Rodeo saves mountain town from avalanche
Hi folks, and Happy New Year! It’s gonna be hard to beat 2008 – US and European tours, a new album, videos, radio shows, and electro-hillbilly remixes by actual Germans. Topping 2008 is a tall order but it is, like our photographer Johnny Potbrownie, totally doable.
We kicked things off in 2009 with a show at the Snoqualmie Summit ski lodge. It was a great chance to get out of town, soak up some mountain scenery and slide all over the fucking ice in cowboy boots. While I’m happy to report that we did not sustain any injuries, Tiny Dancer did slip on the ice while loading gear. As his back whacked onto the ice, his big guitar amp hung in the air for a moment then slammed down on his neck. On his neck. Guillotine style. It looked like a fatal blow but he just brushed off the snow, put a fresh cigarette between his lips and continued hunching gear. 100% Rodeo road dog!
This was a rough show for me. I was battling some kind of sinister lower gastrointestinal bug. In fact, this show at Snoqualmie is significant in my mind as the closest I have ever come in my adult life to shitting my pants.
As other performers can tell you, it’s not uncommon to feel the urge to “dump out” before a show. It’s just nerves, usually. Sometimes you can relieve yourself and sometimes you’re a rock club so “authentic” that a dude isn’t even excited about taking a whiz in the filthy bathrooms. 99.99% of the time, it doesn’t matter. The moment you get onstage, the excitement takes over and your own personal biological needs are the farthest thing from your mind.
OR you’re confronted with that 0.01% and you find yourself in the situation I did - actively trying to “hold my fire” and clenching my southern sphincter while jumping up and down on one foot, sweating gallons, playing stand-up drums for the Rodeo. It was probably the 6th or 7th most intense experience of my life – right up there with having a gun pulled on me in 2002.
I toughed it out. I'm a tough guy. I got through the first set without a blowout and prayed for relief before the start of the second. As we have come to know, God smiles on cowboys and I recovered before we had to retake the stage. (I will spare you the details of my recovery, though I offer my sympathy to the janitorial staff at the Summit Lodge.)
That night, I ran into an old friend who used to sell me grass way back in the early ‘90s. Walking down memory lane with my old dealer! I recall his pot as being fine, but what I really remember was that he used to bring over jars of homemade pickles that were so good they started a pickle making obsession in my soul.
Tiny Dancer aka Steve Davis, defiant after his brush with mortality earlier in the evening had vowed to conjure up an avalanche. He was confident he could accomplish this with a blast of volume and high-frequency aggression during his showstopper guitar solo during “You Call Me the Devil.” When the big moment came, after Brent challenged the audience to “look in these eyes!” I watched Steve reach for the volume. His thumb and forefinger hung there above the knob. He lingered for several tense measures and then drew it back his pale, dread hand. No avalanche tonight. The people of Snoqualmie would be spared and instead treated to a killer (but not killer) solo. Super responsible, Steve.
We were all pooped (figuratively) as we rolled back down the mountain, Ben expertly steering us towards Seattle. Brent, the new and proud owner of a teensy little mutt was tired and ready to be home. He announced: “I’m gonna go home, take a big-ass varsity bong rip, and pet my dog until she has a hole in her head.”
It's 2009 friends, get yourselves a copy of Howdy Do! and go whoop it up.
We kicked things off in 2009 with a show at the Snoqualmie Summit ski lodge. It was a great chance to get out of town, soak up some mountain scenery and slide all over the fucking ice in cowboy boots. While I’m happy to report that we did not sustain any injuries, Tiny Dancer did slip on the ice while loading gear. As his back whacked onto the ice, his big guitar amp hung in the air for a moment then slammed down on his neck. On his neck. Guillotine style. It looked like a fatal blow but he just brushed off the snow, put a fresh cigarette between his lips and continued hunching gear. 100% Rodeo road dog!
This was a rough show for me. I was battling some kind of sinister lower gastrointestinal bug. In fact, this show at Snoqualmie is significant in my mind as the closest I have ever come in my adult life to shitting my pants.
As other performers can tell you, it’s not uncommon to feel the urge to “dump out” before a show. It’s just nerves, usually. Sometimes you can relieve yourself and sometimes you’re a rock club so “authentic” that a dude isn’t even excited about taking a whiz in the filthy bathrooms. 99.99% of the time, it doesn’t matter. The moment you get onstage, the excitement takes over and your own personal biological needs are the farthest thing from your mind.
OR you’re confronted with that 0.01% and you find yourself in the situation I did - actively trying to “hold my fire” and clenching my southern sphincter while jumping up and down on one foot, sweating gallons, playing stand-up drums for the Rodeo. It was probably the 6th or 7th most intense experience of my life – right up there with having a gun pulled on me in 2002.
I toughed it out. I'm a tough guy. I got through the first set without a blowout and prayed for relief before the start of the second. As we have come to know, God smiles on cowboys and I recovered before we had to retake the stage. (I will spare you the details of my recovery, though I offer my sympathy to the janitorial staff at the Summit Lodge.)
That night, I ran into an old friend who used to sell me grass way back in the early ‘90s. Walking down memory lane with my old dealer! I recall his pot as being fine, but what I really remember was that he used to bring over jars of homemade pickles that were so good they started a pickle making obsession in my soul.
Tiny Dancer aka Steve Davis, defiant after his brush with mortality earlier in the evening had vowed to conjure up an avalanche. He was confident he could accomplish this with a blast of volume and high-frequency aggression during his showstopper guitar solo during “You Call Me the Devil.” When the big moment came, after Brent challenged the audience to “look in these eyes!” I watched Steve reach for the volume. His thumb and forefinger hung there above the knob. He lingered for several tense measures and then drew it back his pale, dread hand. No avalanche tonight. The people of Snoqualmie would be spared and instead treated to a killer (but not killer) solo. Super responsible, Steve.
We were all pooped (figuratively) as we rolled back down the mountain, Ben expertly steering us towards Seattle. Brent, the new and proud owner of a teensy little mutt was tired and ready to be home. He announced: “I’m gonna go home, take a big-ass varsity bong rip, and pet my dog until she has a hole in her head.”
It's 2009 friends, get yourselves a copy of Howdy Do! and go whoop it up.
posted by Brent Amaker and the Rodeo at
4:21 PM
2 Comments:
Tiny Dancer is a man of the technical guitarists and neck strength, but, Mason, you are a man of butthole control. I'm stunned (but not surprised) by your capacity to hold back the shit. Nice work.
You guys rule.
Thanks for the compliment, Geoff. If anyone would know about b-hole control, it's you.
This is going to be the last you'll hear about my digestive system for a long time, however. It's getting repetitive, if popular.
For my next act, I'll actually write about Brent, the man who writes the country hits, pets holes in dogs' heads, and who dragged me off on this crazy Rodeo adventure in the first place.
Mason
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