Bovine Serenade
by Bessie The Cow
Chapter 9: A Cow Writer Cowriter
You probably didn't know that robotic bovines have creative impulses, that we're hard-wired for artistic interplay with others. But we are.
Behind my placid facade, I can think, I can feel, and I can display emotions just like any other sentient being. And on this Indian Summer day in 1982, I was doing all of them at once. My robotic brain was pondering everything that could possibly go wrong if we moved away from a town which had been embracing us to a city quite capable of erasing us. The long-playing loop simply would not quit.
I attempted to drown out these unwelcome thought-forms by repeatedly listening to one of Kinn's mix tapes—you'll recall he had my "stall" outfitted with a radio, a reel-to-reel tape recorder, and a TV "set" although like all of them it was singular not plural. This particular reel boasted three-plus hours of Rodgers and Hammerstein show tunes—apparently they were the hottest songwriting duo before Lennon and McCartney came along. Playing me show tunes was Kinn's latest kick to "expand my mind." The optimistic fare included tracks like "Happy Talk" from the "smash musical," South Pacific. Kinn told me he'd seen it when he was growing up on a school outing to Broadway. Apparently suburban schools around New York City took their students on regular trips to Broadway matinees and events like Leonard Bernstein conducting "Young Persons Concerts" at Lincoln Center. Growing up close to Manhattan (New York, not Kansas) Kinn and Silva had been exposed to a lot of "cull-cha." Silva's dad was concert pianist Vladimir Horowitz' accountant.
I made a valiant effort to replace the neurotic mental chatter I was experiencing with the suggested "happy talk." Maybe that worked for natives on an island like Bali Hai in the South Seas. I'd like to report that that it worked equally for a cow in the mountains of Colorado. Sadly, it didn't.
I yearned for some sort of constructive diversion, something completely new and different, something novel which would hopefully restore the sense of contentment that I felt before any talk of a move came up.
Would it surprise you—someone who's just digested eight chapters of a first-bovine account—to learn that the constructive diversions I turned to was songwriting? I kid you not. And it had the desired effect!
I figured if deeply flawed humans could do it, why couldn't a cow who hadn't been around long enough to become deeply flawed do it?
It didn't come easy. That was good, because it took all of my attention, and taking all of my attention took all of my attention away from what I wanted to take all of my attention away from.
It would be a massive understatement to say that Kinn's reaction to my first shot at the art of songcraft was somewhat south of "blown away." That one, the autobiographical "Robotic Bovine," juggled issues like how it felt being the only talking cow in show business, dealing with the mind-deadening demands of life on the road, and the sense of helplessness I experience knowing I'm essentially powerless to control my own destiny.
Looking back on it, it may have been a tad too existential for commercial release. In fact private shredding might have been a more appropriate outcome for it rather than releasing it for public dissemination as my editors have insisted I do. I suppose I can see their point: these are the only lyrics ever written about a robotic bovine by a robotic bovine.
Don't say I didn't warn you!
robotic bovine
never been kissed
feel like I'm workin' in a coal mine
will I ever find my bliss
robotic bovine
always on the road
somewhere above the snowline
far from my beloved adobe abode
robotic bovine
I've been bought and sold
quixotic grapevine
not being able to move is really getting old
All right, all right, it'll never be mistaken for Wordsworth or Keats. And I wasn't exactly 100% confident that our, ahem, erudite fans could wrap their heads around a choice adjective like "quixotic." On the bright side, it was satisfying to come up with actual rhymes which fit neatly into actual verses. Not only that, I'd managed to knead them into a reasonably coherent whole, albeit a whole which took a somewhat wayward form—it consisted of three verses and zero choruses. It also lacked customary refinements like a beginning and an end. But, hey, you gotta start somewhere. Were Rodgers and Hammerstein's first efforts any better? Who knew? But at least I'd stopped overthinking the ramifications of transplanting our dairy ensemble to the west coast. For a moment there I felt the emotion known as "relief."
I will now recount my effort to run my maiden creation, "Robotic Bovine" by Bessie the Cow, past the great and powerful Kinn Konn, a wordsmith widely considered to be—at least for the time being—more advanced than me.
The next time said benefactor dropped by the old feed lot, I was grazing all by my lonesome in the expansive concrete and steel barn otherwise known as our warehouse rehearsal space. He reeked of weed and other aromas acquired from his most recent bout of debauchery. Nevertheless there was no time like the present to spring it on him.
"You won't believe what I just came up with."
"Umm ... a petition to ban veal houses in the state of Colorado?"
"Er, no. I haven't gotten around to that yet. Think again."
"Uh, something for our show, perhaps?"
"You're getting warmer."
"An idea for another costume change? More elaborate milking apparatus? Milkmaid go go dancers in miniskirts and cages? OK, I give up. Do tell."
"I've composed a bovine serenade."
"Huh? A what? What's it about?"
"Me."
Silence.
Being the huge fan of Mr. Ed and Francis The Talking Mule that he was, I could tell that Kinn was thinking it was going to be awfully hard to compete with a masterpiece like "The Mr. Ed Theme Song:"
A horse is a horse, of course, of course,
And no one can talk to a horse of course
That is, of course, unless the horse is the famous Mr. Ed
Go right to the source and ask the horse
He'll give you the answer that you'll endorse.
He's always on a steady course.
Talk to Mr. Ed
Competing with an quadrupedian delicacy like that was a whole different ballgame than competing with primate fare like, say, "Hey Hey We're The Monkees."
"I see. You've composed a bovine serenade. Not just a song or a tune ... but a serenade. And this ... serenade ... I suppose you're imagining performing it in the show, in addition to reciting 'The Milkmen Intro' and lip-syncing to 'That's Amore?'"
Why, yes, it was my responsibility to introduce the world's hottest new band with a spotlight and all eyes in the house trained on me, and yes, crooning along to "That's Amore" had proven to be a source of unbridled mirth for the hedonistic hordes of drunks and stoners who paid good money to see our shows. Yes, I had been earning my keep, thank you very much! But I could see it might be-hoove me to play the humble card.
"Well ... maybe. You would know better than me whether it's ready for prime time. But I'm ready to take the wraps off it. It goes a little something like this ..."
I cleared my throat. Then, in the husky baritone that passes for my singing voice, I issued forth a plaintive melody emanating from my four diaphragms, which, limited range and all, successfully conveyed the level of angst I regularly experienced in my unique life situation. The dramatic tension didn't take long to build; being new on the planet, it hadn't crossed my mind that most songs break the 46 seconds barrier.
Nervously, I awaited Kinn’s reaction. And waited. And waited some more. Something told me he wasn’t preparing a series of gushing testimonials or laudatory blurbs.
“Well, Bessie, I'm not sure I've ever heard an original bovine serenade before."
He sounded a little miffed.
"There's a lot there to take in there. Frankly, I'm thunderstruck that your original specification includes the advanced functionality to compose verse. I didn't know that Cowman was that accomplished. I also had no idea that you felt so repressed. I'm a little stunned by that. I was under the delusion that you enjoyed your lot in life around the old milk shed.”
“I do enjoy my lot in life around the old milk shed,” I countered, wanting to add, "Or I did before you starting talking about abandoning it" ... but thought better of it.
“Then what's the bit about, what was it, “never have been kissed, never found my bliss?’
Before I could respond, he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I blushed.
“There. You can cross one lament off your list. Then what's with this 'not being able to move is really getting old?' I think that you know perfectly well that I'd like you to be able to move more than just your lips and utters and to be able to dance too ... but I don't recall ever guaranteeing that alterations like that were imminent."
There was more, as in "I didn’t know that touring all over the Front Range in your own classic truck with your name stenciled on the side in a caravan with our vintage milk trucks was so stressful for you.” I'll spare you the rest. Suffice it to say this exchange did not go well. Not at all.
All I knew was that some sort of excess moisture was now accumulating around my big brown eyes. I squinted but couldn't stop drops of condensation from landing on the grey concrete pasture. Thankfully, Kinn missed this display. He'd pivoted away moments before.
Had I thrown in one too many laments? Yeah, I had good reason to be agitated. But perhaps there were better reasons to low-key it. anyway? Don't the Japanese say, "the nail that sticks out has to be hammered down?" I'd heard that saying from Young Tim, who for unknown reasons was obsessed with everything Japanese. If I didn't stick out as much, then maybe these sensitive human types wouldn’t get so bent out of shape by a mascot trying her best to increase productivity. I mean, I was under the impression that our vaunted Silo Of Hits could always use more choice kernels. Productivity and dairy cows go hand in hand, right?
Eventually, Kinn came back around. Apparently he'd been ruminating about our first spat, too.
"Bessie, I 'd like to apologize if I came across as being too critical of your work."
Music to my ears.
"As I'm sure you know, I haven't been around a one-in-a-million bovine like you, one who suddenly decided to take up songwriting out of the blue. Other cows I've been around haven't been anywhere near that ambitious. I had to process this new situation. Upon further reflection, I can see that you were only trying to be a good soldier on our wholly milk campaign."
Thank you! I wanted to blurt out how scared I was about moving to LA which explains why the lyrics went overboard the way they did ... but something told me not to. I'd weigh in on that eventually.
I chose, "I always try to be helpful," instead.
"You definitely are. And, by the way, your line, "somewhere above the snowline, far from my beloved adobe abode," that's kinda poetic."
"It is?"
"Sure it is. It's very poignant. But would it be OK if I made a small suggestion?"
When he put it that way, how could I say no? He was being so respectful. It's nice to be nice to the nice.
"Well, I don't know everything," he continued, "but they say that it's not a bad idea to write about what you know, especially if what you know happens to have some universal appeal."
I was too stubborn to admit that while my brainpower was growing exponentially, I still didn't quite follow what "universal appeal" was.
"What I'm trying to say is that maybe your first attempt at songwriting was a bit too personal. Your innermost feelings are important to you, but other people, sorry, I meant other beings, can only relate to them if they have similar feelings. They may be more interested in what you know about the lives of milkmen and dairy cows. Why, you ask?"
He continued before I could.
"Because it's not uncommon for city dwellers to fantasize about trading overcrowded conditions, traffic and popllution for living the dairy dream on idyllic, picture-postcard farms in Vermont or Wisconsin. Getting back to the country is a common human yearning which just oozes universal appeal. Are you following me?"
Aha! While living the dairy dream on idyllic, picture postcard farms sounded suspiciously like Kinn's own fantasy as opposed to a "common human yearning," from a songwriting standpoint, not only was he making perfect sense, but I instantly seized upon the word "making" as being part of a catchy three-word-phrase which encapsulated the very form of escapism Kinn loved promoting.
He'd summed up the whole Milkmen ethos with "Late Night Delivery," our theme song based around a three-word milking phrase of his own devising. Now I was prepared to double down on the same vision: that three-word phrase which may as well have been spelled out in huge puffy skywriting letters was "Making The Rounds"—and I was already sketching it out in my mind.
"I see the light. Thanks for sharing. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do."
"Oh." He seemed surprised that I actually listened to him. I've noticed that humans tend to tune each other out a lot.
Then he added encouragingly, "OK, Bessie. Have at it!"
Then I got busy squirting copious amounts of verbiage into virtual milk pails. When "the cream rose to the top," what I'd condensed it all down to was:
this life we lead gives us all we need
who could prefer any other
work all morning and our daytime's freed
to confer with a stay-home mother
we're making the rounds
we're making the rounds
we're making the rounds
making the rounds
bell cow Bessie's by the wishing well
with the prize blue-ribbon females
bovine royalty those Guernsey belles
eagerly waiting for the milk pails
we're making the rounds
we're making the rounds
we're making the rounds
making the rounds
hurry homeward boys I’ll lead the way
hoping all of you will join us
halfway home we find a shady lane
where we keep all our appointments
we're making the rounds
we're making the rounds
we're making the rounds
making the rounds
This time I included choruses, four of them to be exact, or one for each of my stomachs. I couldn't resist insinuating myself into the second stanza, elevating my status to a "prize blue ribbon female," who was "bovine royalty," no less. And I can only wish I had the wisdom of a bell cow. What I did have was poetic license. So I left it all in.
To gain Kinn's approval, I'd snuck in some subtle references to animal husbandry like my human counterparts often do when penning rock anthems intended for pheromone-laced crowds. I'm talking about lines like "to confer with a stay home mother," which is subtle, as opposed to, say, "to rear mount the first available heifer," which isn't. I was making progress. My second song and I'd already grasped shades of subtle.
I felt like I'd tapped into the same motherlode of milk mythology that makes "Late Night Delivery" so compelling. And if one theme song is good, aren't two theme songs one better? I was bullish that "Making The Rounds" would have the desired effect on Kinn.
Wouldn't you know it, the main milkman just happened to come back around carrying some paint buckets and brushes to touch me up before our next performance, slated to take place before a packed, screaming house at The Boulder Theater. In hind-legs-sight, that would be the last one I'd ever see in Colorado. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
"How's the songwriting coming along, Bessie?"
"The first one was 2%. This one's whole milk," I offered matter-of-factly, avoiding the temptation to sound smug. It was important to dial in just the right amount of sassiness.
"Oh? You finished a new song already? That's quick work! What's it called?"
"Making The Rounds."
"Great title. Lures me right in."
He was humoring me—although I also detected an undercurrent of genuine curiosity.
"Thanks. Wanna hear it?"
"Yeah! Who doesn't love a good milking song?"
I dared not answer that. Somehow or other, other bands had conspired to "make it" with no milking schtick whatsoever. No need to bring that up now.
And then I was imitating the cocky inflections I'd heard from my milk mates, pouring my heart and soul into my paean to the symbiotic relationship which surely exists between mankind and cowkind, even if it's just in a utopian barnyard of the mind.
This time, Kinn's foot began tapping along. That's always a good sign. A flabbergasted look came over his face as I hammed it up through all the assembled verses and choruses, then took things up a notch to finish with a flourish like all those trained singers I'd heard belting out show tunes like "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out Of My Hair" in big time musicals like South Pacific, Oklahoma, and Show Boat.
Spent, I awaited judgment from on high.
"Well, what do you think?" I queried nervously, after one wasn't pronounced swiftly enough for my liking.
At least he wasn't making strange faces.
Finally, he ruled: "That's way more like it—now that's a tune we can use!"
Apparently there was a God.
"Only thing is ... it's missing one element."
Like what could that possibly be?
"You really nailed the verses and the choruses. I wouldn't change a thing with them. And most songwriters would stop right there. But the best songwriters just might add what's called a "bridge," a different musical place the song detours to before it returns to the established verses and choruses. Hang on a second and I'll show you."
Kinn went off to fetch his acoustic guitar, a beat up sunburst Guild, which had been an army base guitar in its previous incarnation. The base name, "Ft. Carson," was carved into its lower bout with a pen knife. Various soldiers' rank and last names were Magic-Markered all over the body. I knew that guitar well from all the times Kinn came around to serenade me and tell me that I was his "best girl." He was well aware that sometimes being a herd of one gets awful lonely .
Now he was back, guitar in hand, his fingers exploring various positions up and down its grooved and gouged neck. He hummed along to himself as he tried out this and that. Before I knew it, he'd figured out an accompaniment for the simple singsong melody I'd conjured up.
Satisfied and rolling right along, he asked: "Would it be all right if I take a crack at the bridge?
"Knock yourself out, buddy," I assented.
Hey, when it comes to collaboration, I'm all in. What are friends and band mates for? I imagined this was how Kinn and Silva spent a good portion of their time. Perhaps you've noticed that I don't talk much about Silva? That's because he never came around, never fussed over me, and never helped Kinn take care of me. I don't think that pyscho bitch from hell Xtine would have liked it much if he did. But that's another story. Anyhow, Kinn was having at the bridge with singular focus. I wish I could say that I had infinite patience for his bridge building. Or that I adored him so much that I would docilely wait forever for the perfect part. Maybe it's a personality flaw, but sometimes I just want what I want when I want it (like a good milking, for instance) and a lot of the time, I want it like right now.
"Come on superstar. Let's moo-ve things along now (I reverted to my cow voice for the moo)."
"All right, all right, hold your horses ... I think I've got it. Try this:"
and we go on our way
happily through the day
and we love what we do
and we're all in the crew
I quite liked that one-for-all, all-for-one thing he hit upon.
"C'mon Bessie, sing it along with me. One, two, three, four ..."
Then we were raising our voices in song. As excited as I was, I might have gotten a little overenthusiastic, going for a few notes outside my normal range.
"You stay on the note Bessie, let me sing the harmony."
Aha. Much better. Then we were locked in.
Basking in our brilliance, we reprised the full version till man and cow were horse, er hoarse. Artistic collaboration was utterly exhilarating! That glorious day I became the world's first cow writer co-writer has to go down as one of the best days of my life. Darker days lay ahead.
You probably didn't know that robotic bovines have creative impulses, that we're hard-wired for artistic interplay with others. But we are.
Chapter 1: Dashing Dairymen
Chapter 2: Rick Plays The Snare Drum With His Head
Chapter 3: Tim Takes The Stage
Chapter 4: Meet Mr. Watts
Chapter 5: We Open For Missing Persons
Chapter 6: Conquering Colorado
Chapter 7: Ric Sees His Successor
Chapter 8: Westward Ho!
Chapter 9: A Cow Writer Co-Writer
Chapter 10: Welcome To LA
Chapter 11: Madame Wong's or How Quickly They Forget