Bovine Serenade
by Bessie The Cow
Chapter 7: Ric Sees His Successor
You probably didn’t know that robotic bovines can hardly wait to make the scene at swinging hot spots. That we want to see and be seen where the action is. But we do.
Big news. We were booked to play FAC—Friday Afternoon Club—at the Harvest House hotel in Boulder. What's FAC? It's Boulder’s weekly Bacchanalia that more and more humans were hearing about, first through word of mouth, then through conventional press in the pre-internet days as magazines like the then hugely popular Newsweek magazine ran provacative reports like, “Where the Hip Come to Trip.” The article noted that crowds upwards of 5,000 "swinging singles" had been regularly descending on the lush riverside acreage where just about any form of debauchery was liable and likely to take place. The grounds and swimming pools of the luxury hotel swelled with nine-to-fivers on the prowl for high-end debauchery. There was also Boulder Creek to slither around in. Think of an alcohol-fueled mini-Woodstock replete with kegs, cocktails, and wieners.
FAC had a well-earned reputation as a pickup scene for CU athletes. Many of these blue-chip studs were Afro-Americans—hence the, shall we say, uh, "charmingly racist" imagined renaming of the luxury hotel from The Harvest House to “The Harlem House.” A collection of prize athletes was sure to be in attendance every week. These ballers were highly desirable targets for CU coeds predisposed to view hooking up with four-star recruits as an essential part of their educations. The interracial aspect only added to the excitement.
It wasn't long before sororities and fraternities added their own flair for inebriation to the festivities. Oh, those Greeks! The typical FAC crowd size quickly surged from the hundreds into the thousands. As the primordial drumbeat spread, non-jock and non-Greek types with a thirst for alcohol, sun, and a little strange began coming around to see what the fuss was all about.
While the upper management in charge of such things may have contented itself with raking in the spoils from providing food and alcohol concessions to over 5,000 hot and sweaty hedonists, the forward-thinking Harlem House marketing department had identified a couple thousand more Boulder Bohemian types that hadn't as yet become regular attendees. Of particular interest were all those Naropa Institute Jewish-Buddhists not to mention all the beat poets and their minions swirling around its sister institute, the "Jack Kerouac School For Disembodied Poets." The common thread between them was living according to a creed established by Naropa's living deity, The Rimpoche (aka "the Rimp"), who had brought it with him when he fled Tibet: "you don't have to give up your material vices to achieve your spiritual goals." While you did have to give up approximately 40,000 American dollars to achieve higher consciousness according to the same precepts ... you could absolutely keep all your finely-honed vices. That philosophy had resonated strongly with all sorts of well-heeled seekers who had descended on the open-minded college town in droves.
Attracting "Naropa Dopers" could mean thousands more party animals making the weekly pilgrimage to FAC. So, just what available musical entity could possibly be engaged with the drawing power to deliver this "enlightened" target demographic? Take a wild guess!
On the historic day we became the first “new wave” (we weren't, but they paid us a lot more if we tolerated the mislabeling) band to play FAC, the state patrol had to be called in. People were so eager to set foot on the Harvest House grounds that they’d think nothing of abandoning their vehicles along Highway 36. Tow trucks were doing brisk business impounding all the vehicles illegally parked in every nook and cranny of the adjacent CU campus. Extra police attempted to direct traffic during and after the event, as the intoxicated hordes staggered shakily back to their vehicles—that is, if they could even remember where they parked them.
That was the backdrop for our first outdoor show. It was also the scene where, as luck would have it, Rick Parnell would meet Young Tim, the successor to his drum throne. The now mythic "exploding drummer" for Spinal Tap was back in Colorado accompanying Beko, wife #2, to meet her parents. They'd met the same fateful night he played the snare drum with his forehead after passing out onstage at the Blue Note after a week existing on pure cocaine and chocolate poison cake. The lovebirds had evidently bonded when she nursed the fallen knight back to health.
We watched the throngs pouring onto the Harvest House grounds from the vantage point of a hospitality suite generously provided and lavishly provisioned by hotel management. Kinn had insisted that the elaborate buffet include a bale of hay for yours truly.
“Why d’ya wanna bale of hay for a robotic bovine?” queried a buffet boy.
“Because she gets hypoglycemic if she doesn’t eat before performing,” Kinn deadpanned. “And may I point out this isn’t alfalfa/ryegrass hay as implicitly specified in our contract. It’s lowly winter wheat hay. So go corral us some a the high-octane grain or we don’t go on!” he bellowed in mock outrage.
The kid actually started running down the hallway to relay the grim news to his manager. Kinn stuck his head out the door and screamed “Just kidding!” He donated a few jays of sensimilla to mellow the poor kid out.
“Five minutes!”
It was way too hot for our Classic Milkman unis, so we opted for the Space Milkman suits. We'd already made a big effort to dress the stage with all the dairy-oriented bric-à-brac in our arsenal. Encountering this level of onstage space-dairy paraphernalia in the light of day was clearly delighting the juiced-up onlookers. They wanted to love us. We hankered for their adoration.
Then I was wheeled into position. Instantly, the collective level of anticipation if not astonishment magnified exponentially and the assembled lifeforms really went beserk. I blushed from all the attention, afraid I might get tongue-tied being venerated as I was in front of such a packed, pulsating throng. Literally thousands of cowcalls were so loud and intense that I could barely breathe. Remembering Kinn's imploration to be "a real trooper" no matter what the humans around me were up to, I regained my equilibrium and got with the program. After all, it was my lot in life to be part of the grand showbiz tradition, so I treated that crowd to the most dramatic rendition of "The Milkmen Intro" any talking cow has ever delivered.
From the first power chords of “Late Night Delivery,” the crowd was ours. The onlookers just weren’t used to hearing impeccably conceived and executed British rock under the inspiring backdrop of Boulder's flatirons. Catering to the Afro-American element, we covered for the first and only time, “It’s Your Thing” by The Isley Brothers with our Kevin "Chocolate Milk" Jackson leading the way on vocals. That really turned up the heat. C-Milk could really connect with people.
If I hadn't shocked them enough with the introduction, what may have been more shocking yet was seeing Young Tim, the Blonde Drum God, adding his live schtick to our tight little ensemble. Certainly no one has ever looked as good behind a drum kit. There were so many tricks with the sticks, an neverending assortment of facial expressions, and just pure star quality that people were just aghast. Kinn and Silva had even whipped up a new song to show off Young Tim’s particular strengths. It was a song about being a drummer cleverly titled, “The Art of Beating on Things,” and it drove the place absolutely nuts.
Kinn sang something like this:
when I was young I learned the art of beating on things
and then when I grew up, I kept repeating my sins
playing my part, showing off the art of beating on things
stay in my heart, don't scoff when I start feeding the din
Needless to say Tim acted out the whole song.
After that, we played a few choice kernels from our renowned "Silo of Hits" that went over really well.
Then it was time to feature Young Tim again.
Perhaps I’ve neglected to mention the fact that Young Tim could also sing. He was an awesome backup singer and quite the natural at singing lead. Having witnessed the, dare I say, "idolatry" spandexed nubiles had for our new acquisition, Kinn and Silva had also penned “Lovestruck Girls” in response.
"Lovestruck girls gave me my reputation," he crooned, "see them always chasing after me. Lovestruck girls all have the expectation ... to lock me up and throw away the key."
That really piqued their interest, albeit that part of the song made him seem a little conceited. But then we got to the kicker, "lovestruck girls if I play with you ... I'm afraid I might get lovestruck, too." Ah. Vulnerability. Now not only did these femmes fatales in training want to fuck him, they wanted to mother him, too. Can you say a star is born? As they say, it takes one to know one!
After a verse and a chorus, any one of 3,000 females could have been his. The Milkmen had achieved the impossible: they were now an even stronger rock outfit despite having lost one of the greatest drummers who ever walked the Earth to cocaine addiction.
And speaking of one of the greatest drummers who ever walked on Earth, there he was with his new paramour, right in front of the stage, witnessing way more than he had any reason to suspect he’d see. The Dick’s jaw was hanging open like everyone else’s. He heard the parts he’d conceived perfectly rendered, with way more going on in the performance department than anyone has thought to include before or after.
The whole sybaritic scene was just about too much. The rain gods saw as much and responded with an absolutely torrential thunderstorm. Then the scene wasn’t so much like a mini-Woodstock, it was a mini-Woodstock with shed clothing and mud baths galore. We had only gotten in our first set, but it had been one for the ages. We retreated to the dryer confines of our hospitality suite. There, the meeting of the minds took place.
I didn’t personally witness it cause I'd been left on the stage pavilion, the better to preserve my papier-mâché flanks. I heard it was a cordial encounter, by all accounts, with both parties somewhat intimidated by the other. This Is Spinal Tap was already out, and Rick's work with us had been hailed pretty fanatically by the local press, so Young Tim was mildly awed at meeting him. Conversely, Rick the Dick was majorly awed by the fantastic flourishes Tim had added to our show, not to mention his added singing prowess.
But wait: another meeting of the minds took place in the crammed hospitality suite that boded well for our future fortunes—the first meeting between our bass player, Kevin "Chocolate Milk" Jackson and vocalists Freddie and Henchi of the Freddie-Henchi Band, the top act in the region until we happened along.
What came out of this encounter is that from this point on, our rivalry with the Freddie-Henchi Band was going to be a friendly one, because while they may not have initially wanted to embrace us and all the attendant publicity we were getting, the fact that we had a brother in the band, that brother was really really good, and that we went for the best available musician instead of just another pretty white boy gave us street cred in their eyes. Meanwhile, Kinn had nothing but good feelings for Freddie and Henchi, since in those days of free love he never once went to one of the soulful funksters' sexed-up shows without meeting a "new friend" to take home—that sort of liaison being a common byproduct of their shows.
So now we were blessed by a fellow band with a huge following—meaning that our audience had just doubled if not tripled on the basis of one rainy set at the "Harlem House."
You probably didn’t know that robotic bovines can hardly wait to make the scene at swinging hot spots. That we want to see and be seen where the action is. 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: Rick 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