There’s something about being the greenhorn in the Hawaiian shirt shuffling 10-year-old penny loafers around an out-of-state honky-tonk dance floor amid a culture stampede where the rest of the joint is stompin’ their just-rode-in-from-the-ranch look of shitkicker boots, vests, and well-worn 10-gallon lids.
Actually, it’s a comfort zone. We’re all up in Boise to move to and be moved by original country music from a plane much higher than the one currently making the rounds.
It’s an annual roundup where friends and extended family of “Pinto Bennett and the Famous Motel Cowboys,” a legendary Idaho musical bunch if there ever was one, gather to negotiate their collective musical souls. They know why they’re there! They don’t need no stinkin’ badges!
This year’s gathering also dealt with the deeply rooted love of a now-passed sidekick that reposed just below the surface and didn’t take much to fully expose. A few months back, in a tragedy within which the news spread like wildfire among the faithful, longtime FMC drummer Joe Dow lost his one-sided battle with leukemia.
This was a cat whose smile and humility could buckle your knees, a man’s man who never shied from tenderness and who always found your story much more interesting than his own. You always wanted to throw an arm around the guy, rope him and cinch him close to your heart so he would understand how truly special you considered the nature of your friendship.
In that the preciousness of our final half-dozen times together weren’t diluted by sorrow or what-ifs, being totally clueless as to his ongoing battle, at least in my case, proved to be a good thing. Each and every time we crossed paths, we lived totally in that moment. There were no others. Nothing was ever left unsaid.
Whether at a “CowJazz” reunion down in Salt Lake or up Heber City way to catch members of his musical family in “The Glueboys,” the twinkle-in-his-eye never found itself checked at the door. Not that there weren’t complexities behind that smile, it’s just that they never kept his heart from flowing.
So, as you can well imagine, back at the ranch in Boise when the huge screen unfurled in front of the stage and FMC band-mate Rob Matson’s brilliantly produced video tribute to Joe’s life and times began to roll, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. It made for a “wake” Joe must have loved.
Joe had made the trip, of course. From occupying various barstools to twirling a young lovely around the dance floor, throughout the weekend his presence was felt by all. And that made it all the easier for the celebration of his life in music to unfold in a joyous and somewhat-manic frenzy, which really is what this year’s reunion hung its hat on.
By the end of the jam-session on Sunday night, most all of the drummers that had rotated through to take Joe’s place over the weekend, including KW Turnbow and Ben Brault, among others, were howling for meds, not to mention, if available, a comely masseuse or two.
Routinely, of course, any FMC reunion is centered around the mystical aura of Pinto Bennett, himself, and this year’s edition was no different. His every cane-assisted move is monitored from the moment he enters the venue, through his ascension to the stage, the slinging-on of his guitar, and the kicking-off of the always well-anticipated set from his talent-rich ensemble, the Famous Motel Cowboys.
Actually, the phrase “talent-rich” doesn’t come close to properly illuminating the levels of instrumental virtuosity and poetic sensibility embodied by the songwriters and performance artists who make up this close-knit musical bunch.
Take the guitarist Sergio Webb, for instance. He and his guitar share a physical vocabulary unlike anything I’ve experienced. So smitten have I become with his style that I freeze in his presence. That sort of babbling, I’ve come to refer to as “Mose Allison syndrome” from a similar reaction some forty-years in the past.
Although they also leave me gape-mouthed and in awe, especially when it comes to their song construction, at least I remained somewhat articulate when accosting Jim Lemmon and Rob Matson. As Duke Ellington would say, the Famous Motel Cowboys are truly “beyond category.”
As for you, KW Turnbow, memories of our 2 a.m. shadow-and-neon-rich back alley, film noir, early Monday morning stagger in search of food and the heart of Joe Dow will remain with me always.
Jay Meehan is a culture junkie and has been an observer, participant, and chronicler of the Park City and Wasatch County social scenes for more than 40 years.