“Try it on me!” ~ Whitney Houston to Mariah Carey, or Mariah Carey to Whitney Houston, at the MTV Video Music Awards circa mid to late 90’s
Never having been a fan of country music, my interest in the country western vibe that has taken over this website and this autumn may seem at odds with who I am, yet if you dig deeper into what makes a cowboy a cowboy – the internal machinations and make-up of the rebellious fringe-dweller who refuses to conform to what society wants – it’s actually a good fit. Still, I understand if this feels like just another pose – as I have lived most of my life as a provocative poseur. It’s too late to change, and too late to apologize. The die of the chameleon has been cast.
Well I don’t wanna be a big star and I don’t need to drive a new car
Another mask, another guise, another persona to inhabit for a spell to work out whatever kinks remain, exorcizing demons past and present and possibly future, and if the cowboy is the conduit, I’m more than ready to saddle up. In a way, this is how art operates when used as a vehicle to find something or feel something or process something. Will I be bucking off broncos or herding cattle or stringing barbed-wire fences anytime soon? Of course not. Will I distract and dazzle in cowboy cosplay while buying myself some therapy and creative catharsis? Absolutely. And can I relate to someone who has historically been an outsider, a rebel, a person hellbent on living life on their own terms in defiance of social constraints and mores? Fuck yeah.
The writer and performer of this song – Charlie Overbey – expresses what it’s like to straddle genres – punk, country, honky tonk, blues, and rock – while not being defined or labelled as any single one of them. A standard flummoxed reaction often results when someone falls into uncharted territory, or somewhere in between or in several different categories. Humans want so much to organize things and understand others in the most basic of terms, when we are all too complex and nuanced and different to really conform to any single set of standards or descriptions. There are always exceptions, always footnotes, always asterisks and ‘See also’s and all sorts of annotations.
And those of us who dare to change, or evolve, or become something different from what people assumed us to be – well, we are viewed as suspect, as less than authentic, as a shape-shifting creature of mythology – not to be trusted or counted on or safe as someone they have supposedly figured out. We make others uncomfortable because our certainty is in our evolution. But I digress… This is the fall of the cowboy, not the chameleon – and cowboys are nothing if not sure of themselves.
Stepping into the pair of cowboy boots for the first time, I was expecting to be met with resistance or discomfort, some sort of constriction or unfamiliarity that required adjustment or force. I was shocked to feel my feet slip into place without pain or struggle, shoehorn or lubricant. It was as if my feet were coming home, returning to a place they’d never known but always belonged. Sliding my jeans over them and standing up fully, I instantly felt something I have rarely felt, something that everyone assumes I have in spades: swagger. Taking a few steps in anything but tentative fashion, I finally understood what swagger was, and how it felt to have it.
One walks differently in cowboy boots. The heel is markedly higher than most of my shoes, and for a guy largely unaccustomed to high heels (against all popular belief) it’s a drastic change. They push you forward, as if some dusty guiding hand from a past life is physically encouraging you to keep going. At the same time, they set your upper body back, as if your shoulders and head are compensating for the forward inclination by rearing backwards a bit, which somehow makes for a more relaxed and confident carriage.
Steps feel more deliberate, more certain and sure – no more gingerly alighting on the tips of toes or carefully prancing about a bed of stinging nettles – these boots were made for walking, offering protection up to and encasing the calves. Fortified and armored by leather and studs, the sureness of my footfalls lends a confidence and, yes, a swagger that others may have attributed to the image and idea that preceded my expected appearance anywhere. Only now did I feel it myself, emanating from within for the first time, when it had only ever been on the outside. What utter and laughable irony that such internal validation should come about from putting on a pair of cowboy boots – and how utterly fitting it is at the same time. My life – my worth – dictated and divined by a pair of shoes.
Cowboys they are ladies men all right they’ll love ’em up and talk ’em up all night But they’re lonely when there’s nothing else to do And that’s what makes the cowboys sing the blues He does a little Shakespeare and he sings, he plays the mandolin and other things
He looks for love beauty and IQ and that’s what makes the cowboy sing the blues Cowboys have to fall in love get hurt and all that bit Let their hearts hang out so they can write you all a hit So ladies if they ask you don’t refuse let’s all help the cowboys sing the blues
Cowboys they don’t ever understand this thing between a woman and a man Until they find the one they always lose That’s what makes the cowboys sing the blues A cowboy takes his lonely pen in hand and tries to make somebody understand
But she has ears to hear a different tune And that’s what makes the cowboy sing the blues Cowboys have to fall in love… Let’s all help the cowboys sing the blues
‘If you remember one thing from my story let it be this: in life – and in love – nobody falls harder than a cowboy.’
Never thought I’d be embracing the Country-Western vibe that is set to embody this fall season of ALANILAGAN.com, but sometimes we become that which we resist the most. There’s a lesson hidden somewhere here, a lesson that may or may not become more clear as the season progresses – for now, I’m learning what it means to be a modern-day cowboy, and at the moment it feels closer to my heart than sequins or feathers. There’s a story here too – probably several, as stories tend to beget more stories – and I’m going to take my time telling it. Fall is always longer than we think it will be.
I spied a poor cowboy wrapped up in white linen Wrapped up in white linen as cold as the clay “I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy” These words he did speak as I boldly stepped by “Come sit down beside me and hear my sad fortune I was shot in the breast and I know I must die.”
What is a cowboy? A cowboy is a vision. A cowboy is a fashion. A cowboy is a fusion. A cowboy is a herder – of cattle, of people, of thoughts, of ideas… A cowboy is a rancher – of land, of earth, of imagined mindscapes… A cowboy is a poker and prodder – of cows, of friends, of lovers, of strangers… A cowboy is a dreamer – of dreams, of hopes, of tomorrows… A cowboy gets up to ride again, no matter how many times he was rode hard and put away wet.
Go beat the drum slowly, and play the fife lowly Play the death march as you carry me along Take me to the graveyard then lay the sod over me For I’m a young cowboy and I know I’ve done wrong
Shattering what we’ve been led to believe, the real heart of this country – America, in whatever broken sense or state we find ourselves in right now – is a fierce independence, a willingness to go it alone, the way the founders of our country broke off from England all those centuries ago – and a fierceness at odds with the current administration which wants the dumb and stupid sheep to do as they say without questioning or wondering at basic easily-discerned truths.
The real essence of America is freedom and the right to live as authentically as we feel. Forget the flag-waving skewered views bent and misshapen to a white nationalism and Christian cult that wants nothing more than to destroy and hate anyone remotely different. The real American embraces our differences, celebrates everyone’s right to live out their lives as they so choose, and offers grace and acceptance to those in need. That dovetails with the basic tenets of a cowboy, whose philosophy has largely been to live and let live. There’s nothing more American than a cowboy – and a cowboy won’t mind any of your business so long as you don’t mind his.
Go gather around you a crowd of young cowboys And tell them the story of this my sad fate Tell one and the other before you go further To stop their wild roving before it’s too late
At his heart, a cowboy is a loner and a rebel, Pee-Wee Herman style. He sets his own beat, dances his own dance (Tequila!) and lives his own life. If he’s invited you to be part of it in any way, that’s a rare and precious gift, one that shouldn’t be squandered or scoffed at – and one that will likely not come many times in his life. And just because you’ve been included once doesn’t mean you will be again. A cowboy reserves the right to withdraw at any time, and will often do so. Being left out of their circle once you’ve been in can feel like a harsh exacting of a price you never realized existed, a bit of heartbreak you never knew you were inflicting.
It was once in the saddle I used to go dashing It was once in the saddle I used to go gay First to the dramhouse and then to the cardhouse Got shot in the breast, I am dying today
A cowboy is not sentimental; a cowboy is not without heart. A cowboy is a conundrum, but not a problem to be solved. A cowboy is his own torture. A cowboy is his own salvation. A cowboy is his own worst enemy. A cowboy always slays his worst enemy.
The cardinal rule for all cowboys was simply to never fall in love. Falling in love posed the greatest threat to the existence of a cowboy. There would always be temptations to do so, but a true cowboy understands that this is their biggest choice in life – this is what makes them a cowboy – and it’s what separates them out from the others. Fierce and ferocious independence.
Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin Get six pretty maidens to bear up my pall Put bunches of roses all over my coffin Put roses to deaden the clods when they fall
Go bring me a cup, a cup of cold water To cool my parched lips, ” the cowboy said Before I turned, the spirit had left him And gone to its giver, the cowboy was dead
The essence of a cowboy is in his solitude. They need their alone time. They cannot afford to get attached. They cannot become co-dependent. Solitude is integral to how they make their way in the world. It is the key to their survival, and to fall in love would be to risk that essential solitude.
A cowboy is an attitude. A cowboy is a rebel. A cowboy is a creature beholden only to himself. A cowboy makes his own rules and abides only to the cowboy code. A cowboy makes his own way while longing for something he knows he will never find – and that doesn’t mean he won’t try.
We beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly And bitterly wept as we bore him along For we all loved our cowboy, so brave, young, and handsome We all loved our cowboy although he’d done wrong
All this being said, sometimes life doesn’t always follow the tried and true path that we all think we know so well. And some cowboys did fall, and made perfectly happy situations for themselves by living with someone else and not going it completely alone, but they were never quite full-fledged cowboys after that, were they? More often, some fell and found themselves in perfectly unhappy situations, cowboys being largely disagreeable to bending for others. But if there’s one thing you take away from this entire fall of the cowboy, I ask that you remember this, especially when you are feeling ungenerous, unkind or unmerciful in your estimation of anyone else’s unhappy ending: in life – and in love – no one falls harder than a cowboy.
The FALL of the COWBOY: Autumn 2026 at ALANILAGAN.com
