The supposedly-macho and often-misogynistic history of country-western music is being turned on its antiquated head as we repurpose and reformulate readings of cowboy lore for this Fall of the Cowboy. As a gay cowboy in-the-hopeful-making, my own pose is one of retro-amusement – and while some may be quick to dismiss this as nothing more than a pose, there are deeper things at work here, such as the distillation of the essence of a cowboy and his primal make-up. Far more than the boots or the animal-caretaking actions, a cowboy is unbridled chaos and passion barely contained within the confines of his denim and rope. He carries the weight of a history almost obsolete and a tradition worth preserving in his dusty back pocket, surviving on a vision and the will of a heart still bound to this earth and all its physical machinations, purposes and pleasures.
The highway, she’s hotter than nine kinds of hell
The rides, they’re as scarce as the rain
When you’re down to your last shuck with nothing to sell
And too far away from the trains
Been a good month of Sundays and a guitar ago
Had a tall drink of yesterday’s wine
Left a long string of friends, some sheets in the wind
And some satisfied women behind
They’d ride me down easy, Lord, ride me on down
Leave word in the dust where I lay
Say I’m easy come, easy go
And easy to love when I stay
A restless spirit is part of many a cowboy’s operation in this life. A desire to be free and entirely unfettered, at odds with all the rope they require, adds to their allure. We mostly want all that we can’t have, and a cowboy carries that power with only the merest understanding of his pull. It doesn’t completely exonerate him from blame, but it lends a charm that makes some of it forgivable, or at least tolerable for those with a decent amount of patience. I’ve only encountered a few spiritual cowboys over the years, and I’m afraid I didn’t treat them well or with the respect they deserved – this was after a bad break-up in which I didn’t exhibit much good behavior. One day soon I’ll tell you about some of them – one of those spiritual cowboys who came into my life as a lesson, which I promptly failed and fucked up, then watched it all play out in the dim hurt of his eyes.
Put snow on the mountain, raise hell on the hill
I locked horns with the devil himself
Been a rodeo bum, a son of a gun
And a hobo with stars in his crown
In my own way, I was a love ’em and leave ’em type of cowboy at the time – unable to process my actions while wading through such a pool of hurt and heartbreak, I lashed out and ruined and destroyed with willful abandon, giving and accepting sex as a weapon and currency – those brief spurts of satisfaction attempting to become something more, and me refusing at every turn, then turning to another. I remember one sweet gentleman waiting at my door with a carved wooden rose in his hand – I came downstairs, opened the door, accepted the gift, then said something so cruel he never bothered coming in. The worst of it is that I no longer even remember what I said, and maybe that’s for the best. I’m haunted by enough of what I’ve done, and the more forgotten, the better I might sleep at night.
So ride me down easy, Lord, ride me on down
Leave word in the dust where I lay
Say I’m easy come, easy go
And easy to love when I stay
Ride me down easy, Lord, ride me on down…
