Webmistress Beth on the road…
to Brookville, Indiana

It all happened so quickly, I wasn’t sure it was real. Hubby Jeff and I were sitting in the living room on a Saturday night, being married and boring. I had just spent the day reading a wonderful book by Chassie West (I LOVE her books!) and had finished it. I wanted to have some good-book afterglow time before starting a new book, so I was feeling kind of restless. Jeff had spent the day alternating between updating fantasy sport-du-jour teams (baseball preseason, hockey, XFL, Survivor, harnessed mouse racing, turtle derbys) and watching the NCAA basketball tournament (yawn).

I innocently said, “Hey, wonder where Dallas Moore is playing tonight?” -- more out of idle curiosity than take-action curiosity. Check online -- they are playing in Brookville, Indiana, a mere 30 miles from the megalopolis-wanna-be Cincinnati. Before the dust had really cleared, we were in the car driving out in to the country to watch a band play at a bar we’d never heard of. The bar was called “Who Cares.”

Now, I am a recovering farm girl. I was born and raised in Nowheresville-Farmtown Illinois -- population ratio 3 cows to one person. It was the law. All Republicans. All white. No Catholics allowed. No sissies tolerated. Wearing your “dress up boots” meant wearing the ones you couldn’t smell coming. I KNEW what we were getting into going to this town of 2,500 (cow:person ratio unknown) in the middle of the wilds of southern Indiana.

Mind you, Jeff is a New Yorker, through and through. Born and raised upstate, but with NYC attitude and enough time living in The City to really infuse it into his psyche. I’ve taken him to my hometown, even wandered into a bar or two there. Strangers don’t go over well in small-town bars, especially not ones who bring big-city attitudes (you know, like, “I should be waited on just because I have money and I’m here” –- this isn’t enough in small towns. You’re a stranger, you must acknowledge being out of your league and show some humility before some dying-to-go-to-the-big-city waitress will gather up her courage to wait on you and strike up a “so what’s it like out there” conversation).

While we’re driving to Brookville, Jeff is bringing me up to speed on this band we’re going to see. He had heard them play a week ago at an awards show, and knew it was the kind of music I would like. There was some brain chip planted in me at birth that gave me a deep-seeded liking for outlaw rock/rebel rock that sometimes even surprises me. Lynyrd Skynyrd, Charlie Daniels, David Allan Coe are hardwired into my brain. A big change from the showtunes, dance music or vocal jazz/R&B that I listen to most of the time. Jeff is more likely to know the lyrics to Public Enemy, Outkast, Frank Zappa or vintage rock songs than anything else.

Full name of the band: “Dallas Moore and the Snatch Wranglers.”

Uh-oh.

We pull off the highway at our exit, but have another 15 miles to go on country roads. I forget how dark it is away from the city. “Inky black” comes to mind. I see glowing eyes next to the side of the road, and know that the possums are out tonight. I see lone houses sitting back from the road, miles between neighbors. I tell Jeff “I’m having flashbacks!” and he just laughs. I’m not sure I was kidding.

We get into Brookville, and I’m reassured that it’s a real town -– there are gas stations with food markets attached, fast food restaurants (okay, only a McDonalds, but it was enough to reassure me), and even a Knights of Columbus Hall. We pass a convenience store which is closed at 10:15 on a Saturday night. Um, everything’s closed. Now I’m really having flashbacks. Just past the stoplight in town (the one in downtown, don’t know if there were more anywhere else), we see the bar. Or, rather, we see the pickup trucks and hatchbacks and SUVs that indicate something nearby is open. Has to be a bar. (Small-town rules coming back fast and furious now.)

Park the car, walk into the bar, the place is PACKED. Everyone in town under the age of 35 has shown up, and is mingling with the 60-year-old resident drunks who open and close the bar every day. The bar had to have exceeded its fire marshal limit by 50 percent. (Of course, in small towns, the fire marshal probably owns the bar.) Jeff leads the way through the mass of bodies. I see bib overalls, sheepskin vests, clothing branded from the Big K Farm Supply store that was my mainstay growing up -- fake bake tans, frosted hair and press-on nails to make the women look “big city” are everywhere. I say a prayer of gratitude to St. Urban of Large Population for getting me out of my small town.

At the end of the song that was playing when we first began to part the sea of bodies, everyone in the bar starts giving the finger to the back of the room. Long-necks in one hand, the one-finger salute up high with the other. Have to put your cigarette in your mouth to do this, causing the familiar (to-me) one-eye-squint. I was a little taken aback at the lack of applause for the band, until I figured out that the finger salute was the band’s preference. Or, at least they were doing it back to the crowd.

We couldn’t see the band at all. There was no stage, no special lighting -– just a bunch of guys at the end of the room where the pool tables usually were. Jamming out the tunes. Er, I mean, stomping their Jack-Daniels-loving, Marlboro-smoking, my-baby-done-left-me-Fuck-Her outlaw hearts out. Flipping off the crowd, and getting flipped off back.

Tables were reserved for the likes of “Misty” “Suzi” and “Killer” -– no last names or credentials required. Pitchers of beer were served in Rubbermaid pitchers with a lid. Oy.

Jeff waited nearly 20 minutes to try to place a drink order since he didn’t know the “at least look embarrassed that you’re a stranger” strategy. Meanwhile, I stood against the wall and listened to some good music. When the 5’5” country boy wearing the 90-gallon hat apologized for standing in front of me and my 6’0” ample frame, “You probably can’t see, ma’am” -- I didn’t even snort “No, I can see right over you, your high stacked boots *and* your hat.” My country manners were coming back.

Jeff got bumped a couple of times by guys who had to assert their right to be there. I got poked a few times on purpose by guys doing the same. “Ooooooh, you’re a big one, now, aren’t ya?” one of them said. I resisted the urge to “accidentally” step on his foot. I’m a visitor now, I know the rules. Besides, I think he was wearing steel-toed cowboy boots.

Shortly after midnight, we gave up and headed out. The band hadn’t taken a break, no use waiting for this set to be over. “Sets” and “breaks” are for city bands. These guys were just stomping to their music, playing songs like “Frog Giggin” “Rednecks, White Sox and Blue Ribbon Beer” and a campy version of “Rocky Top.”

As we were leaving, I was shaken back to reality by a group of six people wearing green hats and green clothes who were looking for a place to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Inside the “Who Cares” bar, there was no acknowledgement of the “holiday.” There certainly was no green beer to be found. I saw a number of green teeth, but I recognized those under the black lights because of previous experience and a long-ago-implanted translator for small-town living (one dentist per county seems to be the rule -- sadism required for licensure).

I breathed a sigh of relief when we hit Cincinnati city limits. But it was good to be reminded of where I came from and know that I can choose to be a country girl again any time I want to. If I could just find a small town with a couple of Indian restaurants and a good Thai place that delivers.

Beth adds, "Dallas Moore and the Snatch Wranglers is a real band, and very talented. I didn't change their name, because they're not innocent. They'd probably flip me off if they saw this page anyway. Oh, and besides, we're going to see them again this weekend."