Thursday, March 10, 2005
Brush with Greatness----------Chris Ledoux
An occasional series.
This is a sad brush, y'all. Chris Ledoux, singer, songwriter, cowboy, died Wednesday.
In Texas, I did a phone interview with him to advance a concert in Wichita Falls. We talked about rodeoin', cowboyin' and singin' and such. We talked about his ranch in Kaycee, Wyo., and his music publishing company in Nashville.
Somehow or another I wound up talking briefly with his mama, who, I think, was at her house in Nashville.
But the real brush was the one that never actually happened -- and it's a regret of mine to this day. Especially today, the day after Chris Ledoux's cowboy music died.
Back in the '90s, with no Dr. ER or Bird around, when I was in my 20s and runnin' wild, I fancied myself a songwriter. Still do, in fact, just in remission.
Spent days bein' a newspaperman and nights hangin' out with one or two friends, mainly the Ronimal, and drinkin' and pickin' and plunkin' and strummin' on guitars and drinkin' and pennin' lyrics and drinkin' and smokin' ... cigarettes.
At the end of my interview, I told Mr. Ledoux about my humble endeavors, and he invited me to send him a song or two on a tape.
"Where to?" I asked. "Just put my name on it and send it to Kaycee, Wyoming," he said, or something like that.
I never did, and I could not tell you why. None of my songs were rodeo songs, per se -- oh, wait, I do have one about a barrel racer I thought I was gonna marry in college -- but some of them were close enough that he might've considered 'em.
Or, he had Garth Brooks' ear. Who knows what might've been?
An actual true faint, slight, but so potentially great Brush with Greatness.
--ER
This is a sad brush, y'all. Chris Ledoux, singer, songwriter, cowboy, died Wednesday.
In Texas, I did a phone interview with him to advance a concert in Wichita Falls. We talked about rodeoin', cowboyin' and singin' and such. We talked about his ranch in Kaycee, Wyo., and his music publishing company in Nashville.
Somehow or another I wound up talking briefly with his mama, who, I think, was at her house in Nashville.
But the real brush was the one that never actually happened -- and it's a regret of mine to this day. Especially today, the day after Chris Ledoux's cowboy music died.
Back in the '90s, with no Dr. ER or Bird around, when I was in my 20s and runnin' wild, I fancied myself a songwriter. Still do, in fact, just in remission.
Spent days bein' a newspaperman and nights hangin' out with one or two friends, mainly the Ronimal, and drinkin' and pickin' and plunkin' and strummin' on guitars and drinkin' and pennin' lyrics and drinkin' and smokin' ... cigarettes.
At the end of my interview, I told Mr. Ledoux about my humble endeavors, and he invited me to send him a song or two on a tape.
"Where to?" I asked. "Just put my name on it and send it to Kaycee, Wyoming," he said, or something like that.
I never did, and I could not tell you why. None of my songs were rodeo songs, per se -- oh, wait, I do have one about a barrel racer I thought I was gonna marry in college -- but some of them were close enough that he might've considered 'em.
Or, he had Garth Brooks' ear. Who knows what might've been?
An actual true faint, slight, but so potentially great Brush with Greatness.
--ER
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It is a very sad day, losing Chris. I challenge you, though, to take that next step with your own music. Write a song and send it to someone. One thing worse than losing an artist like Chris Ledoux would be not knowing E.R., the artist.
P.S., just read a fun section of "Art and Soul" by Pam Grout, the book I've been raving about all week. This short chapter was about a guy and girl who wrote a country song called "Shoot-Out at the I'm OK, You're OK Corral."
I could tell that it was more than just a simple lover's spat
When she called me compulsive and blamed my mom for that.
I yelled, "I'm not the only one with hang-ups, gal"
And thus began the shoot-out at the I'm OK, You're OK Corral."The rest of the song is them hurling insults at each other that they've picked up from self-help books.
"You've got the Peter Pan syndrom. You never grew up!"
"Look who's talking -- The Woman Who Loves Too Much!"
I could tell she was going to fight me nail and tooth
When she brought up Dear Abby and Dr. Ruth.
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I could tell that it was more than just a simple lover's spat
When she called me compulsive and blamed my mom for that.
I yelled, "I'm not the only one with hang-ups, gal"
And thus began the shoot-out at the I'm OK, You're OK Corral."The rest of the song is them hurling insults at each other that they've picked up from self-help books.
"You've got the Peter Pan syndrom. You never grew up!"
"Look who's talking -- The Woman Who Loves Too Much!"
I could tell she was going to fight me nail and tooth
When she brought up Dear Abby and Dr. Ruth.
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