What
folks are saying about
Hang -n- Rattle!
American Cowboy
Review: June/July 2009
Rock-and-Roll Cowboy
It’s a dilemma I’ve suffered ever since I got
hooked on the cowboy life. I love to ride. I love the West. But
I also love rock-and-roll. Turns out Wylie Gustafson feels the
same way. The Western singer, songwriter, and leader of Wylie
and the Wild West confesses he grew up singing Rolling Stones
tunes while riding on Montana cattle drives.
Hang-n-Rattle reveals not only Wylie the rocker, but also
celebrates the West in a new way. Much of that fresh insight
comes from his songwriting partnership with rodeo poet Paul
Zarzyski. It’s like Lennon and McCartney in cowboy hats.
Together, Gustafson and Zarzyski wrote seven of the 13 tunes on
the album. Wylie’s music sounds like a penned-up horse set free
to run and jump and kick. This guy can rock. And the album is
full of standouts that’ll make you grab your girl and head for
the dance floor. “If You Love Me,” “Double Wild,” and “Cravin’
8s” are memorable not just for the terrific music, but for
Zarzyski’s lyrics as well. The wordsmith unleashes a rapture for
not just the West, but for life itself. “To hell with lookin’
before you leap,” he declares in “Ain’t No Life After Rodeo.”
“Cowboy grit ... Apache pride ... Wild hearts will collide,”
Zarzyski writes about a blazing love affair. “The West is still
wild as she ever was!”
Of course Gustafson has no problems composing songs on his own,
and the quieter moments on this record are spellbinding.
“Settin’ sun clings to the top of the hills,” he sings in “Blue
Mountain Serenade.” “And my soul whispers be still ... be
still.”
Produced by John Carter Cash and recorded at Cash Cabin Studios
in Hendersonville, Tenn., Wylie’s studio band sounds as good as
it gets, and Gretchen Peters shines throughout on background
vocals.
“The times they are a changin’,” reads the liner notes. “So is
Western music.” If Hang-Rattle is any indication of the change
to come, count this cowboy in.
– Mark Bedor
~ ~
~
"Bettie Lou
convinced Stormy that they needed to check out the Americana
Music Festival & Conference in Nashville Sept. 16-19.
Nanci Griffith, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Raul Malo, Roger Clyne &
The Peacemakers, Greencards, Those Darlins,
and so many more. It was like an endless chuck wagon of music
from which BL and Stormy had to choose. Of course, for Bettie
Lou, Americana music means one thing: cowboys. And lots of them.
She’s absolutely in love with HANG -N-
RATTLE, the new CD from
Wylie & the Wild West.
If Stormy heard it once, she heard it 5,000 times from BL: “It
(‘Grace,’ a song from the new CD) is just my all-time favorite
song ever!”
−Stormy Weather
Exclusive Columnist
Opry.com
~ ~
~
“I'm so eager for people to hear this album
in all of its bold, dazzling breadth. It should come with its
own fireworks display! I am drawn in by the complexity of each
piece and the excitement of the whole. It's a listener's
banquet.”
−Margo Metegrano
Editor
CowboyPoetry.com
~ ~
~
“I love this collaboration and am in awe of how you all take
thoughtful poems from a page and turn them into music. This one
really kicks it up a few notches. I think it suits the times we
live in: some love, some dance, some blues. High praises for
your creative and collaborative work. It is fuel for a new
generation of hope."
−Meg Glaser
Artistic Director
Western Folklife Center
~ ~
~
"Thanks for the breath of fresh air, or maybe more
accurately, the
sand-blasting of cowboy/rodeo music on your CD,
Hang-n-Rattle! This is goin'-down-the-road music for a
generation longing for LeDoux. Nostalgia and reminiscences have
their place, but it seems to me that this album is about being
in the moment. It's about youth and vitality and is sorely
needed−not to just
preserve Western culture, but invigorate it, to breathe life
into it.”
−John Reedy
Twistedcowboy.com
From the Liner Notes / Lyric
Folder:
The times they are a-changin’. So is Western music.
Good art is born of a truthful heart. To deny the musical
influences of my past would be dishonest. I grew up in an era of
some of the greatest rock ‘n’ roll, country, blues, and folk
music ever written. The words and melodies of those powerful
songs reached outward on the airwaves, soaking into the sponge
of my youth.
I remember happily singing “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” as we
drove 500 head of fresh mother cows through a spring snowstorm.
The rollicking rhythms resonated above the remote plains of my
northern Montana home with a timeless cadence that forever
echoes in my cowboy soul.
The beat is in me; it’s gotta come out. Hope ya like the new
songs. −Wylie
Hang-n-Rattle! Bear down! Cowboy up! Try! Charge hard!
"Did you come to hide, or did you come to ride!": to ride,
with heart, your work, your journey, your trek, your quest, your
time here on earth. Grit it out! Dig deep! Endure!
Metaphorically speaking, we titled this remuda of songs with a
human, universal mantra and mandate. In fact, Wylie and I
strived to practice precisely what the title preaches while we
spurred the words together over a 10-month span in 2008. During
the same time, it’s no small coincidence perhaps that I was
encouraging my beloved, extremely ill father to hang tough—"Do
not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying
of the light." To regain his health, Dad reached deeper than any
cowboy, hanging and rattling in the middle of an impossible
bronc ride, ever reached way down inside himself to make it to
the welcome whistle. I, on the other hand, felt helpless. All I
could do—thanks to Wylie beckoning me toward the healing powers
of the creative spirit—was to faithfully kneel and pray my
lyrics ("our daily poem, our prayer") at the holy threshold of
Leonard Cohen’s “Tower of Song.”
Leonard Zarzyski died on October 10. I saw to it that “Knocking
On Heaven’s Door” was included in the hymns sung from the choir
loft during the service at St. Mary’s Church in Hurley,
Wisconsin, a hundred or so crow-flown miles from Bob Dylan’s
childhood homeground. My Dad loved to fish and, thus, I also
magically planted a symbolic “trout” in the most light-hearted
lyric of this cowboy album—a blues lyric, no less. Writing these
songs, along with our spiritful recording of them, a month after
my Dad’s passing, with John Carter Cash at the Cash Cabin Studio
graced with the sacred memorabilia and memories—with the very
presence—of his dad, offered a colossal poultice, an
anodyne applied to my anguished soul. For this blessing of
friendship beamed down lovingly from the Musical Universe,
Thank You, Brother Wylie
−Paul Zarzyski
June 30, 2009
1. Ain’t No Life after Rodeo
Wylie Gustafson—Two Medicine (BMI)
Paul Zarzyski—Bucking Horse Moon Music (ASCAP)
There
ain’t no life after rodeo
Sulled-up cowboys will tell you so
So when
you feel your spur-lick weaken
And your bareback riggin’ starts to leakin’
Bury your
gripper elbow-deep
To hell with lookin’ before you leap
Fight for
them holts, sight down that mane
Spit in the face of age and pain
It’s a long slow roll to a six foot hole
And there ain’t no life after rodeo.
Give that
hammerhead a hardware bath
Dazzle the judges with 90s math
Spur the
rivets off your Wranglers
A cappella rowels don’t need danglers
Fast-feet-fast-feet, gas-it-and-mash
Toes turned out with each jab and slash
Insanity,
love, wicked aggression
Call it passion, call it obsession
It’s a long slow roll to a six foot hole
And there ain’t no life after rodeo.
Adrenalined fury, 200 proof
Like guzzlin’ moonshine up on the roof
Runnin’ on
Bute, LeDoux and caffeine
You rollickin’ rosined-up spurrin’ machine
So charge
that front-end for those 8
You ain’t no rodeo reprobate
You’re
Casey Tibbs, Muhammed Ali
Raking the manes off of Neptune’s sea
Grit each
stroke out with every tooth
You’re swimming the cowboy fountain of youth
Love that
sunfish, love that high-dive
Believe you will ride ‘til you’re 95!
It’s a long slow roll to a six foot hole
And there ain’t no life after rodeo.
It’s a long slow roll to a six foot hole
And there ain’t no life after rodeo.
2. If You Love Me
Wylie Gustafson—Two Medicine (BMI)
There's a fire burning inside me
But you can't feel the flames
Cause you don't wanna get close to me
This passion is turning to pain.
If you love me, why don't you want me?
If you want me, why can't you love me?
Sandhill Cranes are dancing
Wild romance in their veins
Side by side 'til the day they die
Why can't we be the same?
If you love me, why don't you want me?
If you want me, why can't you love me?
You can put a horse out to pasture
With grass three feet high
But if he don't taste the water baby
That pony's gonna lay down and die.
If you love me, why don't you want me?
If you want me, why can't you love me?
There’s a bad storm brewing
Might be a hurricane
When it hits it's gonna wreck our home
Well I ain't gonna build here again.
If you love me, why don't you want me?
If you want me, why can't you love me?
3. A Pony Called Love
Wylie Gustafson—Two Medicine (BMI)
Paul Zarzyski—Bucking Horse Moon Music (ASCAP)
Love bucked
me off on the second jump out
With a suck-back twist, a squeal and a shout.
It’s a long swim back, no hope or applause,
Through riptides and currents and a frenzy of jaws—
She’s a heartbreaker
That pony
called Love.
The last
drops wrung from a valentine sponge,
My blood must taste bitter on the tip of her tongue.
No high moral ground and no place to hide
From the battle of tarantulas deep down inside—
She’s a heartbreaker
That pony called Love.
I’ve been hung-up, stepped on,
Kicked in the heart—
She’s a rank one
come-apart,
She’s a pony called Love.
(watch out)
So it’s
back down the road with my soul in a cast,
Not a highway alive that don’t lead to the past.
As I sip from the go-cup of bottomless pain,
I see demons in the headlights…or could they be saints?
She’s a heartbreaker
That pony
called Love.
Oh, she’s a soul-taker
That pony
called Love.
4. To Ride!
Wylie Gustafson—Two Medicine (BMI)
God the mighty architect
A noble beast he did perfect
With delicate ear and arching neck
And hooves that dare to fly.
To
the stirrup I am drawn
Freedom found and faith reborn
I'm carried through the raging storm
To revelation's door.
Oh, Oh, Oh!
Oh, Oh, Oh!
To ride, to ride
Oh, what heaven to ride!
How I yearn to hear the song
The rhythmic roll, the thrilling thrum
Of feet that echo like a drum
An anthem to my soul.
The ring of spur, rattle of bit
My heart treasures every trip
As across the sod we wheel and rip
Wind roaring in my ears.
Oh, Oh, Oh!
Oh, Oh, Oh!
To ride, to ride
Oh, what heaven to ride!
When I die lay me down
Deep beneath the prairie ground
Where the horses graze all around
Casting shadows upon my bones.
I'll take that final ride
Up across the great divide
Forever more to be astride
On a gallop to the stars.
Oh,
Oh, Oh!
Oh, Oh, Oh!
To ride, to ride
Oh, what heaven to ride!
5. Grace
Wylie Gustafson—Two Medicine (BMI)
Paul Zarzyski—Bucking Horse Moon Music (ASCAP)
In
the soft low light up high
Out where love has always thrived
And will forever yearn for the colorful hover
A brush stroke of words out of the West
We still want free life
We still want fresh air.
Out on the Wild Side
Where the
hills don’t know my name
Nature’s
People on the fly
Hear them
sing their sweet refrain.
And as the millenia meander by
Like birthdays to the Earth
What thrill a saffron blade of grass, blue sage, scrub oak
Still brings us on our jaunt across the land
Our daily poem
Our prayer.
Out on the Wild Side
Where the
hills don’t know my name
Nature’s
People on the fly
Hear them
sing their sweet refrain
Hear them
sing their sweet refrain.
6. Double Wild
Wylie Gustafson—Two Medicine (BMI)
Paul Zarzyski—Bucking Horse Moon Music (ASCAP)
She’s a motorcycle sister
He’s a bareback bronc twister
They’re riding double-wild ‘cross the West
She’s Mescalero Indian
He’s full-blooded Paladin
Where they’re going is anybody’s guess.
Cowboy grit, Apache pride
Wild hearts
will collide
Rolling down
the road, desperados in love—
The West is still wild as she ever was!
She drives that bike full-throttle
She’s got a half-full bottle
Of Mescal in her studded saddlebags
He spurs them buckers crazy
Now he’s laid-back and lazy
Batwing chaps a-flapping just like flags.
She wears a Stetson with stampede strings
Skull and cross-bone earrings
Moonlight beaming off her buckrein braids
He slips on down behind her
Wraps his arms around her
Pop! Pop! Pop!
sings that four-stroke serenade.
Pinto stallion, black and chrome
Painted
metal, flesh and bone
Rev it up,
pop the clutch, desperados in love—
The West is still wild as she ever was!
Leather jacket skinny-dippers
Fingers swimming through her zippers
Whiskers rubbing up against her tattooed neck
Suicide shifting, weaving and a-drifting
What he whispers in her ear could cause a wreck.
Cowboy grit, Apache pride
Wild hearts
will collide
Rolling down
the road, desperados in love—
The West is still wild as she ever was!
Ahhh, the West is still wild as she ever was!
7. I Get High
Wylie Gustafson—Two Medicine (BMI)
I
get buzzed on big sky
Wasted on wide open
I'm three sheets to the Western wind
That soothes my restless soul
I'm bombed, I'm blasted
By the beauty and the wonder
Of twilight slowly fading
Of darkness takin' hold.
I get high, I get high
When I'm out here.
Intoxicated, inebriated
My cup runs over
Spills into the valleys
That swallow up my pain
I'm loaded, I'm lit up
Like a billion stars a blazin'
Scattered across the northern sky
So close I can feel the flames.
I get high, I get high
When I'm out here.
No
walls to hold me
No ceiling above me
I’m as free as the hawk above
In this heaven I call home
No ghosts to haunt me
No demons to taunt me
I’ve never been so sober
I’ve never felt this stoned.
I get high, I get high
When I'm out here.
8. Hang -n- Rattle!
Wylie Gustafson—Two Medicine (BMI)
Paul Zarzyski—Bucking Horse Moon Music (ASCAP)
Aristotle, Plato, Jung and Freud
Were philosophizing good ol’ boys.
But the gist of all their words of wisdom
Begs the quintessential western question:
Did you come to ride, or did you come to hide?
Big talk comes cheap from a padded bar stool
But the roughstock gods don’t suffer no fools—
Sundown, Steel, Pickett, and Brown
Watchin’ every move as you screw yourself down:
Did you come to ride, or did you come to hide?
Did you come to ride? Or did you come to hide?
Make up your mind now
You’re born on the back of a high spinnin’ rock
Life’s winding down with each tick of the clock
Well it’s high time, brother, you let it HANG-n-RATTLE
Let ‘er HANG-n-RATTLE!
Crack the bomb bay doors and feel the wind a-whippin’—
Fan a megatonner like ol’ Slim Pickens.
Fire in the heart, fire in the hole—
Smokin’ explosions of rodeo soul.
Did you come to ride, or did you come to hide?
YEEEE-HAWWWW!!
Did you come to ride? Or did you come to hide?
Did you come
to ride? Or did you come to hide?
Let ‘er HANG-n-RATTLE, now—
Let ‘er
HANG-n-RATTLE…
Let
‘er HANG-n-RATTLE!
9. Blue Wing
Tom Russell, Frontera Music (ASCAP)
He
had a blue wing tattooed on his shoulder
Might have been a blue bird I don't know
He got stoned drunk and talked about Alaska
Salmon boats and 45 below.
Well, he got that blue wing up in Walla Walla
His cell mate there was Little Willy John
Now Willy he was once a great blues singer
So winging Willy wrote him up a song. It sang:
It's dark in here; I can't see the sky
I look at this blue wing and I close my eyes
I fly away beyond these walls
Up above the clouds where the rain don't fall
On a poor man's dreams.
They paroled Blue Wing in August 1963
He headed north picking apples to the town of Wenatchee
Winter finally caught him in a run down trailer park
On the south side of Seattle where the days grow gray and dark.
Well he drank and dreamt of visions of when the salmon still ran
free
When his father's, father's crossed that wild Bering Sea
When the land belonged to everyone and there were old songs yet
to sing
Now it's broken down cheap hotels and tattooed prison wings.
CHORUS:
Well he drank his way to L.A.; that's where he died
No one knew his Christian name and there was no one there to cry
I heard there was a funeral; a preacher and a pine box
And half way through the service, Blue Wing begins to talk. He
said:
CHORUS:
Oh-oh-oh, on a poor man's dreams.
He had a blue wing tattooed on his shoulder…
10. Cravin’ 8s (Tribute to LeDoux)
Wylie Gustafson—Two Medicine (BMI)
Paul Zarzyski—Bucking Horse Moon Music (ASCAP)
8-tracks in a strong box
In a magic riggin’ sack
A jumpin’ kickin’ time machine
I pull ‘em out, they take me back—
Ah, crack ‘em out….
Heavy
scrapbook pages
Cayuses on the fly
LeDoux songs ricocheting
Off our rawhide way of life—
Talkin’ sound tracks….
We was
buckin’ hoss swashbucklers
On 8-second odysseys
Songs pitchin’ in our tickers
We laid down our entry fees—
Ante up….
Rockin’
roughstock operas
In the mirrors behind the bars
LeDoux songs on the jukebox
Singin’ we all gonna be stars
Rock-’n’-rowel rodeo stars….
Cravin’ 8s! Cravin’ 8s!
LeDoux still
spurs us on
To leaps of
faith…Cravin’ 8s…. Cravin’ 8s.
We’ll find
an antique 8-track player
In some cobwebbed western pawn
Cinch up that wild time machine
Scratch it back 8,000 dawns—
Hook it back….
We’ll twist
her into Kaycee
On a hang-‘n’-rattle hurricane
To that bareback music mecca
Unfenced, untamed—
No stirrup, no bridle, no rein….
Cravin’ 8s! Cravin’ 8s!
LeDoux
still spurs us on
To leaps of faith…Cravin’ 8s…
(no lift, no gift)
11. Blue Mountain Serenade
Wylie Gustafson—Two Medicine (BMI)
Brood mares picking at the lush green grass
Their long tails swishing at the flies that pass
Golden hours drifting by sweet and slow
Gently cast in the glorious glow.
In the shadow of the Blue Mountains
In the twilight of a long summer day.
Butterflies bouncing along on a breeze
Bumble bees buzzing in the locust trees
Swallows acrobatic in erratic flight
Faithful saints to the fading light.
In the shadow of the Blue Mountains
In the twilight of a long summer day.
What is there more than this?
What is there more than this?
What is there more than this?
There is nothing, nothing….
Mourning doves crooning their lovesick tune
Bewitching lilac bushes wear a their fetching perfume
The setting sun clinging to the top of the hills
And my soul whispers Be still! (be still)
In the shadow of the Blue Mountains
In the twilight of a long summer day.
12. Lasca
Traditional poem by Frank Desprez; arranged and
written by W. Gustafson,
Two Medicine (BMI)
I want free life, I want fresh air
—
I sigh for the canter after the cattle
The crack of the whips like shots in the battle
The medley of hoofs and horns and
heads
That wars and wrangles, scatters and
spreads.
I want free life, I want fresh air
—
Lasca used to ride
On a mouse-grey mustang by my side
With blue serape and bright-belled
spur
I laughed with joy as I looked at her
Little she knew of books or creeds
An Ave Maria sufficed her needs
Little she cared but to be by my side
To ride with me, and ever to ride
From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's
tide.
The green beneath and the blue above
Dash and danger, life and love
—
And Lasca!
I want free life, I want fresh air
—
She was as bold as the billows that beat
She was as wild as the breezes that
blow
From her little head to her little
feet
Swayed in her suppleness to and fro
By each gust of passion, a sapling
pine
That grows on the edge of a Kansas
bluff
And wars with the wind when the
weather is rough
Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.
Her eye was brown, a deep, deep brown
Her hair was darker than her eye
Something in her smile, something in
her frown
Curled crimson lip and instep high
She was alive in every limb
With feelings to the finger tips
And when the sun is like a fire
And sky one shining, soft sapphire
One does not drink in little sips.
The green beneath and the blue above,
Dash and danger, life and love
—
And Lasca!
I want free life, I want fresh air
—
I sigh for the canter after the cattle,
The crack of the whips like shots in the battle
The medley of hoofs and horns and
heads
That wars and wrangles, scatters and
spreads.
That wars and wrangles, scatters and spreads
In
Texas down by the Rio Grande.
13. Cryin’ Hole Blues
Wylie Gustafson—Two Medicine (BMI)
Paul Zarzyski—Bucking Horse Moon Music (ASCAP)
I made a
real good ride—didn't pick up a dime for 5th place. (uh-uh)
I made a real good ride—didn't pick up a dime for 5th place.
Five shows in a row, I’m stuck in that ol' cryin' hole—
And she’s a deep hole, dark as dem black holes way out in space.
If I'd have
hit that 4 hole, maybe my baby might have stayed.
If I'd have hit that 4 hole, maybe my baby might have stayed.
But she ran off with the judges, absconded with my crutches—
Well, I guess every so often a working girl likes to get paid.
Stuck in that ol' cryin' hole
I’m a rock
with no roll
Pockets full
of fool’s gold
Man, this
groove is getting’ old—
Whaa-whaa,
whaa-whaa
I’m singin’
the crying hole blues.
Well, hey!
Whaddaya mean the machine says my credit card’s maxed out?
Hey-ey! Whaddaya mean the machine says my credit card’s
maxed out
Just feast your eyes on this buckle—it’s nickel-silver, you
gunsel.
Ahh, well just hand me that Copenhagen, put back that six-pack
of Stout
Well back
in ‘75 I was a little bit younger no doubt
(what’s that you ask me about my buckle)
Hell no! That ain’t no leprechaun ridin’ a trout! (No
way!)
Talkin’
‘bout the cryin’ hole blues—
That’s what I’m talkin’ about.
Hidden Track: Bob Dylan Bronc Song
Paul Zarzyski—Bucking Horse Moon Music
(ASCAP)
I rode the
bronc Whiskey Talks
In the same arena Dylan sang
Simple Twist Of Fate—
Bucking chutes on hallowed ground
Big gray stud-horse skyward bound
Where Bob in cowboy-hatted crown—
Rode hard his concert stage.
I rode the
bronc Whiskey Talks
In the same arena Dylan sang
Like A Rolling Stone—
Key of C with jazzy licks
Stopwatch clicking all 8 ticks
My spur rowels reached for cosmic kicks—
Out in the Music Zone.
I rode the
bronc Whiskey Talks
In the same arena Dylan sang
Knockin’ On Heaven’s
Door—
Risk it all for just one song
Some losing’s right, some winning’s wrong
This ride might last the whole night long—
A buckle if you score.
I rode the
bronc Whiskey Talks
In the same arena Dylan sang
All The Tired Horses—
They cheered us from the bleacher pews
The organ groaned communion blues
I gave the nod, they lit the fuse—
With atomic torches.
I rode the
bronc Whiskey Talks
In the same arena Dylan sang
John Wesley Hardin—
Gunfighter of a by-gone time
Pistols sing and bullets rhyme
Church bells in the village chime—
When heroes are departin’.
I rode the
bronc Whiskey Talks
In the same arena Dylan sang
Forever Young—
Old hearts beating in reverse
Lady Luck in see-through skirt
Music’s blessings, music’s curse—
God’s songs forever sung.
Though I’ve hung up my bareback riggin’
The
roughstock days are far from dead
Bob Dylan’s
out there still a-giggin’
And I’m here
slinging words like lead.
Poetic souls still buck unbroken
A bronc is
but a song unsung
Guitar picks
and spurs a-strokin’
The desperado
West un-won.
I rode the
bronc Whiskey Talks
In the same arena Dylan sang
Every Grain Of Sand—
Plug the juice into acoustic
Beat the drum until you bruise it
A pound of flesh, a pound of music—
The blood, the bone, The Band.
I rode the
bronc Whiskey Talks
In the same arena Dylan sang
Blowing In The Wind—
How many shows, how many broncs
How many two-bit honky-tonks
One-half sloshed and one-half zonked—
Forgive us if we’ve sinned.
I rode the
bronc Whiskey Talks
In the same arena Dylan sang
Shelter From The Storm—
Twin universes parallel
Which one’s heaven, which one’s hell
Two sisters kissing at the well—
Mankind lacks a quorum.
I rode the
bronc Whiskey Talks
In the same arena Dylan sang
Hurricane—
Old Bill Pickett dogs a bull
While Strange Fruit hangs in orchards full
Pure hatred with its downward pull—
A far, far cry from Shane.
I rode the
bronc Whiskey Talks
In the same arena Dylan sang
Thunder On The
Mountain—
Youth ain’t wasted on the young
No Holy Grail need touch their tongue
They’ll drink up truth if truth is sung—
Straight out of The Fountain.
Though I’ve hung up my bareback riggin
The
roughstock days are far from dead
Bob Dylan’s
out there still a-giggin’
And I’m here
slinging words like lead.
Poetic souls still buck unbroken
A bronc is
but a song unsung
Guitar picks
and spurs a-strokin’
The desperado
West un-won.
I rode the
bronc Whiskey Talks
In the same arena Dylan sang
Lay, Lady, Lay—
Don’t need no re-rides of the past
No flags a-flyin’ at half-mast
I pledge allegiance to what lasts—
There’s nothing more to say.
Musicians:
Dennis Crouch - Acoustic Bass
Mike Fried - Steel guitar, dobro
Mike Henderson - Guitar
Hoot Hester - Fiddle, mandolin, viola
John McTigue III - Drums
Gretchen Peters - Vocals
Jeff Taylor - Accordion
Mark Thornton - Gut string guitar, Gretsch guitar
Paul Zarzyski - Vocals, spur licks
Wylie Gustafson - Vocals, acoustic guitars, electric guitar
Produced by John Carter Cash
Engineered by Chuck Turner
Second Engineer: Trey Call
Mixed by: Chuck Turner & John Carter Cash
Mastered by Yes Master, Nashville Tenn.
Recorded November 9-14, 2008, at Cash Cabin Studios,
Hendersonville, Tenn.
Dedications:
This album is dedicated to the Western Folklife Center, whose
fine staff have re- kindled the fire of cowboy poetry and music
for the last 25 years.
A special thanks
to the rest of the outfit that has helped along the way: Ray
Doyle, T. Scot Wilburn, Jeri Dobrowski, Chris Jenkins, Carhartt,
Elixir Strings, and Tomkins Electric Guitars.
Photo and Art Credits:
Front Cover Art: "Walkenson hauls it on Torpedo," a 1941 Ralph
Doubleday photo hand-tinted by Bob Wade
Package Design: Jeri L. Dobrowski
Official Website and for Bookings:
www.wyliewebsite.com
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