Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

Leggo My Ego: Meeting a Musical Hero

By Bob Wire, 9-09-08

	If you don't own this album, we can't be friends.

I’ve been a big fan of the BoDeans since I first heard their debut album, Love & Hope & Sex & Dreams, in 1986, and I was one of the screaming, dancing maniacs who went to their show at the Other Side last month. Barb has also come to love their rootsy, harmony-laden music over the years, and when my buddy Tom laid a couple of tickets on me (thanks, Tom—the check’s in my mouth!), I was given the opportunity to present Barb with an unforgettable birthday gift. (Much like Joe Nickell’s recent birthday gift from his wife, only without the drive to Seattle and the terrifying medical scare in the middle of a huge crowd.)

We secured a babysitter and waited for an hour outside the front door of the club, hoping to snag a good table. Hell, any table. At my age I no longer have the stamina to stand in front of a stage all night, jumping up and down. (For some reason I have no problem doing that ONstage.) Give me a table with a sight line to the stage, and a persistent cocktail waitress, and I’m good.

So we scored a great table front and center, and were soon joined by some friends and a round of PBR tall boys. Russ Nassett opened the show with a solo set of honky tonk covers and a few sterling originals. Russ told me the promoter had called him just that afternoon, but he agreed to do the gig. “Hey,” I told him after his set, “beats sitting at home watching TV, huh?”

“Actually, there were a couple programs on tonight I wouldn’t mind seein’,” he laughed. But I could tell he was pumped from the enthusiastic applause he’d received from the exuberant crowd.

While we chatted and swilled beer, waiting for the headliners to come on, I told Barb I was going to take my sunglasses out to the truck. She asked me if I’d take her purse too. Now, I had to take pause here. I agreed to do it, but I told her to consider this a part of her birthday present. A big part. And I’d be expecting some action later.

So I tucked the purse up under my arm like a football, put my head down and strode to the door. Made it. I walked past the gleaming black tour bus, and there, smoking a cigarette and talking with a couple of locals, stood Sammy Llanas, one of the two creative linchpins of the BoDeans. I caught his eye as I passed him, and gave him a wink. He exhaled a plume of smoke and narrowed his eyes. What the hell’s his problem, I wondered as I stowed Barb’s purse in the truck.

Never one to pass up an opportunity for self-promotion, I grabbed one of my CD’s from the glove box, locked the door and walked back to the tour bus. “Sammy?” I said, interrupting the conversation. He looked at me with undisguised apprehension.

“Yeah…?”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if I could lay some local music on you.” I proffered the copy of Sentimental Breakdown, and he recoiled like I was handing him a live grenade. He held both hands up and actually took a step back, like a man who was trying to avoid being served a subpoena.

“You know what? I just don’t do that anymore. Some guy tried to say that we stole one of his songs, so I just don’t even deal with it anymore.” He shook his head, and it was clear that I’d been dismissed. I get it, I thought. You’re the rock star, and I’m just a nobody. A nobody who’s bought every single one of your records. Even the one with the fucking drum machine. I told him to have a good show, and thanked him for coming to Missoula. He lifted his chin and gave me a disdainful glare, and went back on the bus.

Now, to be fair, I suppose the band was disappointed at having their show moved from the spacious University Theatre to the more intimate confines of the Other Side. Ticket sales had been lackluster, and any band will tell you it’s more fun to play for a packed nightclub than a large hall with a lot of empty seats. But hey, man, if you’re angry at the people who didn’t show up, don’t take it out on the people who did!

Disillusioned, I went back inside, nursing the sharp pain of a bruised ego. My brief encounter with Sammy had left a bad taste in my mouth (or was it the PBR?), but I gamely joined in the applause a few minutes later when the band took the stage. When everyone at our table rushed the stage as the first song began, I sat there sipping my beer and nodding along to the beat. I took perverse pleasure in the fact that Sammy’s once-black mane had gone mostly gray. He and Kurt Neumann, the other guitarist/singer, didn’t so much as crack a smile as they led the band through a workmanlike set of old favorites and cuts off the new album, Still. I wrestled with my pride, trying to salvage a good attitude out of Sammy’s rejection.

And suddenly, when Kurt began plucking the opening notes of “Still the Night,” all was forgiven. I joined Barb on the dance floor, and we both sang along at full voice to what has become Our Song. We occasionally sing it together at parties, and the kids have been known to join in for a spirited version with us around the campfire. It’s from that charming first album, which is widely considered to be one of the finest debut albums by any American band.

So we sang and danced and let ourselves get swept away by the power and emotion of this perfect little song. I looked up to the stage and there was Sammy, strumming along and singing the same harmony I was, and he was looking right at me.

And he was smiling.

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