The undulating hills and their skins of skyscraper-straight emerald grass hid the old farmhouse in its folds, away from the snaking road below. A path of stone fragments led into the building's simple courtyard. Above the home's entryway, carved into the white facade, was the singular word "Eldorado." The homeowner added slivers of wood to a well-used fire pit, and a vibrant flame began to illuminate the dark sky, its dancing shadows flickering like a silent movie projected on the nearby slope. Clouds filled the sky, but a strong wind would allow for periodic glimpses of the sparkling constellations. Music poured into the courtyard from magnificent stereo speakers. Warm American voices—Calvin Russell, Steve Young, Billy Joe Shaver, Waylon Jennings—filled the chilly Burgenland night. Wrapped in a thick blanket, senses engaged, I realized that country is country, language be damned.
Maggie Roche wrote a 99 dollar song that is hidden on a 99 cent album. "West Virginia" is so fragile—piano creaking, voice angelic—that it needs to be heard on a pair of headphones late at night. Such profound music resonates during these still hours. That's when distractions are few and thoughts, perhaps, more melancholic. Moments of doubt, discouragement, and despair can be alleviated by a few resonant songs, bringing reassurance to a distressed soul. That these particular musicians can distill beauty from tragedy, light from darkness is why I'll keep listening. I hope you will, too.
Sometimes iTunes lies. Today, my play count for Buddy Red Bow's "Fifth Dream" stands at a respectable 16. But that number doesn't reflect numerous vinyl spins or the dozens of times I've skipped back to the song's beginning before the timer could reach 0:00. The reason for this compulsive listening is the weirdness that permeates the music.
Spaceships, rainbows, and hawk wings. Perhaps peyote fueled this incredible imagery, although Buddy's Lakota tribe is not typically associated with the ceremony. Does the title refer to hard alcohol, an impending stupor? American Indians have had hard battles with the bottle, and Buddy himself was subdued by such demons.
I have yet to understand whether the fifth dream is to be welcomed or dreaded. Not having that definitive answer will continue to make this song a fascinating experience.
What church had Our Generation as the house band? I might not have become a lapsed Catholic had this rock show erupted every Sunday morning. If the Devil stole the beat from the Lord, God must've borrowed a riff from ol' Beelzebub himself. Behold this caustic example of stigmata for the ears.
The Reverend Joshua Duncan Sloane's eulogy at the end of The Ballad of Cable Hogue stands as the profound resolution to a forgotten western. I like his words enough to share them here.
We are gathered here in the sight of God and all His glory to lay to rest Cable Hogue.
Now most funeral orations, Lord, lie about a man. Compare him to the angels, whitewash him with a really wide brush. But you know, Lord, and I know that it just is not true. Now a man is made out of bad as well as good, all of them. Cable Hogue was born into this world nobody knows when or where. He came stumbling out of the wilderness like a prophet of old. Out of the barren wastes he carved himself a one-man kingdom.
Some said he was ruthless. But you could do worse, Lord, than to take to your bosom Cable Hogue. He wasn't really a good man, he wasn't a bad man. But, Lord, he was a man!
He charged too much. He was as stingy as they come. Yes, he might have cheated, but he was square about it. Rich or poor, he gouged them all the same. When Cable Hogue died, there wasn't an animal in the desert he didn't know. There wasn't a star in the firmament he hadn't named. There wasn't a man he was afraid of.
Now the sand he fought and loved so long has covered him at last. Now he has gone into the whole torrent of the years, of the souls that pass and never stop. In some ways he was your dim reflection, Lord; and right or wrong, I feel he is worth consideration. But if you feel he is not, you should know that Hogue lived and died here in the desert, and I'm sure Hell will never be too hot for him.
He never went to church. He didn't need to. The whole desert was his cathedral. Hogue loved the desert, loved it deeper than he'd ever say. He built his empire, but was man enough to give it up for love when the time came.
Lord, as the day draws toward evening, this life grows to an end for us all. We say, "adieu" to our friend. Take him, Lord. But knowing Cable, I suggest you do not take him lightly.
Sometimes you need a song to suffocate any air of ambiguity, subtlety, or interpretation. "Asphalt Outlaw Hero" does just that. This clobbering performance puts the hammer down and begs to be cranked while screaming down a deserted highway in the black of night.
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