Bourbon Jockey: The Documentary Proof

Last week, I participated in a form of collaborative creative engagement that contributed to building cultural community. In lay terms: I played music with a band in a bar for beer.

My fellow music-makers and I (a.k.a. Bourbon Jockey) appeared at Roots Organic Brewing Company in Southeast Portland. We were the evening headliners, as evidenced by our name written prominently on the chalkboard by the door.

We had fun. We helped the establishment move some beer. The people who left when we started to play were planning to leave anyway, and good riddance to them. We kept the volume to a level that allowed amiable conversation by those who were willing to shout at each other. Friends, family and strangers mixed. No fights broke out.

In addition to myself (intrepid front man), Matthew Jones (on upright bass) and Alan Cole (on other guitar), we were accompanied by a young fellow we call “Conga Dave” on account of not knowing his full name. When we last played at Roots, Alan left the stage in the middle of a tune, announcing “I’m going to see if they have a conga drum somewhere.” He rooted around a storage closet and retrieved said drum, then called one of his Lewis & Clark students up on stage to join us. With that simple act, Bourbon Jockey acquired a drummer. We invited Conga Dave to play along last week, though we neglected to confirm whether the closet at Roots still contained a conga drum. It didn’t, so Dave improvised with a few buckets, a shaker and a tambourine played with his foot. In the parlance of musicologists, he employed idiophones rather than a membranophone, but we don't need to get technical about it.

I pulled some video from the bar's security cameras for the benefit and edification of fans who were too stove up to make it out on Thursday night.

1) This first one is a Tom Waits song from whence we derived our name: “Jockey Full of Bourbon.” Sorry about my massive cabeza filling the frame.



2) This next one captures the Bourbon Jockey spirit. While we were playing, we noticed a lone fellow in the corner playing along on a concertina. He was also dressed as a pirate. We coaxed him out front to join us in an impromptu rendition of the Hank Williams classic, “Jambalaya.”



3) A little blues and testifying, with our version of the T-Bone Walker tune, "Stormy Monday" in which I blow on a harmonica and yell.



4) You're still here? Well then here's our take on "Route 66."



If you're hankering for more (and who wouldn't be?) you can find a few more videos on YouTube. Search for "Bourbon Jockey Roots Brewing" to find them. Or not.

We'll be back sometime in June, so put a hold on your entire calendar for the month. I'll keep you posted.

Of Your Assistance I Implore

Dearest fellow,

I humbly seek your most urgent attention for a matter of most import. To my attention has come news that a musical group of note by which is known as “Bourbon Jockey” will be performing at your city at the soonest Thursday night from this date. It has been my dream of my lifetime to enjoy such musical pleasure in the city of Portland Orgon.

My late-uncle, who was most fortunate to be Minister of Foreign Culture in the nation of Nigeria before his recent death, wished me to have this absurd pleasure. Having wished that for me and to assure such would take place, he placed a sum of $3,000,000 million US dollars in a secret account. This sum to be used to travel me to listen to your Bourbon Jockey, of which I am biggest fan, on May 20, 2010 at Roots Organic Brewing Company.

Having demised unfortunately of an accident, my uncle failed to leave instructions regarding the sending of this money to my account for the purpose of hearing Bourbon Jockey. My remaining relatives which are of evil intention have made to block me from my due right to this sum. More so, I am locked in a closet and prevented from all person contact except by the internets.

Of favor to me and in interest of your enjoyment of fine music, I am implore you to visit the Bourbon Jockey performance on May 20, 2010. It is of my knowledge that Bourbon Jockey makes western music of roots variety for the enjoyment of the people and the drinking of the beer.

I ask of your assistance to please attend this most important event for to write to me describing its wonders after its completion. This way I will have enjoyment too. Also, it would be of true assistance to also send me your bank account number and all codes which are necessary for making it of access to me.

For learning more, one may read of the famous Bourbon Jockey in this writing of blog from many months ago.

Sincerely and with honest hope,

Mrs. Martha Kwesi Ubunde

WHO: BOURBON JOCKEY featuring Mighty Toy Cannon

WHEN: Thursday, May 20, 2010. From 8:00-ish to Whenever-ish

WHERE: Roots Organic Brewing Co., 1530 SE 7th, Portland OR

HOW: By the plucking of stringed instruments, vocalization and blowing of reeds.

WHY: Why not? You know you want to.

WHO, EXACTLY, IS BOURBON JOCKEY?

Ross McKeen (aka Mighty Toy Cannon): Vocal, Guitar, Harmonica
Matthew Jones (aka Mr. Jones): Bass
Alan Jones (aka The Perfesser): Guitar and harmony vocals
+ Mystery Guest Percussionist known only as Conga Dave

The turnaround king turns Portland around.

Yesterday morning, I joined a few hundred colleagues to hear Michael Kaiser, President of the Kennedy Center, give his “Arts In Crisis” talk – a sermon he’s been delivering on a nationwide tour over the past year. Portland was stop number 55 on the gospel circuit, with Portland Center Stage’s Gerding Theatre standing in for the big white tent.

The stop before Portland? Pierre, South Dakota, population 13,000. (Bonus Points for correct pronunciation of Pierre).

Kaiser has been hailed as “the turnaround king” and called a “transformational leader” based on his record of pulling the fat out of the fire for several struggling arts companies. In his talks, his books, and on his blog, he’s been urging arts leaders to keep investing in producing great, exciting art, rather than allowing the challenges of the recession turn us into boring cowards. We also need to continue investing in marketing (“institutional marketing” in particular). "You can't save your way to financial health," he argues.

One of the event's hosts, the Oregon Arts Commission, encouraged me to blog about it, recognizing my tremendous reach as a thought leader. They didn’t know that I would spend a full 45 minutes coming up with the following:

Michael Kaiser is recognized throughout the universe as the gold standard of gurus. He is both the real deal and the beau ideal—an exemplar of expertise and a paragon of perspicacity. There is no other way to describe him other than by using words like nonpareil, or words that mean the same thing. Some may disagree, but none will dispute that he is arguably the apotheosis of arts administration."

My point being that I don’t know what I’m doing.

Then I remember that I’m not a journalist. I’m an aggregator. My job is to point you in the direction of my betters. In this case (as is often the case) there’s none better than Lisa Radon, one of Portland’s finest arts journalists. Lisa tweeted throughout the talk with one hand while taking notes with another and waving to admirers with another. You can read her smart blog post summarizing Kaiser's talk here. Rumor has it that a video of the talk will be available, as will something they want me to believe is actually called a “podcast.”

Honestly, I went to the event with the stainless steel pump that is my heart primed with liquified natural gas. I prepared for the session by stretching my eye-rolling muscles and practicing my deep sigh technique. I jotted a few crib notes to remind me of choice interjections I might want to shout, such as:

"You wish!"
"In what parallel universe?"
"That's a smart observation. NOT!"
"Yeah...right."

Instead, I was transformed. Well, “transformed” is a little strong. Inspired and a motivated may be better adjectives. When I have the time, I might think about writing more on the topic.

The colleagues with whom I spoke afterwards shared the warm glow. One well-respected arts leader (fictional) went so far as to say, "The only thing that would have made the event more inspiring is if Kaiser were Justin Bieber and we were 12 year old girls."

Here are pictures of Michael Kaiser and Justin Bieber making secret hand gestures to their respective fans.

Be There or Be Square

Ladies & Gentlemen
Aficionados of Fine Music and Satisfying Beer
Members of the Press

Step forward and prepare to be dazzled, stunned and stupefied as The Mighty Toy Cannon and the members of the acclaimed musical ensemble, Bourbon Jockey, regale you with feats of vocal virtuosity and strumming of stringed instruments in a manner most astonishing. Step back, there's no need to push, shove or jostle--there will be plenty of room for all of you without raising a ruckus.

Should you choose to partake of a Bourbon Jockey performance, you will be transported on a journey down lost highways and dusty byways of America where you will meet truck drivers, libertine women and deadbeat desperados in the throes of drunken sorrow. Accompanied by the joyous amalgam of melody, harmony and rhythm, you will be besotted by tales of heartbreak and redemption, hope and despair. The bass notes will rumble deep in your bowels whilst the high notes shall pierce the veil of heaven and wrap you as if by the gossamer wings of the very angels themselves.

FEAR NOT brave spectator! The burden of sadness and introspection thus launched in your heart and mind may be soothed by quaffing ales concocted through the alchemical magic of the artisans of Roots Organic Brewing Company of Southeast Portland, Oregon and poured with the steady hand of attentive servers dedicated to ministering to your needs and lubricating your parched throat with AMBROSIA.

How much would you expect to pay for an evening of entertainment that lifts the soul while edifying in such a potent fashion? What price the opportunity to hear stirring tales of sin and transgression without suffering the searing heat of BRIMSTONE upon your own reddened cheeks?

Would you not gladly drop a treasury note adorned with the visage of Andrew Jackson into a collection plate for such a privilege? Would you not swoon upon being informed that the only cost of this extravaganza is the humble sacrifice of a token contribution--that is to say that the entry fee is just one thin dime? Two nickels are enough to swing aside the turnstile and afford you the opportunity to partake in the dulcet tones of this renowned ensemble of chamber players steeped in the vernacular of American roots music.

Would you not be further stunned to learn that this meager fee --one-tenth of an American dollar!--were to be fully and unconditionally rebated to you immediately, such that the true cost of this once-in-a-lifetime event is NOT A SINGLE PENNY (as long as you fully commit in your heart within the next ten minutes)?

Yes, you have not misheard us, ladies and gentlemen. But let us repeat this message for the weak-minded and slow of hearing: For the price of a small portion of your leisure and sporting time, you can experience one of the most FASCINATING and CURIOUS musical experiences of the year—indeed of your entire lifetime. Many years hence, your great-grandchildren will gather around your deathbed imploring you to sacrifice your FINAL breath to tell them about the night you heard Mighty Toy Cannon and Bourbon Jockey perform at Roots Organic Brewing Company in the early weeks of the year of Two Aught Ten. Can you fathom the ignomy of admitting to your progeny that you stayed home that evening to watch television?

Don’t take our word for it, heed the insights of others who have bathed in the euphonious river of glorious sound produced by this remarkable conspiracy of musical genius:

“I liked it. It was fun, I guess. The beer was real good. The band looked like they were having fun. I have to get up early tomorrow morning,” said one delighted spectator as he left the venue in the middle of Bourbon Jockey’s penultimate public performance last year.

“They seem to be having a good time up there,” reported another audience member as she plugged her ears, presumably to forestall an overload of joyous goodwill.

Another dumbstruck listener said, “I don’t know what to say. I guess I'll fall back on something my daddy always used to say, ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’ I mean, who am I to define what’s good? Look, I could tell you that it wasn’t horrible, but that’s really all I feel comfortable saying right now. Why are you writing this down? I liked the beer and the servers were nice. The band did seem to be having fun, and it’s not like I had anything better to do.”

One long-time fan proffers this advice: “Try to get there early in the set because the singer seems to forget the lyrics the later it gets. Unless you like a lot of humming, you might want to arrive before they’re all drunk, though there’s a better choice of seats after the first fifteen minutes.”

If you doubt the wisdom of your neighbors and common citizens, listen to what the experts have to say. Ethnomusicologist Humphrey Von Humphrey said this after listening to an acetate recording of Bourbon Jockey:

Their harmonies are wholly unique, not only within our traditional concepts of western music but, verily, to the entirety of world culture. Their choices of harmonic intervals – and their apparent ease in shifting those intervals at a microtonal level from moment-to-moment is astonishing. I can safely say that I’ve never heard anything quite like it. The jarring and unexpected microtonal dissonance carries into their instrumental work as well. I’m telling you that it is physically impossible to get that particular sound unless you intentionally fail to tune your instruments relative to each other. Of course, that would be crazy!

Another thing that intrigues me – perhaps 'baffles' is a better term-- is the band's artistic strategies with regard to shifting rhythmic patterns and its curious selection of tempo changes. As an ensemble, they display an uncanny knack for randomly speeding, then slowing the tempo– sometimes even within the traditional verse/chorus form. It’s simply remarkable that they all manage to end each song at approximately the same time—and here I’m talking about ending within at least two measures of each other. I’m reminded of the keening and wailing that accompanies the funeral rites of some tribal cultures, particularly the Oomaomao people who are, as a race, totally deaf.

In an unpublished review, a noted cultural critic declared, "It's as if T-Bone Walker and Hank Williams had a baby. And that baby was born with withered arms and something wrong with its soft palate and was raised by, gosh I don't know, Patsy Cline. And maybe it has a hugely swollen tongue or something. Oh, and the baby is drunk too. Forget the baby analogy ... it's more like if Howling Wolf and George Jones were arm wrestling while Fats Domino and Fats Waller argued over which one of the two was fatter. Never mind. There's just a lot going on during a Bourbon Jockey concert and these are grown men who should know better."

Important Details:

Bourbon Jockey
Thursday, January 7, 2009

--starting at 8:00 pm going until they tire--
Roots Organic Brewing Company

1530 SE 7th Avenue, Portland Oregon
No Admission Fee, Cover Charge or other Consideration

Free Membership in the Bourbon Dynasty

(the exclusive Fan Club of Bourbon Jockey)

Recommended Dress: Classy Dungarees/Tube Tops

Bourbon Jockey is:

Ross McKeen (aka The Mighty Toy Cannon): Singin’, guitar slingin’ and harmonica blowin'.
Alan Cole (aka The Perfesser): Six string fireworks and harmony yelpin'.
Matthew Jones (aka Matthew): Upright bass thumpin' and gravitas.

Crushed

Twilight, or more specifically New Moon, is everywhere you look these days. I keep hearing how hunky these actors are and how so many teens (and probably their moms too) are screaming in the theaters whenever one of them takes off his shirt. It’s got me thinking about teen crushes. How powerful they can be: all consuming and passionate.

We tend to feel this way about people that we don’t know very well—or don’t know at all in the case of celebrities. Familiarity truly does breed contempt? In any case, by not knowing someone well, we are able to create a blank slate on which we can spin our fantasies and illusions. We allow our imaginations to shape the world just the way we want it. We envision best friends, lovers even; perfect in every way.

It brings me back to one of my own crushes (which, I confess, lingers to this day). I have long had a thing for David Bowie. It is not his physical attributes that interest me. Rather it’s a core fascination that encompasses his music and, from what I’ve gleaned in interviews, the way he interprets the world. And even though he is who he is, and I am who I am, with worlds of difference between us, I can’t help but feel that we are bound in some odd way.

I’m listening to David Bowie right now. The album is “Aladdin Sane”, and particularly the song “Time”. It reminds me of a dream I once had about Bowie when I was 14 years old.

I look at my watch; it says 9:25,
And I think, ‘Oh God, I’m still alive’.
We should be on by now.

In this dream, Bowie contacted me and we agreed to meet on a certain bridge in Hackensack, on a certain date in August, at 9:25 am. The dream was incredibly vivid. It was so striking that it just had to be a real message. David Bowie was somehow reaching out, and what I thought to be a one-sided crush, was possibly something deeper, crossing the bounds of time and space. I knew I had to go. How could I not?

You—are not a victim.
You—just scream with boredom.
You—are not evicting time.

I thought about the dream all summer. I knew I was probably feeding into my own fantasies; creating something out of nothing. But what was the harm? It made me happy—that ought to count for something. And what if it truly was real? As the designated date approached, I mulled my own sanity vs. my teenage desperation for something greater and more magnificent than what I had.

Ultimately, I did not go to the bridge that day. Perhaps David Bowie did. Perhaps he waited awhile, hardly knowing himself why he was there, before shrugging his shoulders and moving on. I might have missed the opportunity of a lifetime. But in the end, I decided that some things are best left to the imagination.

Perhaps you’re smiling now,
Smiling through this darkness,
When all I have to give
Is guilt for dreaming.
We should be on by now.