Roxie called my a few weeks back. She owns and operates the 4-Corners Bar and Diner, located off I-15 in a lonely patch of abandoned oil town shacks. There is no "official" town there, but if you wanted to find it on a map, it would be 2 miles west of Oilmont, and 7 miles east of Kevin, on a rundown state highway that burrows underneath the Interstate at precisely the spot where Roxie rebuilt her palace. The original 4-Corners bar burnt down about 8 years ago. A grease fire in the kitchen turned the place into a mile high torch that the people still talk about today. 50 years of cooking grease had permeated the whole place so thickly that when it finally, and predictably, caught fire, all of the rural volunteer fire departments in three counties didn't have a chance in hell of squelching it. I've played music there a dozen or so times in the past 5 years, usually for special celebrations like Valentine's Day, Halloween and the Fall Harvest. Roxie always goes all out and usually provides some kind of prizes for competitions that she cooks up. One of the best was a frozen T-shirt contest. It was maybe two winters ago, 30 degrees below zero outside. She had some Budweiser T-shirts, complements of the local distributor and had soaked them in buckets of water, twisted them up real good, tied a few knots in them and tossed the buckets into the freezer. In front of a bar room full of oilfield workers, dirt-farmers, ex-Hutterites, Sweetgrass Hills ranchers and various other roadhouse rabble, a dozen contestants wrestled with, gnawed at, stomped on, swore at, flung down and pried open their frozen foe until one "lucky" winner finally got his T-shirt on. He got a dinner for two at Roxie's Diner and all the runners-up got to keep their T-shirts as prizes.
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This particular occasion was a Full Moon party, and since Friday, March 9th happened to be on a full moon, we penciled in that date on our calendars. I left home, about 40 miles from Roxie's around 7:00 pm, got a tank of gas and cup of coffee at the local Town Pump station, and headed north on I-15. The weather had been pissing around all day… snow squalls, north winds and cloudy skies. Halfway to 4-Corners the clouds broke and Mr. Moon lit up the countryside. You could see damn near as well as in the daylight. Sometimes on full moons I like to run with my headlights off, especially when there is snow on the ground. I turned off my beams, turned up the volume on the radio (country music stations are all you can get on this part of the Hi-Line) and puttered up the road. My 1991 Ford 1-Ton Van, "Moby Dick", has 252,000 miles on it. Regardless of the rebuilt engine (150,000 miles ago), two rebuilt transmissions, a new exhaust system and two replaced windshields, she runs like hell. She gets about 8 miles to the gallon, downhill, and couldn't pass a moped going uphill. The manifold is screwed up, and Moby sounds like a Fokker Triplane with a blown gasket.
I pulled into Roxie's parking lot about 8:15. I was scheduled to start playing music at 9:30, so that gave me plenty of time to haul my gear in, set it up, and have a drink or two with the locals before I started strumming. There were only a few cars and pickups in the parking lot… not a good sign for a bandman. I've played so many dead gigs over the years that a sight like that doesn't even hurt my feelings anymore. A few people sat at the bar, a few more played a game of pool, and the obligatory matron at the poker machine clinked her coins into the slots, smoke wafting its way around and through her silver beehive hairpiece. One of the guys shooting pool was your typical bar room cowboy… big black hat, pheasant feathers splattered on the front of it, silver hatband, droopy black moustache with snuff stains, belt buckle the size of a pie tin, name engraved on the back of the belt, tight Wrangler jeans, sharp-toed snakeskin cowboy boots and a look on his face like an angus cow that has just been pole axed by a 6 inch fencepost. Yer archetypal doofus, yessiree. All in all a pretty dreary clientele, but they were as happy as they knew how to be.
As I was loading my gear in I couldn't help but notice a brand spankin' new Ford ¾ Ton diesel pickup with all the trimmin's… shiny white paintjob, anodized aluminum bedliner, running boards, gun rack and purple running lights. It even had what every good ol' boy and gal in Montana needs to really set them apart from all the not-so-good ol' boys and gals… a vanity license plate. In bright bold blue letters, for all the world to see was the monogram "PHYSCO". "Fizko???" I asked myself, as I was hauling my 50 pound speakers by. Then it came to me… that big idjit playing pool couldn't even spell his own nickname. Right then and there, I knew it was going to be a good night at Roxie's. After plugging in my gear, back in the corner of the bar between the poker machines and the restrooms, I sidled up to the bar to ferret out the situation. I asked the bartender if he knew who owned that real nice pickup parked outside. Yup, it was ol' "Psycho" himself, over thar shootin' pool. Everyone in the place knew him and his license plate, you betcha. I just didn't have the heart to tell anyone it was spelled wrong, and it wouldn't have made a bit of difference anyway.
At precisely 9:30 bar time (9:15 for those of us who wear watches), I plugged in my par-56 magenta spotlight, tuned up my guitar, flicked the switch on my PA system and started playing. It's always hard to get through the first few songs in a dead bar. You never know what they want to hear. Maybe some Honest-to-Gawd country music would break their stupor, or maybe not. I started out with a few Hank William standards, "Honky Tonk Blues" and "Hey Good Lookin'", and they clapped politely. They always clap after the first few one or two songs, then drift back into their conversations about whatever the hell it is they converse about. I had two big pint glasses of beer beside me to get me through the set, and that was all I needed. People started drifting in, in little groups of two or three. One guy with two pretty girls came in, stood near the open door for half a song, then left. I see that happen a little too often nowadays. A few couples started dancing right from the start, which is a good sign. I was feeling good, the music was flowing out of me with ease and I didn't have to concentrate too hard to make it work.
I am one of the last authentic One Man Bands. I play guitar, kick drum, high hat, harmonica and sing, all by myself. No electronic, pre-recorded gadgetry for this cowboy. I go by the stage name of Erik "Fingers" Ray. Despite all the lurid rumors, I came by the nickname honestly. As a young man, I had been tagged "Fingers" by the hired hand at my Dad's cattle ranch. The hired hand had noticed my long skinny fingers resting on the steering wheel of the pickup and that was it. I liked the moniker and ran with it. I played rock and roll in bands for 8 years before going solo in 1983. It just got too hard to hold a band together. It's like being married to three or four other people all at once. The petty bickering over song lists, pay, food, booze, gigs, women, who gets to drive, shared motel beds and whatever other little dilemma pops up next is pretty wearing on a guy. Now I just argue with myself and don't get hurt too much doing that.
One of the perks of being a musician is that you get a bird's eye view of humanity. The guy on stage is above the crowd, looking down on all the action like a fly on the wall. You see all kinds of things from up there. Guys bumming out the ladies, ladies bumming out the bums, cranky bartenders, fights brewing, love triangles developing, broken hearts, spilt beers, wasted money, wasted time and wasted lives. It's no wonder that so many musicians revert to substance abuse to get through the night. It's the only line of work in the world where they require you to drink on the job. Lots of things run through your mind while your playing, few of them musically related. After playing a song several hundred times, it just becomes part of your psyche. If you start thinking about it too much, you just might mess it up. The crowd, your immediate physical surroundings and daydreaming are a big part of the bar musician's brainfood. Once in awhile a patron will interrupt your line of thought with some strange request. Most of them are harmless enough and if you know the song, no problem. It's the nincompoops that want to hear the theme song from Love Boat, or the entire Def Leppard repertoire that really get under your skin. They are usually drunk and have a difficult time with the abstract concept of "no". If you don't know the song, they always sing a few lines of it to you just to hammer their point home. No one was pestering me tonight at Roxie’s and the crowd was enjoying themselves. A few couples kept the floor squeaking and things were going just dandy.
Then John came in, God love him. "Crazy John" is his nickname, but no one calls him that to his face. 40 years ago, fresh out of Shelby High School, John joined the army and was promptly shipped off to Viet Nam. He didn't last long over there, and the army shipped him right back home, but they forgot to ship all of his mind back with him. I've known John for nearly 30 years. I met him one day as I was delivering a sofa for the furniture store I worked at in the summers while attending college. I was hulking the sofa out of the back of the delivery van when he pulled up behind me in his blue Ford Mustang. He was looking for a place to rent. I sent him over to my father-in-law's trailer court. He's been living there ever since. John gets a pension from Uncle Sam, and couldn't hold a regular job if he wanted to. He spends most of his time at the bars. He does have a burgeoning "career" as a songwriter. It's been burgeoning for 30 years. He records his songs in his barren, blue-shag-carpeted trailer on an old cassette ghetto blaster. He passes his tapes around to whoever will take one. The last tape he gave me had the songs "The Magic In Her Eyes", "10-4 Truck Drivin' Man" and "I'm So Sad" on it. Pretty primitive stuff, some would call it awful, but I like to listen to it for its honest emotional content. Once in awhile John tells me how lonely he is. He's had a few women friends, but they always milk him for every penny they can get and then dump him. Whenever I go visit the in-laws, I can hear him next door in his Blue Moon trailer, moaning the blues alone, playing his Lyle electric guitar just a little too loudly.
John was all togged out. He was wearing a grey felt fedora hat, dull yellow plaid polyester pants, and an old golf jacket. He could have come right out of 1967, if it weren't for his Adidas basketball shoes. At first I thought he was with another couple, but they had all just happened to walk into Roxie's at the same time. John had his driver's license revoked several years ago, and wasn't supposed to be driving anymore. Since Roxie's was quite a ways off the beaten path, he figured he could get away with driving there without running into the law. Roxie had advertised the "Howling At The Moon" party over the local radio, and John had heard the ads. John has a tendency to annoy other bar patrons and has been "86-ed" from almost every bar in the country, at one time or another. He was on good behavior though, and wasn't running off any clientele. He walked right up to me while I was in the middle of a song and wanted to shake my hand. I waved him off and he waited until the song was over. We exchanged greetings, he slapped me on the back a little too hard, threw a crumpled dollar bill on the floor by my kick drum and told a few off-colored jokes, each ending with a "heh, heh, heh" flourish. He always puts one too many "hehs" into his laugh. He might shave his face every day, but he's just one of those guys who forever looks like he missed a day with the razor. He told me he had just finished his latest recording, and since I was a personal friend, would give it to me for only $12.95, instead of his usual rate of $29.95. I told him to bring it by the in-laws house and I would pay him there. He found a few ladies that would dance with him, and was in fine fettle. I settled back into my routine and let the music flow out of me.
I've been playing in the bars for so many years now, that the initial magic of playing music rarely visits me anymore. It used to be that I would "transcend" a few times every night, or on a really good night, for the whole evening. I call it transcending because that is exactly what it is. You hit a really good lick, nail a perfect groove, or find a sound and feeling that takes you a step beyond the real world. You become the music. Time ceases to exist. A rush unlike any other stimulant courses through every fiber of your being. It's hard to put it into words. Musicians easily become addicted to this feeling, and when it doesn't come as often as it used to, we search for other ways of getting it…. alcohol, drugs, sex, anything. But nothing else comes close to it. A hot rocking crowd enhances the feeling and it's easy to share it with them. I've come off of stages after an incredible five hour night, and felt as light as a feather, as energized as lightning. It is ten times harder to play a dead gig than a hot one.
John set me off that night. I was in the middle of some 50's rock standard, perhaps "Great Balls of Fire" and John came right up beside me. He felt something. I felt something. He, and he alone, in that lonely little bar, on that lonely little crossroads sensed my transcendence. He sidled up next to me, dropped right hand and started playing his air guitar. His timing was impeccable. He hunkered down, dropped his chin into his chest, closed his eyes and felt the power. We were there, John and I. We left the rest behind and reveled. It didn't last long, but it didn't have to. It's the same feeling every time. I'm pretty sure that when I die, if I make it to Heaven, it will be like that all the time.
The afterglow lasted the rest of the evening. At midnight Roxie brought out some Budweiser hats and T-Shirts. It was time for the big competition. Tonight's event was the "Howling At The Moon" contest. About 10 brave souls volunteered. After some prodding, they gathered in front of me, formed a line and proceeded to howl, one at a time. Most of them were liquored up enough to put out a pretty decent howl. The thirty or so patrons in the club enjoyed the show and the winner was decided by audience approval. I was the emcee for the contest and had a good time heckling the contestants and audience. The grand prize was a huge bottle of Budweiser beer and every eye in the bar coveted that thing. Everyone else got a red Bud hat. My old friend Griff Bye, along with his wife Renie and their 8 year old son Scotty, my number one fan in the whole round world, had come to Roxie's to see me that night. They come out every time I'm in the area. Little Scotty Bye is probably the cutest boy between Cut Bank and Culbertson. His big brown eyes, jet black hair, baseball cap and silly laugh would undoubtedly make him a movie star if he lived in Hollywood. After a few hours at Roxie's, Scotty could barely keep his head off the table. He was worn out and ready for bed. The howling contest put some life back into him. Being the judge for the runner up prizes, I had awarded the Bye's 3rd place, although their howl really wasn't of 3rd place caliber. I like doing things like that. There is absolutely nothing wrong with a little cheating in judging a howling contest when friends are involved.
After the howling contest the crowd petered out. There were just a few hardcore drinkers left and I had about half a set left before I could start packing my gear. "Physco" came up to the bandstand and demanded that I play a slow song. He wanted to lay some groundwork with the gal he was working on before taking her home. He had already asked for slow songs two times earlier in the evening and I had kindly obliged him. However, he had missed dancing on both of them as he had been busy up at the bar jawing with some other honyocker. Now he wanted a "real GOOD slow country song". I played one of my favorites, Willie Nelson's "Funny How Time Slips Away". I played it with a bluesy feel, but stayed pretty close to the original. I was really into the song, totally focused, playing with my eyes closed, when ol' Physco danced up close and yelled out…"No, I said a goddamned GOOD slow country song". I just ignored him and kept on playing. He wouldn't know a good song if it bit him in the ass. He took his date out the door a few minutes later and I envisioned them steaming up the cab of his new pickup, the lucky bastards.
I stopped playing around 1:40 am, thanked the few remaining customers and started packing up. I can get my gear tore down, cords wrapped, and everything loaded into Moby Dick in about 30 minutes, if nobody helps me, 60 minutes if they do. I like getting back on the road after a gig and enjoy the movement and the quiet. On the floor by my drum, I had found two more crinkled up dollar bills that John had tossed at me. I put them into my pocket without uncrinkling them. Roxie brought me my pay for the night in cash, like most bar owners do, and we had a little visit. She said it was a slow night and I agreed with her. I felt guilty about taking the money when I knew the bar wouldn't cover the cost of the band with such a small crowd, but I had to make a living too. I never ask for more when they have good nights and in the long run things usually even out. I knew she had the place up for sale and I asked her about it. She hadn't had any nibbles yet but was keeping her fingers crossed. Roxie is a good gal. Most of the bar owners I work for are honest, hardworking people. She told me she wanted to get out of the business. Most owners do after so many years. It is hard running a place like that with the long hours, low pay and drunk trouble. She wanted to go back to school and maybe get a nursing degree and move to somewhere with more people around. Hell, she's probably over 40 years old, but I know just how she feels. It would be hard to change horses that far across the stream, but sometimes you have to change, or you'll drown anyway.
John was still hanging around, pretty drunk but still on his feet. He helped me load my gear out. It's funny how people offer to help the band lift all the heavy gear. It's a lot of hard work, but it seems there's always a few hangers-on at the end of the night looking for something to do. It's usually some guy that couldn't hook up with a filly and needs an outlet for his pent up energy. Rarely do I have to ask anyone for help. If no one volunteers I load it up myself, no problem. I asked John if he was all right driving home by himself and he nodded that he'd be fine. I told him I'd follow him home. He got into his little red sedan and spun out of the gravel parking lot. We pulled off the ramp onto I-15 and headed south. A big semi-truck full of cattle coming down from Canada got between us, and that was the last I saw of John that night. The full moon was still out, and when I got clear of the semi, I turned my headlights off. I turned the radio off and listened to the ringing in my ears. Moby Dick was barely able to make it up the Marias River hill. I knew I had to get a new vehicle soon. In the silver moonlight I started pondering. Maybe the next day I'd take my wife to Great Falls and we could look at a new van. Maybe I'd get myself one of those vanity license plates. Maybe I'd put "FIGNERS" on it.