How it all began...

July, 1999

by Paula Bright

I confess that I didn’t know it would be so hard. After weeks of trying to pin down the elusive cowboy, I trapped him in his studio. Above the door hung a plaque:

“When George and Cowboy Maxx are really cookin', it makes me wanna stomp!"

It was signed "Hip Hop Girl.” I didn’t ask.

“George, it’s this web page thing, plus the record and publishing people are hammering at me--- we’ve got to come up with a fresh bio.”

“Sure,” he responded with a Cheshire grin, leaning back as he propped his long booted legs on a packing box filled with jewel cases. In deference to me, he squashed out the cigarette he was smoking. “But don’t we already have fifteen or twenty of those?”

“New, George. Fresh. Up-to-date.” I nestled into a comfy nook under a keyboard in his studio,the only spot I could find. Like the gentleman he is, he pushed a few cords and empty JD bottles out of the way for me. Some small creature skittered off, more annoyed than frightened, it seemed. “Tell me about yourself and your band . . . ”

“Well,” he began, lighting up another smoke, “we’re musicians.”

I waited patiently. Cowboys love to ramble on about their work. When he lit his third without speaking, I took a more aggressive approach.

“Albums? History?”

“11 records, stocked at local indie stores, did pretty well.”

“Tell me about the other Crazed Cowboy.”
“Cowboy Maxx is -- quite simply -- the best drummer in St. Louis. Always has been. Years and years.”

He stood and stretched, walking over to a wall lined with guitars and such, not all of which I recognized. “He picks and bangs a mean guitar, and a lot of other instruments of destruction as well. Occasionally even hollers into the mike -- when he can knock me off it!” A sly grin here.

I waited craftily, sensing more to come. When he’d settled himself and lit up again, he continued, “We go back a long way. We’ve been playing and writing and recording together for that magic amount of time that makes the sum of two players astronomically and exponentially better than either player could dream of being apart....

“We’ve been thrown outta more bars than most bands have played in, usually cause of our fondness for smoke machines.....Played every cover tune from the Fab Four to Mr. Big himself, His Honor King George The First Strait.

“. . . the music we’ve created has begun to take on a life of its own, and it continues to progress and move forward at a pace that amazes and thrills us. It feels and sounds like a hybrid of everything we’ve played, coming together.”

I remained silent. Never interrupt a crazed cowboy when he finally starts singing...

“So there it is, in a really big hyperbolic nutshell. We absolutely, passionately believe in what we’re doing. We bring a whole lot of experience and talent to the the table. We’re long in the tooth, but even longer on knowledge, creativity, brains and experience.

“We’re on the outside looking in, trying to move from the window to the door. We’re clinically insane–”

Suddenly he pulled himself from his reverie . . . "Enough already! STOP ME!"

I put him out of his misery. “I think that should do it, George.”

He nodded, satisfied and rose to see me out; then I realized --

“Wait! What about you?” I asked.

Resigned, George poured us each a tumbler of JD. He raised his to me, then said, “Me? I favor guitar, bass and piano, although lately I’ve been using a bit o’ drum machine, too.”

I choked on the JD, which had been going down plenty smooth until then. “A cowboy on a drum machine?” I sputtered. I was incredulous--naturally!
He chuckled, enjoying my shock, taking his time before replying, giving the lady time to compose herself.

“Well, ya see, ma’am...we still love to make our very traditional country music, but we also stumbled onto this little sound that’s all our own...and I’ll be darned if the ladies aren’t just goin’ a little loco over it...” He closed his eyes and appeared to be listening to the sound in his head, oblivious to me.

“George---explain!” He glanced over, surprised to see me still there.

“Oh-- yeah! It’s a combination of tough country picking and drumming with some o’ those millenium-type street beats mixed in...we keep the themes on the up-and-up---we’ve all heard enough whining for this lifetime! It seems to get the gals all in a frenzy, and they dance themselves sillly every time we play it!”

He grinned, recollecting. “An Indian priest took it to Incahoots in Oklahoma and they put it on their playlist!”

“We’re calling it Hip Hop Country!”

At that point, I saw that I’d lost him, at least for now. He had picked up a guitar, with a cigarette and a pencil gripped in his teeth, and was madly humming a phrase over and over, picking at the strings....

As I left, he let loose one more parting shot: “I’d lay odds, ma’am, that this is probably the most ridiculous bio you’ve ever written....”

--then he winked at me, tipped his Stetson and went back to doing what he does best, surrounded by a haze of smoke: makin’ music.

Hey, cowboy – I listened to your music. I’ll buy any dream you tell.

Paula Bright

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