Bovine Serenade
by Bessie the Cow
Chapter 5: Conquering Colorado
Not too many people know that robotic bovines aren’t always docile, passive agrarian beasts and that we stick up for our fellows less fortunate than us. But we do.
The Northern Hotel grand re-opening gig in Ft. Collins was memorable for three reasons: 1) we played the sound check of the century; 2) the hands of fate thrust one Victor Levine, who would later (mis)manage us in LA, into the midst of our regional conquests; and 3) I experienced the most gut-wrenching experience of my life, one that was a huge factor in my decision to become a spokesbovine for animal rights.
Trying to squeeze in a sound check with the first few concertgoers straggling in for the Missing Persons concert had been unnerving enough. But that was nothing compared to what we had to contend with this time around. A tragicomic flat tire misadventure on US 287 put us behind the eight ball, two hours late for the gig. When we finally inched our way to Ft. Collins and found ourselves in an ornate old-time cocktail lounge, we had to set up right in front of a sloshed working crowd deep into its Friday afternoon Happy Hour. Sweaty, grumpy, dehydrated from the ordeal, still in our street clothes, we scrambled to fetch our gear and our increasingly elaborate stage set from our cube van and somehow get it all set up at the speed of light. I was getting the sneaking suspicion that the bar patrons thought they were going to get a full show as opposed to an abbreviated sound check. It was hard to see how they could think that, seeing as how we didn't exactly arrive there when we were supposed to, two hours earlier, when no one would have been there and there wouldn't have been any confusion.
These cross-purposes had the makings of a really ugly scene.
Out of uniform, out of tune, before any sound tweaking whatsoever, the place went nuts from the moment Young Tim attacked his kit. Even though everyone in the band was supposed to wait patiently for Warren the soundman to tweeak their individual instruments, no one could resist joining in. Clearly the packed, screaming house was demanding a full show then and there! The place went beserk when we gave it to them. One medley of "Chomp, Chomp, Chomp" into "Molybdenum Bop" later, here was no way that crowd was gonna let us get off the stage. Then we went from feeling put out to matching the crowd's enthusiasm.
Things were plenty raucous even before I was liberated me from the equipment van and wheeled into place. Whoa, Nellie! It was like a phantasmagoric scene from a movie—and that movie was The Ten Commandments. The scene was the wild pagan party scene in which the Israelites abandon God and start worshipping around The Golden Calf. In the inebriated minds of our audience, I was The Golden Calf.
The sound check at the Northern Hotel was one of the craziest and best gigs we ever played, a moment in time and space that went completely our way. In fact, in a show-biz first, the improvised sound check set during Happy Hour went over way better than the regularly scheduled “show” later that same night! The show crowd, consisting of various local dignitaries, Chamber of Commerce members, and sponsors who had purchased expensive tickets, was sparser and way more sedate than the sloshed blue-collar crowd. In a footnote, the spontaneous sound check gig was also the only time The Milkmen ever played out of uniform.
Our competition that night at The Northern was Denver's The Aviators. Although they were popular as The Mile High City’s top avant garde band, as an "opponent," they were several notches down from Missing Persons. Their “lead poet” had a fondness for reciting doggerel whilst twisting various knobs and sliders as he noodled around on an early Moog synthesizer. I might have derived some minor amusement from their arty-farty display if they weren’t a standoffish crew full of stuck-up egomaniacs. Now, I'm not remotely suggesting that we weren't egomaniacs, too—egomaniacs on a much grander scale, it could be said—but at least we were far friendlier egomaniacs not above shows of camaraderie with our fellow artistes before we smoked them as was our wont.
Our exploits stunning the Happy Hour crowd and smoking The Aviators were witnessed by an observer ostensibly representing The Big Time. This human know-it-all was Kinn’s childhood friend, one Victor Levine, who had evidently become a real mover and shaker in the LA recording scene—according to him. Even as we were well on the way to becoming a top regional attraction, raking in some pretty good dough, not to mention enjoying the social perks of our newfound status, Kinn was thinking ahead to to the glorious day we'd fulfill the universe's ultimate plan for us: an unlimited future as a major national if not international, attraction. Why not? Everything seemed possible. Our star and Victor’s star were ascending in parallel paths. Or so it seemed.
A clue to forthcoming events which would ultimately stop our noble Milk Crusade in its tracks was the fact that Kinn and Silva paid Victor’s way from LA to Colorado. At the time, this was attributed to some minor holdup between big paydays for him. Victor was our lone connection to The Big Time. Kinn found it a lot more reassuring to think of him as a conduit to stardom rather than something which at that time he could not identify—a narcissist. Victor was in our ears, telling us was that we were ready for the big time and the big time was ready for us. Maybe we were. But we were still reveling in laying waste to Colorado, so we weren't going to rush off to LA. Not just yet. But the seeds had been planted.
Speaking of seeds and planting, after the gig, Kinn found himself dazzled by a farm girl dressed to the nines for the gala event in a sequined cocktail dress, fishnet tights, and six-inch stiletto heels. Kinn accepted her invitation to spend the night with her on her farm—that is, on one condition.
“Your chaperone is a papier-mâché cow?”
“Why not? Bessie feels calmer when she’s around me after our shows. It helps her unwind.”
“She can come—but she stays in the truck.” I didn't really mind being chauffeured on the flat bed of a 1962 two-tone turquoise and white Chevy Apache Kinn had purchased to show me off to best effect en route to shows. It had the desired effect. I quite liked being stared at by motorists and passersby, not that I was a princess or anything.
“What do you think, Bessie?”
Naturally, I would have preferred going home, but since we were all still on a high after dazzling the townsfolk, I supposed it wouldn't kill me to be a good sport for once. I wasn’t exactly simpatico with the farm slut, though I perfectly understood her role as a human trophy. I grumbled something noncommittal.
“I thought your cow said something.”
“Nah. You must have had one too many.”
Then we were bouncing around the washboard backroads of Ft. Collins till we eventually arrived at the farm. It was a dark, starry night with a new moon. I watched Kinn disappear inside the farmhouse with the wench. Heaven knows what they'd be up to. Dustier, but none the worse for wear, I dug in for the night. I forced myself to think happy thoughts, trying to make best of the situation. I noticed a couple of clouds moving in. Kinn was gonna hear about it if it rained. That was for darn sure.
Maybe there was something about the country air, but I actually slept contentedly until sunrise. No sooner had I opened my eyes than I began moaning and mooing louder and more insistently than I ever have in my life.
Kinn bolted up in bed when he heard me.
“Must be raining. Uh-oh.”
But it wasn’t raining. I was screaming holy terror because I’d woken up to a ghastly landscape befouled with ghostly calves chained miserably inside tiny houses. Veal Houses! Dozens and dozens of them! I’ve never been so repulsed in my life. We were on a veal farm! Oh my god! There were my hobbled brethren, with shackles attached to nose rings, imprisoned inside sunless cages half the size of Port-A-Potties. I freaked out. So much bad information. I could scarcely process it.
I was going to stay hysterical until we were fifty miles away from there. I conveyed that sentiment in no uncertain terms to Kinn, who threw on his clothes, bid adieu to the pert but perfidious Commandant of Veal Auschwitz, then drove me away from the hellscape at breakneck speed.
Any humans low enough to oversee a veal farm should spend a few days ensnared with a chain through their snouts in a claustrophobic hothouse being force-fed human milk. I will not rest until veal houses have vanished from the face of the earth!
I couldn’t speak to Kinn for days after living out this nightmare. Clearly, he needed training to insure that he never prioritized his libidinous desires over animal rights ever again.
Desperately I craved the rush of another big gig to distract me from this sickening shock to my sensibility. As luck would have it, one upcoming event on our calendar promised to go a long way toward accomplishing precisely that.
Not too many people know that robotic bovines aren’t always docile, passive agrarian beasts and that we stick up for our fellows less fortunate than us. But we do.
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