Gary P. Nunn is a singer/songwriter in Austin and for a brief period, a few years back, I played some gigs with him on the road. I abandoned a temporarily inert blues career for the most logical alternative: Country and Western music! Not the first time I've made such a drastic move. - Or the last. The last time was with Junior Brown. I think that cured me for good.

Back then I would classify Gary P. Nunn as more of a Suburban and Western - Outlaw - Cowboy - Shit Kicking - Existentialist. What the hell did I know? Whatever it was, it wasn't blues. It was OK though. Gary was more of a rocker than a straight up and down country picker. More important, it was a paying gig that didn't suck. - The Musician's Holy Grail.

In your more traditional, "Honky-Tonk" type Country music, there's not a whole lot for the drummer to do but go "clipity - clop" most of the night with an occasional Chuck Berry groove thrown in to break up the monotony. Don't get me wrong. I do like to listen to country music. Not today's Country Music of course! God no! Today's Country Music is, to borrow a Fort Worth phrase: "All hat and no cattle!" It's these guys in their dusters, looking like they're wearing a leather shower curtain, running from one side of the stage to the other, singing into their little Burger King microphones. Well, I just don't know. I like my country music with lots of tragedy and heartbreak mixed with alcohol and diesel fuel and sung by stringy looking people with big ears and funny hair. Which brings me to the night Gary P. and the band played a show up in Big Lake Texas.

At first glance, things seemed peaceful enough when we arrived at the festival in Big Lake : One big outdoor stage with lots of bands, people dancing, a big crowd of music lovers sprawled out on the ground with campfires, beer coolers, fire works and motorcycles. Ya-hoo! But after a while it was obvious that a lot of these folks seen lumbering through the crowd, speaking in tongues and tripping over dirt, had been out there all day in the sun, consuming large quantities of alcohol, recreational drugs, prairie dust and sausage wraps. - A volatile blend. And now, around 10 o'clock at night, this zombie jamboree was starting to get its second wind.

My personal opinion is that it's just not a proper Country and Western venue without at least one fight. I realize that I'm falling back on stereotypical clichés but hey, that's my style. It doesn't even have to be a good fight. - Just the right amount of friction to activate some ol' boy's John Wayne gland enough for him to start marking his territory. That's all I ask. But that night in Big Lake , things got a little out of hand.

I don't really know how it started. With cowboys it's hard to tell where the dancing stops and the fighting starts. Things just seemed to turn mean and when a few of these boys cranked up their Harley's and rode them through the campfires at forty miles an hour, well; we knew our little show up there on the stage was pretty much over with.

All of a sudden, we were the audience and they were the show! Amid a shower of sparks, with flaming logs, beer bottles and a few volunteer security guards flying through the air, clumps of crazed cowboys punched, yelled and wrestled around on the ground having the biggest time. Then, in split second precision, this thundering herd changed direction and headed straight for the stage!

It wasn't like they were coming after us. This angry mob didn't suddenly look up and see the band cowering on stage, wave their flaming torches and cry out, "The monsters must be destroyed!" No, these town folk forgot all about us as soon as the punches started flying. I think it had more to do with the ground slanting down a bit there in our direction and the mob was just carried along on the path of least resistance.

Now this was no little roadhouse, beer joint. This was a big, professional, outdoor stage with banks of lights and towers of large, heavy speakers standing fifteen feet high on each side. And this swarming redneck juggernaut hit it full force. The towers began to teeter, the microphones went dead, then lights, speakers, bodies, blood, teeth, hair and Skole rained down in biblical proportions.

The Soundman, a friendly little hippie looking guy with long hair and a mustache, suffered a complete emotional breakdown while trying to save his equipment. Pulling a shotgun out of one of his many crates and boxes, he waved it around, screaming hysterically for everyone to get back and keep away from his stuff. The mob ignored him. - Ignored a guy waving a shotgun! He finally got one bearded, bleary-eyed biker's attention. The biker walked right up to him, grabbed the gun barrel, took the gun away and began beating the soundman over the head with it. These people weren't normal.

I've always maintained that people in Show Business can be easily divided into two distinct categories: Talent and Production. That's it. You're either one or the other. Everyone else pays to get in. And as far as the band was concerned, this was a Production Problem. So, we got the hell off the stage and back to the relative security of our trailer/dressing room combo where, as the faint pop of small arms fire from assorted hand guns wafted in on the dry, west Texas wind, the band plotted it's next move. The big question was: Do we save our collective ass's by hauling them out of there immediately or do we to stick around, hoping to get paid?

The majority vote, myself included, was, "Let's get the hell out of here now, man!" The bass player was practically in tears. But this is where Gary P.'s experience and natural leadership prevailed. Gary P. had been in these situations before. Hell, he was raised around these people. "Aw, come on, fellas." He drawled. "What's tha rush?

These boys are just blowin' off a little steam, that's all! Things-'ll quiet down after a while. Just try and stay low and keep away from them windows." Gary P. was not leaving empty handed. Taking full advantage of the vast quantities of beer and whiskey on the premises, we numbed our frayed, artistic nerves until the show's promoter showed up with a small army of security guards. The whole bunch looked as if they'd just crawled out of a car wreck. Bruised, beaten, covered with dirt, the promoter held a bloodstained towel against the side of his face with both hands, apparently trying to keep an eyeball from falling out. "We got your money, Gary !" He shouted with an urgent, semi-hysterical tone. "I sure appreciate you be'n on the show, buddy!"

"Well, you know." Gary P. mumbled humbly.

"You boys are welcome back any time! " The promoter assured us. "Make sure Gary gets all his money." He instructed a nearby assistant. Then, like the super hero that he had become to us all that night and with his crack security force leading the way, the promoter, once again, charged out into that enthusiastic horde of ornery shit kickers.

"Later, Gary !" We heard him call as he disappeared into the night. "I gotta find my dog!"

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