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Twin Town High (vol. 8) |
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WEB EXCLUSIVE: It's too late to stop now: The Belfast Cowboys
Wednesday 07 March @ 15:47:20 |
 by CRAIG PLANTING
I stood at the second floor railing and tried to take in the commotion below me. My friend, Terry Walsh, had mentioned that his Van Morrison cover band, The Belfast Cowboys, had been gaining momentum, but he hadn't described anything like this. The Fine Line was booming. A couple was twirling in the aisle, forcing those around them to clutch their drinks to their chests. The dance floor--like the stage--was crammed with bodies.
"Caravan" ended with a cymbal crash and Terry kicked off the riff to "Domino" on his Telecaster. When the horn section came in he smiled and egged them on. Then he went up onto his toes and belted: "Roll me over Romeo/there you go/I think it's time for a change." "Here Comes the Night" and "Cleaning Windows" followed. The crowd sang along on the intro to "Jackie Wilson Said" and the horns filled the room on "Wild Night."
 As I watched Terry work the crowd my initial astonishment faded. It made sense that he'd found an audience by emphasizing Van's classic R&B roots. Then a guy bumped me as he tried to get by and my Guinness almost went over the railing. After the guy said he was sorry and I went back to watching the Cowboys I realized I felt bittersweet. As much as I love Van, I couldn't help wishing the crowd had braved the cold to hear Terry's music instead. I wanted to shout: "Where were all of you when we needed you?!" This is especially silly when you consider that the college kids below me would still have been in grade school.
I met Terry in 1989 when we worked together in an Uptown record store. One night I couldn't place the music that was on in the store. It was a guy with a tenor voice accompanied by a clean-sounding acoustic guitar. There was some Pete Townsend in the guitar strumming and some Elvis Costello in the singing. He was obviously a singer-songwriter, but the music was livelier than the usual singer-songwriter journal confessions.
Terry was behind the counter adding up credit card receipts when I asked who was playing. He said that since the store was empty and it was almost closing time he figured it would be OK if he threw on his own music. I was impressed. I locked the front doors and then went back behind the counter and cranked the stereo.
During these years there was always someone interesting playing somewhere in town. If the Jayhawks weren't in First Avenue's Mainroom, then the Mighty Mofos would be at the 7th St. Entry, or Run Westy Run would be at the Cabooze. Also, underground bands from all over the country would come through on their way to or from Chicago.
After shows Terry and I would take long drives around Minneapolis. This became our ritual. We'd ride down the West River Parkway with the bridges and railroad trestles high above us, then turn and follow Minnehaha Creek all the way to the lakes. Our discussions centered on music, politics and women, and the later it got, the more Van Morrison albums like Astral Weeks and Saint Dominic's Preview seemed to complement the overhanging trees.
By two am we'd have the parkways to ourselves. During the day each lake has its own identity. Nokomis is where guys still blast AC/DC from their muscle cars, Harriet is for families, and Calhoun is for good-looking 20-year-olds. The only lake that doesn't shed its daytime identity once the sun goes down is Lake of the Isles. There the mansions left their lights on so we could peek in at their paintings, grand pianos and chandeliers.
One night Terry said: "Check out the lights reflecting off the water."
I looked across the bay at the evenly-spaced streetlights. Each one reflected a pale column that revealed the water's steady motion.
"Nothing in those houses," he continued, "is anywhere near as beautiful as that."
That's Terry. He reminded me of Jack Kerouac when he declared that everything belonged to him because he was poor.
In 1990 Terry made the transition from being a solo performer to having a band. Terry Walsh and 2am was Terry on lead vocals, rhythm guitar and harmonica, Bart Bakker on bass, Dave Haugen on drums and Joe Loskota on lead guitar and keyboards. Joe and Dave also sang back-up vocals.
 There was a false perception during the early nineties that Minneapolis bands had to sound like either the Replacements or Husker Du. Even though "Kiss Me on the Bus" sounds like a song Terry could have written, 2am was more a cross between English pub-rocker Graham Parker and the "Rain"/Revolver-era Beatles. They were a pop band that rocked--more sympathetic than defiant--who I believed had the potential to become the Greg Brown(s) of the local music scene. Am I dropping enough names? One night, as snowflakes slanted in our headlights, I offered to help get 2am off the ground. I envisioned a future where the band was so cherished by music lovers that we were all able to quit our day jobs.
It makes me cringe now to remember how I went around announcing that I was the manager of a rock band. To be honest, I have no idea what it means to "manage" anyone.
What I actually did was pester local booking agents for gigs. Back then the two whales everyone chased were Steve McClellan at First Avenue and Maggie McPherson at the Uptown Bar. Steve was easier to get ahold of, but he was scary in the way a charging bear is scary. Terry prepped me before I called him by saying: "Remember, no matter what Steve says he's only testing you. He just wants to see if you've got what it takes. Don't be intimidated. He'll seem mean as hell, but he's actually a great guy."
When I called and introduced myself, Steve answered by saying: "You have 30 seconds to tell me why I should be spending my time talking to you."
"Terry has put a good band together," I stammered. "I want to bring you their new demo tape. We wanted you to be the first one to hear it."
Steve invited me down to First Avenue and as I waited for the bus out on Hennepin Avenue I congratulated myself on breezing the big test.
Outside the club I had to repeatedly shout who I was into the scratchy intercom before being buzzed past the glass doors. Inside it felt weird to be in the silent club in the middle of the day. In the light it looked a little dilapidated and smelled a little funky. I found the second floor offices and then stood around like a putz while staffers ignored me. There were gray desks, overflowing ashtrays and davenports where fliers for up-coming shows were sliding onto the floor.
A punk guy with tribal tattoos running up his neck appeared to be on hold so I walked over and asked if Steve was around. The guy said, "Yeah," and then went back to frowning at his desktop calendar. There was a door behind him that I figured must lead to Steve's office. I decided the only thing to do was to go knock on it, but when I moved my legs brought me back over to the davenports. I slid some fliers over and sat down.
 Eventually a guy came out whom I recognized from the times I'd seen him stalking around First Avenue. Steve's a big, scowling guy whose eyebrows wing up at their ends like horn-rimmed glasses. He spoke to the tattooed guy and when he looked like he was about to go back to his office I went over and introduced myself.
"You tell Mister Terry Walsh," he came close to shouting, "that he isn't too big yet to come down here and deliver his demo in person. Tell him that the next time he wants to send me his manager …"
The tattooed guy was smiling.
"We're not pulling anything here," I said with my voice sounding strange. "It was my idea to bring you the tape. I'm doing the booking so Terry can get the music together." Steve looked me over with those wild eyebrows and finally took the tape from my outstretched hand. He said he liked Terry's music and promised to give the demo a listen. By the time I was back on the sidewalk I was shaking like the moment after you almost crash your car.
When I called the following week Steve complained for a few minutes before asking if we'd be interested in opening for Boneclub in the Entry.
With Maggie McPherson at the Uptown, it was sheer quantity of phone calls. The Uptown was on the same block as the record store so I'd go over in the mornings, order a warm caramel roll and find out if Maggie was downstairs in her office.
Then, when I got back to the store I'd start calling. Leaving messages didn't garner results so I'd hang up each time I got a busy signal or her answering machine. If I was lucky she'd pick up on my thirtieth attempt and say: "Yeah, I think we can put something together. Call me on Tuesday-I'll know more then."
On Tuesday instead of every 15 minutes I'd call every five. Again, if I was lucky she'd pick up by Friday and we'd have a gig. It'd be on a weeknight, playing first on a three-band bill, but we'd have a gig.
Next would come the fun part. I'd swipe a picture from a magazine, usually something like old women cheering as cops load them into paddy wagons, and create a flier. I'd run over to Kinko's and then spend the next two weeks stapling them all over South Minneapolis. In the store I'd slip fliers into customers' bags and everywhere I went I'd try to convince people to come hear the band. I'd tell them we were going on early so they wouldn't be tired for work the next day.
The night of the show I'd stare a hole through the front door. The band would wait as long as possible and then go on and sing to the empty tables. It'd be such a drag I wouldn't even feel like drinking. I'd sit and think about each person who'd promised to come and imagine them home on their couches complaining that there was never anything good on. The late-night drives that ended nights like these were tense.
One morning in the store an aging rocker-dude with thinning, blonde hair asked who I was playing. I said it was the band I managed and he said it was a real coincidence because he was also in the local music scene. He said we ought to put something together sometime. The following week he came to an acoustic set 2am played at the Loring Café. Afterwards he asked if we'd be interested in performing in a benefit to clean up the Mississippi. Not all of the details had been worked out, but it was going to be a kind of street fair on the West Bank. It was really, he said, going to be something. I checked with the other guys to see if they had the date open (and if they'd play for free) and confirmed the gig.
A few weeks went by and I began to think of all the questions I hadn't thought to ask. I really became uptight when I couldn't get the rocker-dude to return my phone calls. At the Loring he'd mentioned the name of the West Bank store that was sponsoring the benefit so I called their manager. She said everyone was excited to have us play and promised to send me all the information.
When the schedule arrived my heart sank. 2am was slotted to play in the afternoon, after "All about Owls" and before the "River Critters Puppet Show." I called the manager back and admitted it was a little disconcerting to be opening for a puppet show. "Oh?" she said, "don't you perform children's music? We were told (by the rocker-dude) that you performed children's music." When I told her that we liked kids, but were a rock band a troubled silence came from her end of the line. Remember "This is Spinal Tap?" After I bowed us out of the gig I was tempted to ask her if we would have had a bigger dressing room than the puppets.
During my final months of working for the band I invented rationalizations for quitting instead of tackling the next round of phone calls. It was frustrating after three years to still be unable to get the band past the public's indifference. I felt stuck and ended up walking around wondering how I ended up responsible for someone else's dream. I was spending too much time alone, out of my head.
When I quit I told Terry the truth. I still believed in his music, but I didn't respect or believe in the music industry. He said he understood and thanked me for the work I'd done. Things were weird between us for awhile, but we eventually got past it. It takes a good friendship to survive a business partnership.
2am went on to release two albums, Harriet ("In the winter of '86 and '7 the parkway stayed open, that may not seem like much to you, but for so long we were hoping...") and Work and Hope. Work and Hope rocks and it should have been a monster, but when it wasn't, 2am ended. In 1998 Terry gave up music.
A year later he was dispatching for a limo company when he heard his harmonica come out of the radio. The Vikings first pre-season game was on and the 2am song "Your Way Out" had been used to transition into a commercial. As Terry listened to the rest of the game he heard himself three more times. He was bowled over. For the next five years WCCO played snippets from Work and Hope during Vikings and Twins games and for Terry it made a crucial difference.
 Terry formed the Belfast Cowboys, along with its smaller incarnation, Saint Dominic's Trio, in the summer of 2001. The collective of musicians he brought together consisted of members from his earlier bands, 2am, the Altered Boys and Bowling Trophy, along with friends from the Mammy Nuns, the 27 Various, Love on Wheels, Fat Tuesday, the Idlewilds, the HeBeGB's, Blue Plate Special and the Vic Volare Lounge Orchestra. The Cowboys rehearsed for six months before debuting at the 400 Bar on St. Patrick's Day, 2002.
Back when he performed original music Terry's goal was to write a song that would change the world. The decision to perform Van Morrison songs was driven by two new goals: to support his family and to help people enjoy their lives a little more. The birth of Terry's son had realigned his priorities.
As "Tupelo Honey" faded, Terry crouched down and picked his Summit up from the stage. He took a long swig, then stood back up and said: "Here's another belly-rubber for you." "Tupelo Honey" had been preceded by "Into the Mystic" and I thought it was time to get the room jumping again. Three ballads in a row seemed like one too many.
Then Terry sang: "And all my love comes down…all my love comes tumbling down …" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It was "Listen to the Lion," the epic ballad from Saint Dominic's Preview. Up until that point in the show Terry hadn't attempted anything this obscure or this daring. With his head to one side and his dark hair in his eyes he sang: "Oh, listen…to the lion…inside of me." There was a sweetness and vulnerability in his voice as he sang over the warm, chiming keyboards.
Two more verses followed before the chorus circled back and Terry began repeating, "Listen to the Lion…Listen to the Lion …" One by one the rest of the band sang along. The tempo picked up and couples who'd been slow dancing pulled apart and danced across from one another. The women were better dancers, but the men danced with greater abandon. A hippie in a black skull cap looked enraptured as he danced with his head back and his arms hanging at his sides.
The scene reminded me of the night Bill Clinton took the White House. 2am played the Uptown and if there'd been rafters we would have swung from them. I danced with a group of strangers and friends in front of the stage while Terry, Bart, Dave and Joe played their asses off. It was tribal. As 2am slammed through Rare Earth's "I Just Want to Celebrate" we abandoned ourselves to joy.
When you look back at your past do you first focus on the downers? I'm starting to think this is a mistake. There were disappointments during the 2am years, but there were some magical nights, too.
Back inside the Fine Line the Belfast Cowboys continued to chant: "Listen to the Lion …Listen to the Lion …" The keyboards swirled and the cymbals crashed. An older guy who may have been a Van Morrison fan before I was born was shaking his head in wonder as Terry roared and growled into the microphone. Terry was channeling the Lion and everything was so wide open I felt like I couldn't breathe. Then Terry took a step back from the microphone and played progressively slower, Robbie Robertson guitar fills as the cacophony subsided back to its original, pulsating groove.
It's beautiful when you discover there are still magical nights to be had.
Visit the Belfast Cowboys at: www.belfastcowboys.com.
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