Articles & Essays   Book Reviews Creative Writing

Consciousness, Literature and the Arts

 

Volume 18 Number 3, December 2017

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Power Out One Night at the Outlaw Saloon

 

By

 

Mark A. Doherty

 

 

Where do you put old wacked out uranium miners, 3.2 beer alcoholics, and burnt river rats when a busted town goes boom again without them?  You put them in a watering hole, a hangout, a hideout, a bar in which they can entertain the feeling of ownership. You put them there, out of the way, just off the beaten path, and let them drink.

            What do you name that type of watering hole?  How about The Outlaw Saloon. The Outlaw, it was more of a clientele gathering than a specific physical locale. The bar actually moved from a dubious Quonset hut structure to a ramshackle adobe hacienda while I knew it. And when it moved, the drinkers, and the barkeeps, and the musicians moved with it.

            But during the early ‘90’s in Moab, uranium miners, old river guides, and 3.2 alkies were seriously displaced by the modern suave, sleek and in-shape post yuppie mountain biker generation and the business boom their money brought to a hungry little town-gone-bust since the ‘70’s uranium decline.

            And there was often friction. Granola eaters versus miners, environmentalists versus ranchers, boatmen versus bicyclists, gearheads and pinheads versus motorheads, and counter culture health food nuts versus bar counter alkies. As the years now pass, I look back and muse upon the irony that many of these groups now “work together” to battle bigger elements in life than simple lifestyle differences. But back then, the differences were noticeable. Yet the local cops knew that as long as so-and-so was at the outlaw saloon getting beerlogged, they weren’t out making other troubles elsewhere. They weren’t out bugging the new money spenders coming into town. That was a good thing.

            At first, none of the new sport mountain-bike crowd ventured into such smoke-filled lairs as the Outlaw, but after a while, some of the tougher, braver ones, seeking more of a real experience, would chum up to the bar and buy themselves a beer or two. Nobody complained too much—after all, cash speaks the same language everywhere.

            And so as the clientele began to mingle a bit, it increased, and the owner sought out a bit more sophisticated live music on the weekends by way of drawing crowds while still entertaining the old timers. She even put a rickety bike rack up next to the Harley parking circle.

            That’s when I became a part of the sociological experiment, largely by coincidence I might add. Some time back, I had boasted to the local country rock band who were practicing up for a gig at the Outlaw that I could make the five string banjo sound good to anything they played—rock, country rock etc. After proving this to them during a few living room sessions, four of us, Mike, Cash, Christine and myself became Desert Skies, country rock band, and had a two to three night a week job at the Outlaw. Christine washed out during the first weekend due to a fight with Cash, but the three of us guys regrouped and played on for months using a rather eclectic mix of banjo, bass, electric and acoustic guitar, and a fancy drum machine. We played songs ranging from old ‘60’s hits to hard core country. After a while, I even introduced a couple of mainline bluegrass tunes to boot. “The Ballad of Jed Clampitt” from the Beverly Hillbillies was one song I truly regretted introducing, so many times did we have to play it, and sometimes five times a night.

            And the beer flowed like the muddy Colorado and the brown bags flashed like lightning and the smoke was thick as the Yellowstone fires and there was a fight every night.

            It was rough and wild, living up to the name Outlaw. But the money was good, and Deb and I were building our own home in nearby Castle Valley, which was a full time day job all by itself. No time for other work during the days, so music on the weekend nights became some bread and butter along with being a field course in humanitarian sociology and the West.

            Shortly before the end of my run at the outlaw, a remarkable event took place, one that both Deb and I still talk about. It caused a distinct bump, a skip perhaps, in the sociological experiment we were immersed in there at the Outlaw. And yet it was really a rather simple event. A malevolent thunderstorm rumbled through one Friday night at about nine-thirty, passed to the north of town, and one mighty strike of lightning took out all of the power to Moab for the entire night.

            The bar was packed, the band was tuning, the p.a. system warming up, and the beer was bubbling from the taps. As I set my banjo on its stand, careful not to crimp the cord plugged into its internal microphone, I thought about the hundred plus dollars that I might not be earning this night if the band couldn’t play. Couldn’t play?  Well, couldn’t be amplified was more like it. The banjo was acoustic, one of Mike’s guitars was acoustic, and Cash’s bass, well, that was expendable. It was his voice that was his strength anyway. So I sidled up to the owner who was still pulling beers from the cooler and popping caps by flashlight and made a suggestion. Since the phones still worked, I said I’d call up a couple of other friends who played acoustic guitar and mandolin and we’d do some guitar, banjo, mandolin music on the patio—after all, the beer was still cold and the cash register was old enough to work manually as well.

            She agreed, and more importantly agreed to pay the band if it worked out. Soon Steve came by with his mandolin, Gerry with his Guild guitar, Mike pulled the plug on his acoustic/electric Yamaha, and I grabbed the trusty old Ode banjo and we began to play. Cash disappeared into a table of women and I don’t recall seeing him again, although he came around for the full paycheck when it was all over. We were indeed going to get paid, so I was happy. But what transpired throughout that evening was remarkable, memorable, even inspirational.

            To begin with, there was not one fight, not one squabble during the entire night. The angries, the orneries, the crazies, the alkies, and all the others just sat talking, laughing, and often singing side by side like best buddies. Several times I saw dyed in the wool old miners smiling with granola mountain bikers. Several times I saw old timers who never got along chumming up and talking and toasting. The local police stopped in to check, fearful of what mischief might be transpiring at the Outlaw during such a power failure and shook their heads in amazement at the harmony of humans, the festive yet incredibly peaceful scene. One said, “No problems here!” and they moved on, not even batting an eye at the liquor being consumed outside on the patio and sidewalks. They didn’t seem to mind clusters of politely conversing patrons sipping bottles of brew all the way out into the street. There was a circle of sound in which everything seemed harmonious.

            It was as if the acoustic gathering had lifted the guise from everyone there. Pretense was gone with the amplifiers and gentle laughter and relaxed conversation pervaded the air like the scent of rain on sage as the stars shone overhead in the huge desert sky above the isolated lightless town. The cigarettes glowed, the beer flowed, and the notes and harmonies of acoustic instruments and voices washed over everything like a gentle summer’s breeze.

            It was late when we finally packed up the instruments and headed home beneath the stars. The town’s lights were still out, but the lights that existed in the hearts of the people of the Outlaw Saloon that night shone ever so brightly.