[an error occurred while processing this directive]
Archives
| Arts & Entertainment
| Audio/Video
| Business
| Classifieds
| Columns
| Food
| Forums
| Health & Fitness
| News
| Obits
| Opinions
| People
| Politics
| Science/Technology
| Search
| Sports
| Subscribe
| Travel
| Weather
Brooks Peterson
Monday, April 30, 2001
Marty Robbins' cowpoke world is deadly place
Championing unfashionable music is no picnic. I have long endured jeers and catcalls from my kids when I haul out the polka CDs (in an age of rampant, unapologetic philistinism, what else is one to expect?).
My defense of other undervalued musical geniuses - especially Spike Jones and Perry Como - has prompted similar derision.
Once in a while, though, I stumble across real treasure. The other day, for example, I hit the mother lode, Now everybody's going to join old Dad in a bracing dip into a three-CD trove of classic Americana: "The Many Sides of Marty Robbins."
I could hardly wait to share this with my loved ones - my daughter in particular, since she has a partiality to country-western.
Felina in the cantina
The curtain-raiser, inevitably, is "El Paso": A cowpoke frequents Rosa's bar on the outskirts of you-know-where. He falls, big-time, for a sultry, faithless wench, Felina.
Gunplay follows, of course, and our protagonist knocks off a rival. Sensibly, he boogies off to the badlands of New Mexico.
Not for long. Driven by his passion for Felina, he heads back to El Paso and Rosa's, where, sure enough, friends of the recently deceased cowpoke fill him full of lead. Our guy makes his way gamely to the cantina, where he dies (cheerfully, to all indications) in the arms of Felina: "Cradled by two loving arms that I'll die for/One little kiss and, Felina . . . goodbye." (Where was she when he needed her?)
Then it's on to my personal Marty Robbins favorite, "Big Iron." This chronicles the arrival in the town of Agua Fria of a taciturn stranger. Turns out he's an Arizona Ranger pursuing one Texas Red, a gent with a lot of, ah, unresolved issues.
Showdown: "Texas Red had not cleared leather when a bullet fairly ripped/And the Ranger's aim was deadly with the big iron on his hip."
What's the body count?
At that point, my child posed The Question: "Why does everybody on this record get killed?" Obviously, a body count was indicated. As we know, in the first two songs we have three fatalities. A song-by-song inventory of the remaining ballads produced sobering results:
"Five Brothers" - The siblings, out to avenge their pa's death, ambush the killer, only to die themselves after drinking from a poisoned well. Seven dead, counting pa.
"Jimmy Martinez" - A Reynosa lad ships out on the eve of his nuptials to fight at the Alamo. One dead soldier, one bereaved fiancee.
"Ballad of the Alamo" - The other side of the tale: "Sometimes between the setting and rising of the sky/You can hear a ghostly bugle as the men go marching by . . ." 185 dead.
"San Angelo" - Cowpoke rides into this exotic locale to meet Socorro, his lady love. No go: Killjoys show up and drill both of 'em. Two dead.
"Running Gun" - Rueful gunslinger gets drilled by a bounty hunter. One dead.
"Old Red" - Old Red, the horse that's never been rode, meets Billy McClain, the cowboy who's never been throwed. One hoss dead, one cowboy dead.
"Mr. Shorty" - A vertically challenged saddle bum finds himself confronted by a jeering barfly. "When you call me 'Shorty,' say 'Mister,' my friend,/Or maybe you'd rather be dead." One dead ruffian.
"Ride, Cowboy, Ride" - Drover on a trail drive learns his wife is desperately ill back home. He gallops home in time for her to expire with a smile on her face. One dead wife.
"Streets of Laredo" - An old standard, this one may not make the cut: The "cowboy all dressed in white linen" has, after all, been plugged before we make his acquaintance. Still, if you're a strict constructionist, it's got to be another casualty.
The other five songs on the disc are gore-free. Still, we're left with a fairly impressive tally when we add up the carnage: 203 deceased humans, one dead horse.
You want to talk violence in the popular media? This is Sam Peckinpah territory. Let's just hope Oliver Stone never gets hold of it.
Brooks Peterson can be reached by phone at 886-3772, or by e-mail at petersonb@caller.com
| Talk about this column
| Other Columns | Home |
[an error occurred while processing this directive]
© 2001 Corpus Christi Caller Times, a
Scripps Howard newspaper.
All rights reserved.
|
 |
 |
[an error occurred while processing this directive]
[an error occurred while processing this directive]
[an error occurred while processing this directive]
|
