The Cowboy and the Guitar

 

        

Playing the Martin in East Helena... at the last show we saw the cowboy

        I was halfway through the first chorus of Tennessee Whiskey when the old cowboy set down his beer mug and asked his lady to dance. A few ladies at the back table whooped at the dancers getting up. A few couples from the side tables got up and joined the cowboy and his lady. The linoleum floor was scuffed with mud from all the muck boots that had traipsed across it for the past couple hours on their path from the door to the counter. 

Ruby Valley Brew was a little shotgun bar with a few tables up front, board and batten interior walls, a rough hewn bar guarded by a sturdy looking barmaid and a few small beer producing vats peeking out from behind the hand scrawled menu. The band crowded into the corner by the door on a floor that was sloping enough to make you put a foot backwards for balance. The drummer was close enough to the door that if someone had their hands full, he would open it between beats. 

It took an hour or so for anyone to get up and dance and suddenly everyone was feeling footloose. By the last chorus of Tennessee Whiskey, half the brewery was slow dancing between the live edge tables. As we wound out of the song, folks scattered applause as they sat back down. The cowboy approached the band with a jingle from his boots. 

The hat was tall and sweat stained with a handwoven band and a few battered feathers. The boots had clearly been re-soled at least once. His bolo tie was cinched just so and his handlebar mustache drooped delicately beneath his round glasses. He leaned over my mic stand and in a musty Marlboro breath, he drawled “your guitar is a piece of shit.”

Well, I like straight shooters. I couldn’t really argue. My old Washburn had been across the world from Spain to Mexico and a thousand places in between. The finish was cracked, the grime of a thousand shows layered the bridge and neck. It was a three hundred dollar guitar bought by a poor hitchhiker seven years ago. It had treated me well and always pulled its weight, but it wasn’t by any means a nice guitar. 

What the cowboy said next drew blank stares from me and the band. “I have a better one for you. See me at set break.” Yeah, right, I thought. This guy isn’t serious. Who gives new instruments to the band. But lo and behold, a half hour later, I was standing behind the open door of his Suburban as he uncased a brand new spruce-top Martin Special. As he lifted it out, I could smell it’s piney scent. There was not a blemish because it had never been played outside of a test at the guitar store.

I kept waiting for the catch, the trick, the gotcha moment. Even as he tuned it up and placed it in my filthy paint-stained hands. He was busy apologizing to the rest of the band that he didn’t have new instruments for them in his backseat. We all stammered about how none of us expected to be tipped a four thousand dollar Martin guitar at some random brewery show in rural Montana. 

But after the second set, he tipped his hat and moseyed out, cattle dog at his heels. The Martin guitar sat in its case beside my old beat up gear bag. The cowboy then proceeded to start stalking our shows around southwest Montana, appearing unannounced, staying for a set and fading away with a tip of the cap, unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. Sometimes he would bring a guitar case and pull out some gorgeous gem from his extensive collection. A 61 Gibson, a koa topped Martin D28, a golden Gretch. I would play a few licks during set break and then he would quietly box them up and return them to his car.

Then one day, the old cowboy vanished. We played at Ruby Valley Brew a half dozen times since and everyone there couldn’t or wouldn’t say where he disappeared to. But now, at each show, I send out a song to the cowboy and his generous gift. Jaws drop among fellow musicians when I tell the story of the guitar that I play. I have a dream to bring it on the road with me for a few decades and someday, step up to the guitarist of some young band in a backwoods bar and hand him or her the guitar with an incredible story.

Song of the post: Night Riders Lament, Jerry Jerry Walker

Sending a song out to the cowboy in Anaconda