of poetry backed by jazz music, and the lyrics he has written for and with his musician friends. Now he has done it again with his new book 51: 30 Poems, 20 Lyrics, 1 Self-Interview. Darcy Minter, Western Folklife Center Communications Director, recently interviewed Paul about his book.

DM: I’m a little intimidated to interview you since you’ve already asked yourself all the questions you always wanted to be asked. You didn’t leave much for the rest of us! As someone who has wrangled you into participating in many bad interviews with the news media, I will apologize in advance for my questions… Let’s start with the unusual format of this book. You’ve published a book that doesn’t fit neatly in any category on any bookstore shelf. It’s poetry, it’s song lyrics and it’s memoir (sort of). We’ve learned to expect the unusual from you. Were you trying to push the envelope with this format?

PZ: I honestly don’t recall that as my primary intention. I realized early-on, obviously, that the format is somewhat of an anomaly and I must’ve considered for an instant that it might present difficulties for readers who prefer their freezer fowl traditionally packaged and labeled: 1 Turkey, 1 Duck, 1 Chicken, as opposed to 1 Turducken. I guess I saw the poetry/lyric/prose interactions between the same covers as an artistic challenge I was itching to encounter. It cost me my first publisher, a dear friend of purt-near 40 years, who stuck with me through a number of permutations and/or edits until the prose, the Self-Interview, began to drift further and further toward memoir, which he deemed way off kilter from the original conception, which, if I remember correctly, focused almost entirely on my personal approach to the page, on the writing process. The “divorce” broke my heart, and almost broke my spirit, to boot. I seriously thought about shit-canning the project altogether. At one point, my friend suggested we drop the lyrics and interview and “simply” publish the poems. It made sense—too much sense. That’s when the enigmatic, anarchistic, iconoclastic, pugnacious, EYE-talian cells of my tenacious make-up kicked-in and thus I decided to bring my vision to fruition, publisher or no frickin’ publisher, audience or no frickin’ audience. If I was trying to push the envelope, it was the envelope addressed solely to Paul Leonard Zarzyski. I was on the fight— “doing roadwork in the boneyard, shadow boxing my own stone—my epitaph reads Do Or Die, either way, I’m on my own,” to summon up a metaphor from one of the lyrics in 51. I’d already lost my Dad and my dear poet-friend Quinton Duval, and was on the brink of also losing Mom and another dear poet-friend Trish Pedroia. I was devastated and pissed-off, both— looking for a pushing match with the envelope, with myself. All to say, “it” was a lot more complicated and/or convoluted than simply deciding to foist an unorthodox format onto the reading public. Maybe you can recommend a good shrink to help sort this all out?

DM: I am going to concentrate many of my questions on your self-interview if that’s okay with you. Can you talk about the experience of writing prose after focusing for so many years on poetry?

PZ: I suppose it was a bit akin to guitar maestros Eric Clapton or Rich O’Brien deciding in their late fifties to take up the accordion? Not, mind you, that I’m anointing myself the Clapton of Poetry. Rather, merely to suggest the difficulties I encountered. I mean, paragraphs are nowhere near jagged enough on the right, you know? On the flip side, if someone parsed my poems, I’m bettin’ they’d discover that most are written in complete subject-predicate sentences. I vaguely recall teaching, between rodeos, technical writing to forestry students back in the ‘70s and ‘80s. I think a few of the rules of good prosemanship resurfaced out of the muck and mire of my classroom gray matter past. I refused, for better or worse, however, to let go of the impasto, musical diction I am so fond of when coaxing my poems to sing, to roar, to wail, to howl, to make a lot of “noise,” as my mentor Dick Hugo once referred to his own affections for the ring and ricochet of lingo, the symphonics of the English language. My ultimate editor for 51, Allen Jones of Bangtail Press, did his best to hot-shot me away from my poetic addictions in the Self-Interview— thank goodness, with at least a modicum of success, in spite of my fighting him every syllable of the way. If readers appreciate my prose in this collection, they have not me, but Allen, to thank for it. He deserves some major editorial award for the efforts he invested into bringing 51 out of the shadows and into the light. Hell, he likely could teach Clapton to play the accordion!

DM: Why the aversion to paragraph breaks?

PZ: Because the pauses screw with my belief that the strongest, most honest, interview responses are derived via stream-of-consciousness approaches to an answer, which, in turn, allows the interviewee to eventually discover and then to address the question that the interviewer should’ve asked in the first place, but could not, because he or she seldom, if ever, knows enough about the interviewee’s psyche to even begin to scratch the surface, when indeed the mission of such exchanges, in my opinion, is to “mine”—with dynamite if need be—the heart and mind and maybe even the very soul of said interviewee. Otherwise, why even bother? Ninety-nine per cent of the interviews you read are insipid drivel, filled with vapid self-aggrandizing pap, in no small part because the questions posed are so inane, likely a repercussion of—and I’m going to be gracious here—assignment and deadline constraints, not to even mention the need to spoon-feed a more-often-than-not lazy readership (there goes my graciousness up in smoke, ‘ey?). Nobody understands this better than Bob Dylan, who’s well-known for his emasculations of journalists. Simply, I use words like timbers and ropes and stones from which I build the bridges over bottomless crevasses, across flaming, seething molten lavas flows, so I can explore and discover what’s on the other side, what’s out there. Paragraph breaks—in this case, anyway— compromised the architectural soundness of the structures facilitating my journeys of “crossing over.”

Photo by Barry Hautala

DM: Did you choose to interview yourself because you wanted to be more direct than you could be in a poem?

PZ: Very good question. So now I suppose you’ll expect me to first admit here that you might be one of those rare interviewers who can bust through, who can frack the hardpan? Okay, maybe you are. Some of my poems, especially in 51 are pretty damn direct. I believe the Self-Interview allowed me to pose questions that, for whatever reasons, I’ve never—at least, not to date—grappled with in my poetry. I’m guessing that the prose did not, however, prompt me toward a greater “directness” than have my poems. Most definitely different conflicts, different “destinations of resolution.” As well as different “bridge trajectories”—paths of both least, and most, resistance—leading to those answers or epiphanies or revelations on the other side? That mind-doctor you recommended earlier? What was her name and phone number again?

DM: You say that writing song lyrics expanded your creative vistas. What about writing prose?

PZ: I compliment you and then what do you go and do—get redundant on me. Just kidding. The accordion can take you to Carnival Cruise places that the guitar would be embarrassed to include on its exotic galactic tour. Nevertheless, most all fresh landscapes and skyscapes are purt-near equally welcomed in the pursuit of new creative vistas. I reveled immensely in the varying cadences inherent in prose. You got your paragraph (I did construct a few of the boogers, contrary to your observations), you got your stanza, you got your verse, chorus, bridge. They all dance a little differently to their own unique music, which, once you get tapped off, expands your writerly maps, or atlases, or star charts of the ol’ Cowpoke Cosmos, where, as I say in 51, “creativity rhymes with Infinity.” Oh, and by the way, I’m half Polish and half Italian. My very first music was likely a polka. I love the accordion. So much so that I keep a Horner case, filled with Guinness and expensive top-shelf microbrew porters, in my brewski refrigerator—it’s the only sure-bet way I can keep visiting musician friends, David Wilkie in particular, from locating and drinking all my “barley soup.” Dave wouldn’t be caught dead exhibiting curiosity for the contents of an accordion case.

DM: Your self interview exposes your feelings on so many issues: racism, homophobia, politics, religion, spirituality, art, writing, music, war, friendship, animals…and the list goes on. It has a confessional quality and as I read it I felt like you were purging yourself in some way. Do you feel relieved that you have said your peace? Did a feeling of being misunderstood prompt you to write it?

PZ: Wasn’t that the refrain of an Eric Burton and The Animals hit? “Oh Lord, don’t let me be mis-under-stood…?” Yes, I think I do feel a sense of relief to have laid my hole-cards face-up on the felt, so to speak. And, since you allude to that ridiculous catholic sacrament I once partook in, maybe the Self-Interview offers a bit of a between-the-lines flashback : “bless me father for I have sinned, it’s been 38 years and 51 days since my last confession….” More to the point of your inquiry, after a performance in Monterey years ago, an elderly rancher approached me and, in the midst of touting recent Alaska legislation allowing wolves to be shot from planes, said “I really liked your poem “Wolf Traps on the Welcome Mat,” the title piece to one of my poetry books, which is actually titled “Wolf Tracks on the Welcome Mat.” The poem—if it’s working as I believe it works—offers an open-ended view of the extremely contentious issue of wolf reintroduction in the ranching west. I talk a bit about audience in 51—how they often see and hear what they expect and need to see and hear, how they so often need to believe that you think and act exactly as they do. Why else would you dress pretty much exactly the same as they do—hat, boots, jeans, etc. when we’re talking the cowboy poetry and music genre? In bucking all stereotypical perceptions and expectations, I’d much prefer to be regarded as not only an iconoclast, but an extraterrestrial iconoclast. E.T. in a beaver lid. Don’t take me wrong—it’s an honor of immense proportions to be thought worthy of inclusion in what Buck Ramsey dubbed The Cowboy Tribe. I truly doubt, however, that Buck would have ever considered conformity as an attribute, a membership prerequisite. 51 is the most honest book I could ever write, and honesty is a cowboy virtue of utmost magnitude. I can live and die with that declaration in my head and heart. No retractions, no regrets. Although I realize full well that many of my philosophies are counter to what many consider “the cowboy code.”

DM: What role did the death of your father play in your need to write all this down? Had you finished the book before your Mom passed away? Did she have a chance to read it?

Paul and his Dad

PZ: Without a doubt, Dad’s death provided the bulk of the impetus behind my frantic need to flesh out the Self-Interview. At times, my feelings of vulnerability, of mortality, were so prominent, minute-to-minute, breath-to-breath, that I feared leaving the daily work on the book here at home in order to attend festivals, to do gigs. (What if I didn’t make it back?) I remember 12-hour shifts at the desk. I remember total emotional and physical and spiritual exhaustion. In my younger years, a friend and I skidded 35-foot house logs down mountainsides steep as a cow’s face with a magnificent Clydesdale named Tom, then loaded and unloaded them by hand on a trailer. John Henry with his spike hammer against the steam-drivin’ machine. Sweat and muscle imbued with the sinew of youth, dawn to dusk. Mere child’s play compared to the shifts I put in hammering out those Self-Interview stories. All in honor of, in tribute to, Dad’s blue-collar passions. (“Once you start a job, always finish it; if you’re going to do a job, do it right or don’t do it at all.”)

Listen to Paul recite “Words Growing Wild in the Woods”

I remember breaking down often into tears I had a hell of a time stanching. Was doing a lot of the editing on the computer rather than with the Smith-Corona and couldn’t read the screen during many of the most poignant episodes I so furiously was trying to flesh out. I remember moments during which I felt possessed. And then, in the torment and toil of it all, Mom died—August 22, 2010. I had been flying and driving back and forth to my home ground in Hurley, Wisconsin to monitor her caretaking activities by a troupe of angelic women I dubbed Team Delia. The mission was to keep her in her home, despite her affliction with mild dementia. We’d spent a magnificent 10-12 days together in early July—lots of stories, lots of laughter. She died as a result of a massive stroke, just 3 months shy of her 90^th birthday. My friend, Quinton Duval, had passed in May, and then Trish Pedroia in November. I felt under siege. It occurs to me right this instant that I actually might’ve been using the writing, the vow to finish 51, as a life buoy. I’d written the dedication shortly after Dad’s passing. It begins, “In loving memory of Leonard John Zarzyski—November 20, 1925 to October 10, 2008….” I was already so deeply steeped in my mother’s well-being—she’d been together with Dad in the same house for over 61 years—that I subconsciously wrote the date of her birth, November 20^th, instead of my dad’s, November 5^th. It remained undetected through multiple edits. Serendipitously, dear friend, Buzzy Vick, caught the “error” 5 months after the book came out. Buzzy’s birthday is November 20^th, and during a conversation she remarked, “I didn’t know I shared a birthday with both your Mom and your Dad.” I hope I’ve answered the first two facets of your question. As for the last, no, Mom didn’t live long enough to see the printed book. Allen, my editor, and I decided it would alter the tenor of a good portion of the Self-Interview to include mention of Mom’s death, that it would dictate a major rewriting effort, especially in light of our publication deadline goal. I did read finished manuscript passages to her at the kitchen table during my July visit prior to her death. She was fascinated by the storytelling. I can picture her sitting in her chair on the front porch smiling for hours at the photos of her on the front and back covers. Oh, Darcy, now look what you’ve gone and done—here go the waterworks again.

Paul's car with "Delia Z" plates (nope, not his '71 Monte Carlo).

DM: Just scratchin’—or maybe diggin’ is a better word—at the surface Paul…You include many of your favorite quotes in the interview. For example, you quote African American poet Lucille Clifton: “I’m not here to comfort the afflicted, but rather to afflict the comfortable.” Why have you taken on this role?

Paul behind the chutes

PZ: Because to have shirked taking on the role—to quote one of my favorite cowboy performers, Ranger Doug of Riders In The Sky— “might’ve been the easy way, but it would not have been THE COWBOY WAY!” In all seriousness, I honestly do not know the answer to your difficult observation. Are you certain I have embraced the role? If so, it wasn’t calculated, or even welcomed. Moreover, I choose to believe that I am not the only so-called cowboy poet or musician who fulfills the role of “afflicter.” You know who they are. I’m not going to name names here and risk loss of friendship or downright litigation or the likelihood that I’ll be slipped a Mickey Finn at the Pioneer in Elko this coming February. When I rodeo’d, I seldom, if ever, turned a horse out because I was too frightened to get on him or, in the case of Kesler’s notorious mare Three Bars, her. I might not have spurred many of the good ones to the 8-second tooter, but I forked most everything I drew. “Ladies and Gentleman, out of chute number 6, the Maverick Hat chute, Paul Zarzyski on the triple-rank bronc, Afflict-The-Comfortable.”

DM: You say you deplore artistic complacency — playing it safe for an audience. Do you think your popularity with cowboy poetry audiences is because you don’t play it safe, or somehow in spite of it?

Paladin

PZ: I’d like to believe it’s the former. Most of the rodeo roughstock twisters who I idolized, as well as most of the writers whose work and lives I admire, dance the dance of reckless abandon. As difficult as it’s become in these conservative, theocratic cowboy-west times, I’d still like to think there’s a few kindred spirits out there in audienceville who’d rather hang with Paladin than with, say, Gene Autry. I hope that’s not an unfair metaphor—and certainly not one intended to disrespect Mr. Autry, who I watched religiously as a kid in the ‘50s. To couch it in similar terms, whoever wrote the scripts, and/or short stories or novels informing the scripts to the HBO series Deadwood, or No Country for Old Men, or The Unforgiven, or Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid, or Hud, or McCabe and Mrs. Miller, or The Grey Fox, or The Last Picture Show, or Lonely Are The Brave, or Junior Bonner, or The Wild Bunch, or ( yes, damn it) Brokeback Mountain, or J.W. Coop, or Rancho Deluxe or The Missouri Breaks or…well, you get the picture—these are the writers who subscribe to the same cowboy-west sensibilities I embrace. Nothing “safe” about the wild-west characters, fictitious or not, in those stories, the key modifier here being “wild,” not “tamed” or “domesticated” or “fenced-in and broke.” I’ll take a Sam Peckinpah-directed film anyday over most any other western. And Paladin was my kind of Mafioso-hitman “cowboy poet.” In fact, Paladin had to be Italian.

DM: This book also feels like a tribute to the people in your life who have influenced you and enriched your life personally and professionally. Was that a conscious decision or did it just bubble up through the process?

PZ: A little of both. A number of years ago, in a piece I wrote for the Big Sky Journal, I took the liberty to revise that old saw, “you are what you eat,” to “you are who you meet.” I’ve been fortunate to know this truth for decades, and more fortunate yet to have met and have been befriended by hundreds of genuine-article, magnanimous beings from so many diverse species aboard this glorious orb. Both editor-friends of 51—the one who abandoned me and the one who stuck with me—admonished me for the excessive mentioning of names that would disinterest the average reader. I ignored the advice altogether. I only wish that I’d have insisted on the inclusion of several additional pages inside the back cover, upon which I could have more fully completed the list of all my soulful coaches, gurus, cheerleaders, mentors, friends—my parents, as I emphasize over and over in the book, the most soulful influences of all. Without all these “wilderness guides” through 60 years of life in this dimension, I’m little more than a 5-foot 10-inch high pile of flesh and blood and bone.

DM: This seems like the ultimate cowboy book to me. Not in its subject matter, but in its bravado, its grit and passion and brutal honesty. It’s real and it’s authentic. — cowboy qualities that we value. You’ve already alluded to this but I think it bears repeating (I’m being redundant again, but I’m the interviewer here.). Can you elaborate?

PZ: I appreciate your vote of confidence. Unfortunately, I think both of us could name dozens of cowboy poetry and music aficionados who’d burn 51 and not because they’re in need of the BTUs, either. Thanks also for agreeing with my earlier take on “honesty.” Brutal honesty, indeed—perfect modifier, Darcy. As to this book being worthy of the trees killed to provide the paper it’s printed on, that’s the readers call, not mine, and I haven’t heard a whole lot of response since the book was released back in March. That longstanding adage or aphorism, “silence can be deafening (to a writer)” still holds true. On the flip side, I found this message on my October 19^th voice mail:

“Paul, this is your old buddy that used to fix your boots, your old Packer buddy. I just finished reading one of the best books I’ve read in my life. And I want to congratulate you and thank you very much.”

I had to look at the caller I.D. to finally figure out who he was—hadn’t seen him in a long while and never knew his last name, in fact. Just Larry, who worked as a boot repairman years back at Broken Arrow Saddlery here in Great Falls. A fellow Green Bay Packer fan. I’d have never pegged him as a reader of anything other than, say, “Western Horseman Magazine.” I returned his call:

“Larry—Paul Zarzyski. Whose book did you read? I’ll pick up a copy and read it, too.”

“Yours! 51,” he replied.

“How’d you find out about it? Not even the CIA knows it’s in print.”

“I saw a little mention of it in Montana Magazine,” he said. “So I drove over to Hastings, but they’d never heard of you. So I tried Barnes & Noble and sure enough, they could order it for me. They called me when it came in, but by the time I went to pick it up that afternoon, some new clerk had already sold it to another customer who spied it behind the counter, and so they had to order me another copy.”

“I didn’t figure you for a poetry fan,” I said, although I was far more curious how he rolled with the punches of the somewhat ethereal—at times, perhaps, esoteric—philosophical stances of the Self-Interview.

“Oh, yes,’ Larry responded, ‘poetry’s damn important in this world.”

I’d have bet my beloved Smith-Corona Silent-Super, my riggin’ sack, my ‘71 viper-red Monte Carlo, my vintage cowboy necktie collection—my most prized possessions—that my long-lost boot repairman friend, Larry, would not have made it through 8 of the 250+ pages of 51, let alone have read the entire book and then have responded as he so graciously did. Believe me when I tell you, Darcy, that Larry’s phone message, along with our follow-up conversation means more to me than a 5-star review in some high-falutin literary publication. What a critical reminder of the paramount importance of a single keen-hearted reader. Give me 7 more—on second thought, make it 50?—just like him and you can keep your Pulitzer Prize. Moreover, what a well-timed lesson in humility—I’m just as guilty of the sin of stereotyping others as those audience members I indicted earlier in this interview. Speaking of which, thanks (I think?) for the opportunity, the privilege, of addressing your savvy questions. But now we’ll have to close, so I can continue on my eternal journey of repentance.

Paul Zarzyski will perform in his 26th National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, January 30 to February 4, 2012. His book, 51: 30 poems, 20 Lyrics, 1 Self-Interview, is available at the Western Folklife Center Gift Shop. Paul’s website is www.paulzarzyski.com.

TK: The tagline on the bio found on your website, sourdoughslim.com, is “Last of the Vaudeville Cowboys.”  Can you explain that?

SS: First of all, it immediately gives reference to the era and style of entertainment I present. I think it has a nice ring to it too. My stage show combines cowboy crooning, yodeling, comedic sketches and an occasional rope trick. Much the same as a variety act you might have seen on the Vaudeville circuit of the 1920′s

LISTEN to Hesitation Blues

TK: When did you discover that you have a knack for tapping into the joy of music?  Both your humorous songs and other traditional and old-time songs bring a smile to everyone’s faces.  Where do you find that magic?

SS: I guess I am a natural born ham. I realized at an early age that I was blessed with a gift to make people laugh. I love playing music and entertaining. When you’re having fun on stage it just naturally spills out into the audience. Of course 40 years of entertaining and honing your stage-craft in front of every kind of audience imaginable helps too. 

TK: You also write original songs.  Are all of them inspired by the music of the past?  You grew up on a ranch outside of Hollywood.  Are any of your original songs drawn on your childhood experiences?

SS: My fascination and passion for the music and culture of early 20th century America is a big influence on Sourdough Slim. Although I was born in Hollywood, I did spend a considerable amount of my childhood on our 700 acre family cow ranch in the Sierra foothills of Northern California. Many of the songs I have written have come from my memories of that time in my life. “In Old California,” “I Am A Yodeling Cowboy” and “Ridin’ High, Singin’ A Song” to name a few.

TK: A lot of the musicians who play in Elko are influenced by the music from the past.  Why do you think that the history of cowboy music is important to the music you are playing today?

SS: The old cliche “In order to know where you’re going, you must first know where you came from” comes to mind. I think it is important to make available a link to the origins of cowboy music and culture for anyone that is interested.

TK: Speaking of other musicians, most of the other solo musicians performing at the Gathering play the guitar.  You play the guitar, but you often play the accordion instead (you also play its cousin, the harmonica).  When did you learn the accordion, and why is it featured in your performances?

SS: I have always liked the sound of the accordion. It wasn’t until 1988 that I bought one and taught myself how to play it. Many people are not aware that the accordion was a featured instrument in most cowboy bands of the 1930s and 40s. I like the full sound and musical possibilities. It’s like a one instrument band. You can play the bass, melody and chords all at the same time. Not to mention what a cool Western fashion statement it is. 

LISTEN to Mexicali Rose

TK: At the Gathering, you usually perform solo, but you have played with Robert Armstrong and often jam or perform with Dave Bourne.  How does your performance change when you play with other musicians?  How do these two musicians complement your music (or vice versa, how do you complement their music)?

SS: Robert and Dave are both passionate about the same music from the same time period as I am. There is a shared joy and reverence for this music when we play together. We play a lot of the same songs I play solo but when we play together the performance is focused on the ensemble sound. The excitement and joy of two or more musicians in the groove, playing the music they love, can’t be beat. 

TK: You and Robert Armstrong have a new recording, released just this year, called Oh, Sweet Mama!  Please talk about the CD and about working with Robert on this recording.

SS: My last two CD’s, Classics and Classics II, featured classic popular cowboy songs, both traditional and from the singing cowboy era of Hollywood. Early cowboy entertainers were often influenced by a wide variety of popular music including blues, pop songs, novelty, jazz and ethnic music and included them in their repertoire as well. The songs on Oh, Sweet Mama! are a mixed bag of originals, country blues, old-time string band, pop and traditional western music. Some of the songs are very obscure. Robert adds his instrumental virtuosity as well as some wonderful vocal harmony. Most of it was recorded live in the studio, many tracks from the first take. The joy we share playing this music together shines through on this one. We think it really captures the sound and feeling of early 20th Century rural America and showcases what we do best.

LISTEN to The Sunset Trail

TK: Many schoolchildren have been educated and entertained by your performances.  Some performers aren’t comfortable with children, but you seem to enjoy playing for them.  We at the Western Folklife Center think it is important to not only expose children to cowboy music, but also to teach them something while they are being entertained.  How do you do both so well?

SS: The key to my success as a children’s entertainer is to just be myself. Be at ease and have fun. Keep the show fast-paced and involve the kids in the show as much as possible. Kids love physical comedy and they like to be tested. If you want them to listen to you, you have to listen to them. I catch them off guard. Because I’m having so much fun myself, they can’t help getting caught up in the fun too. And in the process they end up discovering and appreciating something about the culture I am sharing with them. 

TK: What are the differences in performing to children and adults?

SS: Of course the material you choose is going to be different. I enjoy entertaining for both groups but children are definitely more of a challenge.

TK: Thank you for taking the time to answer my questions.

LISTEN to Slim’s Sweet Mama Blues

Learn more about Sourdough Slim at sourdoughslim.com, and follow the links to purchase his newest recording, Oh, Sweet Mama.  You can also meet Sourdough Slim in person at the 28th National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, January 30 – February 4, 2012.

LISTEN to Buffalo Hump

TK: You listened to and watched musicians from an early age, and you received your first guitar when you were eight. When did you become interested in cowboy music?

SG: I think I first became interested in cowboy songs when I was around 10 or 11 years old and heard recordings of Jimmie Rodgers. He wrote and sang a few very authentic-sounding western songs. Then Bill Monroe covered Rodgers’ “When The Cactus Is In Bloom,” and of course, Bill used to sing Cliff Carlisle’s “Goodbye Old Pal” a lot when I started listening and playing bluegrass music. Later when I was in grad school in Salt Lake City and in the Deseret String Band, Hal Cannon and I used to find and listen to old 78 records of some of the cowboy greats like Carl T. Sprague, Powder River Jack Lee and Jules Verne Allen. Also around that time in the 70’s Glenn Ohrlin was re-discovered by the old-time music crowd at folk festivals. So this all piqued my interest in the history of the music of the West.

TK: Your music brings not only a glimpse into the history of the cowboy, but also a truth about life on the ranch or the range. You worked as a cowboy in Wyoming for awhile, too. What is the appeal of the cowboy to you and to fans of the music?

SG: Though I lived in Utah for 6 years, I was not raised in the West. So I never started riding and working on ranches until I was in my 40’s. Then I was hired on at a dude ranch to entertain at recreations of 1880’s cattle drives. It was then that I got a good taste of what I had been singing about for 20 years. It was a fascinating way to go!

What appeals to me most about the cowboy is similar to what appeals to me about old time New England Farmers: they have an astute sense of independence . . . the dogged determination to get things done right, even under lonely, very difficult circumstances.

TK: The songs and tunes you play were influenced by many different traditions: Celtic, Appalachian, Spanish and African-American music. It’s quite a diverse tradition. How do you wade through the long history to find the songs that speak to you?

SG:  Because I’m so partial to old-time sounding, unplugged music, I’m always charmed by melodies that speak with a historic flavor, whether they are Celtic based or south of the border in feel. And then the lyrics that tell the story are the icing on the cake for me. Ironically, this appears to be the opposite of how many of the old time cowboys put together their “songs.” For them the story was the primary focus. Therefore, lyrics came first and the melody was often attached to the story line later. Their stories and poems were of prime importance…. not music or any hot picking or licks. I like being transported back to a time before Hollywood and jazz, swing and blues seemed to permeate and take over most everyone’s musical sensibilities.

TK: Along with playing music, you also teach workshops and school programs on playing music, cowboy songs, and the history of the West. You will be teaching a fiddle workshop and giving a talk about the history of cowboy music at the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering. Explain the importance of teaching.

SG: Yikes! One can cover acres answering this question. I think teaching is merely introducing to someone—in an exciting way—something that they may not be familiar with at all, or being able to convince a person to view something from a very different angle.

When I go into schools to teach kids about the West, they are often surprised to learn that there’s a lot more to it than cowboys in fist fights, gun battles with Native Americans and yodeling.

When they hear the flavor of the older music and actually see a map of an emigrant or cattle trail, they are often pleasantly surprised and fascinated.

TK: You play solo, as a duo with Connie Dover, and with a group, The Waddie Pals. Connie and the Waddie Pals will be joining you at the Gathering. Will you talk about what it’s like to play music solo, with Connie, and with the Waddie Pals? What makes a good partnership?

SG: Playing gigs as a solo act certainly allows you the freedom and spontaneity for a concert or program to develop freely as you size up and play the audience. Yet, doing this alone is often much more work, lonely travel, and usually not as exciting. Singing with Connie Dover gives me a stellar voice to try to match. It takes me to another level and I enjoy being with her immensely. Like Connie, the Waddies are old friends. What’s more fun than spending time with old musical pals?

LISTEN to Powder River, Let ‘er Buck

TK: You have a new recording in the works, Fiddles in the Cowcamp. Tell us a little more about it, please.

SG: When I saw how people were enjoying Mandolin in the Cow Camp, which I recorded a few years ago, I realized that there was a need for a similar project with the fiddle. Yet, doing all the mandolin playing on close to 80 tunes on a double set had been a load of fun for me but a huge amount of work.

I immediately thought of some of my fellow fiddler pards in the West whose music very much deserves to be heard more. People like Ron Kane, Tom Carter and Ruthie Dornfeld have something special when it comes to rendering an old fiddle tune with time-honored nuance and a true sense of what the music most probably sounded like before Hollywood. Their music is the style of fiddle playing that would have been done in cow camps before the 1930s or so. They use older bowing styles, cross-tunings, clawhammer banjo accompaniment and rhythm as was done in the West as far back as the 1800s. We’re excited about this project and it’s with great old pards.

TK: Thank you for taking the time to answer my questions.

SG:  Thank you Tamara! We’re looking forward very much to being at the Gathering this year.

The Western Folklife Center received a TourWest grant from WESTAF to help cover some of the travel costs for Skip Gorman, Connie Dover and the Waddie Pals. Skip and Connie will perform on Tuesday, January 30 and Saturday, February 4, 2012, and the Waddie Pals will join Skip during some of the daytime performances, February 2 – 4. Skip is also conducting a two-day fiddle workshop on Tuesday, January 30 and Wednesday, January 31. Please join us at the Gathering.

LISTEN to The Crooked Trail

TK: You have a new website, andyandandy.com.  After three albums, does this mean that yours is a permanent partnership?

AH: We’ve also just finished recording a fourth album that will be released by the end of the year. I don’t foresee us ending the partnership but I am sure that we’ll both continue to do solo projects and perform solo at times. One of the nice things about our arrangement is that there is no pressure and no expectations. There was never a formal beginning. We just sort of fell into working together and I’d like to think that if it ever ends, it would be the same way.

AW: Exactly.  There are two other important factors to consider.  First, we’ve never come up with a cool band name.  Second, at my age a permanent partnership really doesn’t mean much!

TK: You also released a new CD this year, Mining the Motherlode.  Many of the reviews I’ve read point out that much of the subject matter is the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl.  Andy Wilkinson said, in a review by Margo Metagrano of cowboypoetry.com, “The history of the American West was openness. The future of the American West is water. Mining the Motherlode explores that future by using the lens of art to look at our present and our immediate past.”  Will you expand on the idea of using art to look at the present and immediate past?

AW: The principal business of art is storytelling.  And the principal business of storytelling is to give us an understanding of the world that is distinctly human.  The historian sees their view, even though it is ever-changing, to be the objective truth.  The artist knows that the ever-changing nature of truth can only be captured in a story.

TK: What about using history to explore the present and future?  A lot of the songs you perform, not just on the newest CD, are arrangements of traditional and folk songs.  How are traditional songs relevant to today’s listeners?

AH: Traditional American folk songs are weird, strange, funny, scary, sad, and intriguing stories about the human condition. Bob Dylan said a person could learn how to live listening to folk songs. And all American music comes from this, whether it’s rock-n-roll, country music, blues, or cowboy songs. It all grows out of this same tree of American folk music and it is as relevant now as ever, especially in a time when it’s hard to find anything that’s real. These traditional songs are honest. With that said, I don’t approach the music as a traditionalist or a purist. I am not trying to duplicate the sound of a 1930s recording. I am simply an interpreter, trying to bring what I have to the songs and looking for ways to change them – new verses, new melodies, combining songs, anything that makes the songs fit. It’s all part of the folk process.

TK: Your collaboration is rich with dichotomies that prove that opposites attract.  Your voices are very different from each others’: Andy Wilkinson writes original material while Andy Hedges arranges the traditional songs; the topics you explore cover both history and the future; and Andy Wilkinson is a bit older than Andy Hedges (sorry for pointing out your ages!).  I find it interesting that all of these opposing ideas work so well together.  How do you do it?

AH: I’ll add another one: Wilkinson is a poet and I am a reciter. But, we do have the same name!  I think it’s the differences that make our collaboration work. It would be boring if we were both the same age and both songwriters.

AW: I’ll add only this: our souls are the same age.

TK: Speaking of your ages, people might assume that because Andy Wilkinson is older, he is a mentor to Andy Hedges.  But as I’ve gotten to know you, it seems to me that you are truly friends and that your musical relationship is a partnership rather than a teacher/student situation.  Is Andy Wilkinson a mentor or more?

AH: I don’t really think about or notice the difference in our ages. I’ve always been friends with folks who were much older than myself.  Andy Wilkinson IS a mentor to me but he’s much more than that. Or maybe he is exactly what a mentor should be: a friend who is generous with their time, talent, and knowledge, who treats you as an equal and is also eager to learn from you.

AW: I should add that I learn every bit as much from Andy Hedges as I hope he learns from me.

TK: I am also interested in Andy Hedges’ attraction to traditional and older styles of music.  Where do you find the songs you rearrange?  How does working with Andy Wilkinson help your process?

AH: I immerse myself in all types of old time and American folk music. I have a special interest in cowboy songs but I listen to a little bit of everything and it’s all connected.  I listen to old 78s and LPs and I buy lots of CDs and I download music. I collect old folk songbooks and I’m always keeping my ears pricked for something that I can use.  Sometimes Wilkinson writes a song that will remind me of something I’ve heard or will send me in search of a certain kind of song to pair with it. For example, Mining the Motherlode originally started with Wilkinson writing a little bunch of songs for a program we did about the “next Dust Bowl” and we wanted to include some depression era songs and some Dust Bowl songs so I began digging deeper into that material.

TK: Andy Wilkinson, you also seem to be interested in historical figures and are presenting your show Charlie Goodnight: His Life in Poetry and Song” at the Gathering this year.  Can you speak to writing original material, especially music, that draws on history, and how Andy Hedges’ traditional sensibilities affect your current work?

AW: I am fond of saying that I write from history because I’m lazy; there are no better characters, no better plots, no better stories than what can be found in the real world, and if it’s already happened, it’s history.  So in that, I am already a traditionalist.  Besides which, good songs are timeless — no song speaks to me just because it’s old, or just because it’s new, or just because it comes from some particular tradition or genre.

TK: A lot of your music not only illustrates a time in history, but also evokes a sense of place.  What role does living in Texas play in the music you create?

AW: I don’t think living in Texas makes any difference.  I do think that living in this particular part of Texas plays an enormous role.  Out on the Southern Plains, we’re still very close to a history that’s particular to this place.  Cities tend to develop in many of the same ways, but each countryside seems — at least, to me — to have its own, unique history.

TK: On your latest release, Andy Hedges’ wife, Alissa, and Andy Wilkinson’s daughter, Emily Arellano, play a more noticeable and prominent role, each of them singing lead on two songs: “Dust Can’t Kill Me” (Emily) and “Old-Timey Heart” (Alissa).  Both of them have beautiful voices that complement your voices in different ways.  Why have you decided to include them in your collaboration, and how has it enhanced the recording?

AH: For one, they are much better to look at than the two Andys! And, as you have pointed out, they have beautiful voices that complement what we are already doing. They also allow us to perform some songs like “Old-Timey Heart” that would not make sense with a male voice. The thing I really like about performing with Alissa, Emily, and Andy is that we are all friends and family. When we make a record, we record almost everything in real time with very ​few overdubs and we don’t use any session players. Everything you hear on the new record comes from the four of us. It’s a very natural way to make music.

AW: And I’ll add that my son, Ian, is playing harmonica on our newest and as-yet-unreleased project.  I can’t imagine doing something as important as art with people other than family and friends.  We’re very, very lucky.

LISTEN to The Old Chisholm Trail

TK: Thank you for taking the time to answer my questions.  Readers who want to know more about Andy Wilkinson and Andy Hedges can visit their website at andyandandy.com, or, better yet, talk to them in person at the 28th National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, January 30 – February 4, 2012.

There are moments at the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering that one never forgets. I had such a moment last night.

I was backstage in the Convention Center Auditorium in the show called “This is My Home,” featuring Waddie Mitchell, Andy Hedges and Andy Wilkinson, and Corb Lund & The Hurtin’ Albertans. Waddie had finished his set and Andy and Andy had played a few songs when Andy Wilkinson left the stage so the younger Andy could recite a poem. I listened, wholly transfixed, as Andy recited “Mining the Mother Lode,” a poem written by Andy Wilkinson lamenting the degradation of the aquifer in the Llano Estacado in the southern panhandle of Texas.

Reminiscent of arguably the most important cowboy poem ever written—”Anthem,” by the late Texas poet Buck Ramsey—”Mining the Mother Lode” is a plea to anyone who will listen to protect the mother-lode aquifer. It is a poem of anger and loss, with an urgent message for us to pay attention while we still have a chance to save the aquifer and its life-giving water. Andy Hedges’ recitation is beautiful and heartfelt. Here’s the last stanza:

“What will we do with this gift of the mother-lode?
Pray that the poets and the dreamers remember it,
pray that the guardians hold it in stewardship,
pray that we honor it, pray that we husband it,
pray for the tribe of the mother-lode aquifer,
pray for the water, the sweet Ogallala lake,
nourishing all who tread lightly and carefully,
lightly and carefully, lightly and carefully.”

You simply MUST listen to this poem. You can find it on our cybercast. Scroll down to “This is My Home,” Friday, January 28 at 6:30 pm. The poem starts about 31 minutes and 53 seconds into the show (the rest of the show is awesome too). Bring some tissue.

Andy and Andy tell me that they have recorded the poem on their next album, which comes out in a couple of months. Stay tuned to their My Space page.

Darcy Minter

He pitched some hay.

PItching Hay

He sat in a saddle.

Back in the Saddle

He learned to carve leather.

Carving Leather with Andy Stevens

He met a cowboy poet.

Flat Stanley with Waddie Mitchell

He recited some poetry.

Reciting Poetry on Stage

He met a few musicians (Glenn Ohrlin and Adrian).

Hanging with AdrianListening to Glenn Ohrlin

He played music with Dave Bourne.

Playing Piano with Dave Bourne

And he finished his night with some sarsaparilla (that’s Rooster Morris, who made Stanley his hat).

Having a Sarsaparilla with Rooster Morris

He’ll be headed back to Michigan next week, exhausted like the rest of us, and with lots of stories to tell his Kindergartner friends about becoming a cowboy poet.

He also made a flat horse friend, Pancake, but I didn’t get any pictures of them together yet.  Check back in the next few days for the story of Pancake the Paint.

I made my rounds through the crowd, but did pack myself off to bed at a pretty reasonable time. Sensible. The Gathering is a marathon, not a sprint, after all.

I won’t recount all the to-ing and fro-ing from the first day – backstage might be interesting a lot of the time, but there’s also a lot of sitting and waiting, going in search of a trash can or some tape, then checking the clock and sitting some more.

I had the pleasure to be backstage for Judy Blunt’s keynote speech this morning. A super-simple gig for a stage manager – no set changes, no ‘wrap it up’ handwaving, no greater organizing to be looked after than just “you’re next, you’re up.” But it was a distinct pleasure to get to hear what Judy had to say.

She hit on a familiar mournful tone of loss for some of the older ways of western livestock culture. But just at the moment that I was starting to wonder if the first Gatherings were as focused on the loss of the past, Judy tossed a hard turn into her address and reminded us how grateful a lot of folks have been for much of the progress of the last hundred years, and reminded us to look forward to how we can preserve the spirit & passion of this culture even amid all the changes. She staked her opinions deep and declared them clearly. Afterwards, she commented that she was afraid she’d be met by pitchforks and torches, but I heard many more comments like Paul Zarzyski’s, that Judy’s speech had made him cry into his mustache.

I had the middle of my day free, so I wandered doing a few regular Elko things. Picking up some boot polish, eating a so-so sandwich, pressing on further to a great cup of coffee, impulsively buying a mouth harp.

As the afternoon arrived, I headed to my rest-of-the-day gig, stage managing for Ramblin’ Jack Elliott’s dinner theater show over at the Great Basin College theater.

The tech crew were amazing, as always, and all the volunteers absolutely eager to help. Getting the musicians set up went perfectly, and everybody had what they needed by the scheduled end of the sound check. Perfect.

We got the place set up, the instruments all in place, the levels all set, and the band had time enough to go over a couple tricky spots, then we retreated back stage to wait for the diners to get fed, relocated and re-settled.

The show is amazing, I highly recommend it to anyone who can find the time and a ticket. Jack mostly stuck to the set list, best as he could. But the moment dictates the song it needs, and sometimes concessions must be made. I bet no one out front could even tell that two of those songs the musicians had never played with him before, though.

Much as I unreservedly endorse that show, though, I have to say, wandering in an out of Jack’s backstage monologue was certainly captivating and as entertaining as the music was. I had plenty to keep an eye on all over the theater, but when Jack starts a story, it’s mighty hard to walk away.

I heard bits and pieces about offending Peter Fonda, doing a screen test for Dennis Hopper, making a geisha cry by singing Bob Dylan, and I learned that a clew is the corner of a boat’s sail. Maybe you knew that, but it was news to me. I hated to interrupt, but it’s best if everybody gets to hear how much time there is before the show starts, so I did have to interrupt once in a while.

I have another full day of keeping the shows on the rails tomorrow, so I better not linger too late on the blog. One last thing, though – if you run in to Van Dyke Parks, I strongly recommend you try to get one of his business cards. You’ll be glad for it.

I hope to get a few backstage pics in my wanderings around Elko events tomorrow & hope to get them up with my next post. It can be an eerie half-light world, and surprisingly solitary despite the impending audience interactions.

Have fun out there everybody! More soon!
-Dan, stage manager