SUNDOWN SLIM ON SINGIN' TO 'EM

There's been a heap of paper talk lately about cowboy songs. In fact, there's been a few books on the subject wrote by men educated to a feather edge. But all this writin' is churnin' up a lot o' dust that's hidin' the facts till they're as shy of the truth as a terrapin is of feathers. Now if y'u ask this old cowhand, I can tell y'u somethin' about them songs as they're sung on the range.

Way back at the beginnin' of the cow business, it didn't take the cowman long to savvy that the human voice gave cattle confidence, an' kept 'em from runnin' 'round. I reckon it started when the herder got to hummin' a tune to keep hisself from gittin' as lonesome as a preacher on pay night. The practice got to be so common that night herdin' was spoken of as "singin' to 'em." Some claim talkin' could've been jes' as effective 'cause it's the human voice that keeps a cow from bein' nervous. But talkin' out loud to you'self never got to be a pop'lar custom 'cause no man wanted another to think he's so feather-headed he needs a wet nurse by talkin' to hisself by the hour.

Most old-time cowhands were good storytellers. As a cowboy rode along, he'd make up a story in rhyme then sing it to some tune he'd heard before. A lot of 'em were set to the religious tunes he remembered from the days when he had a mother ridin' herd on 'im. But the words he made up an' set to them tunes wasn't learned at his mother's knee. They wouldn't make good parlor talk. He called these songs hymns, but such hymns would shorely jar the clergy with a shock they wouldn't soon get over.

All them words that wouldn't improve a Sunday School book none have been hazed into the cut-backs, so mighty few folks outside the cow country have heard cowboy songs as they're really sung on the range.

What they don't find cowhands ridin' 'round with a git-tar strapped over their withers. What burns me up is to hear one o' them radio crooners singin' "Git 'long little doggie" like he's singin' 'bout a short-handled pup instead of the doughguts we knowed on the range.

The cowboy never heard a lot o' them songs the radio crooner sings. They've been composed by some educated professor who's never been When y'ou hear a verse of a cowboy song delivered on the radio with a lotta power y'u can be sure it ain't bein' sung like a real cowhand would sing it.

What most folks think are cowboy songs are them they hear over the radio sung by some New Jersey cowboy. Judgin' by the singin' of these drugstore cowpokes, y'u'd think a real cowhand yodels all the time, but y'u don't hear none o' that garglin' on the range. Seems like ever' feller that can yodel an' claw a git-tar dudes hisself up in hair an' leather an' gits hisself a job bawlin' into a radio, soundin' like a sick calf lost from his mammy till it gits as monotonous as a naggin' woman. He can shore punish the air with a noise like he's garglin' his throat with axle grease. Some of them tenderfoots that come out on the range seem disappointed when closer to a cow than a T-bone steak. Some of the old cowboy songs have been changed till the old-timer wouldn't recognize 'em, an' the original words have been forgot. One reason a cowhand don't like the radio an' movin' picture singer is because he represents hisself to be a cowhand when he ain't. I'll bet there ain't a one of 'em that could cut a lame cow from the shade of a tree. Maybe, too, he's a little jealous because the radio singer's got a better singin' voice than he has. Some of the songs he sings are real pretty, but the trouble is, when a song makes a hit they sing all the nap off it till y'u get the trigger itch an' want to shoot the singer where he looks biggest.

A heap o' folks make the mistake of thinkin' a puncher sings his cows to sleep. He's only tryin' to keep awake an' not tryin' to amuse nobody but hisself. In the first place, he don't have no motherly love for them bovines. All he's tryin' to do is keep 'em from jumpin' the bed-ground an' runnin' off a lotta tallow. In the second place, them brutes don't have no ear for music, which is a good thing 'cause the average puncher's voice an' the songs he sings ain't soothin'. Mostly he's got a voice like a burro with a bad cold, an' the noise he calls singin' would drive all the kiyotes out o' the country.A lotta songs he sings are mighty shy on melody an' a heap strong on noise, but a man don't have to be a born vocalist to sing when he's alone in the dark if he's got a clear conscience an' ain't hidin' out. If a feller did have a good singin' voice an' he started singin', y'u'd soon notice that the others would begin gatherin' 'round like a bunch o' calves follerin' a cake wagon. Punchers are mighty fond of bein' entertained with good singin'. They hear so much o' the other kind.The trouble with most cowhands is that they've lost their voices yellin' at contrary cows, sleepin' in the wet, or tryin' to explain to some judge how they'd come to have their brand on somebody else's cows. Usually he's got an E-string voice that sounds like a rusty gate hinge, an' when he opens his mouth to sing, it sounds like the long-drawn squeak of a slow-runnin' windmill cryin' for oil. When one puncher I knew started singin', I thought it was a scrub bull in a canebrake in cockleburr season. His singin' made me forget all my other troubles. Y'u don't notice trifles when a calamity like the sounds he lets out hits y'u full in the face. Once when he was movin' camp, one o' the boys pours forth his soul in song, an' the cook gits down off the chuck wagon to look for a dry axle. If y'u ever want to compliment a singin' cowboy jes' say, "I like that song" or "That's a good song." Don't say, "Y'u're a good singer." Even if he knows y'u're lyin', he's liable to git as full of conceit as a barber's cat. A cowhand don't know much about rhyme an' meter, but the rhythm has got to match the motion of his horse, an' the words he uses has got to be familiar to the cow country. If hehears some song with highfalutin words that run eight to the pound, it'll shore start 'im fightin' the bits. He knows it's not the song of a cowhand, but one composed by some tenderfoot poet, so he's got no respect for it.Most cowhands can make the simpler words rhyme, but sometimes his rhymes don't match so well. On his lonely rides, he begins to make up a story about somethin' that happened durin' the day or some incident he remembers from further back. Havin' made up a story with a jingle to it, he sets it to some tune he remembers. While lots of 'em could make up a rhyme, there wasn't many of 'em musicians 'nough to compose a tune. He hardly ever knows what tune he sets his words to. It's jes' some old tune he knew as a boy. The chances are it'll be an old religious tune, so he can make it sound melancholy, but by the words he uses y'u'd never think it was once a sacred tune. Seems like most of 'em want to convince y'u that somethin' has shore swiped the silver linin' off his cloud. He likes to picture hisself as havin' moretroubles than Job had boils. To listen to 'im y'ud think he was sufferin' like a centipede with the sciatic rheumatism. In this way new songs are foaled. When a cowhand makes up one he thinks is all right, he sings it to his buddies. Then each one will criticize it an' all make some changes so it'll be better. Maybe each one will

SUNDOWN SLIM ON SINGIN' TO 'EM

Add some more verses an' pretty soon y'u forget who started the whole thing. This is the reason the author of a song is lost in the shuffle. When cowhands from different ranges meet they like to swap songs. They like to learn new ones an' teach others the ones they know. Men goin' up the trail or from range to range scattered the songs as they rode along an' the songs growed as they passed from mouth to mouth. Maybe verses were added, cut out, or changed to suit the singer as they went the rounds. That's why y'u see so many versions of the same song in print. Take that famous old song "The Chisholm Trail" - it growed till it was long as the trail itself. Y'u wasn't a real hand if y'u didn't add a verse or two. A lot of 'em was in pretty ripe language an' never got into print. They woulda curled the paper. A cowhand's mighty free with his language. Most of 'em are unmarried an' a long way from home an' theydon't care what kind o' words they use in them songs. That familiar comma ti yi yippy yippy yea chorus y'u'd so often hear in the old trail song ain't put there to fill in where the singer's forgot the words. It's his way of sayin' "Git to hell outa here y'u'l blankety blanks."

don't care what kind o' words they use in them songs. That familiar comma ti yi yippy yippy yea chorus y'u'd so often hear in the old trail song ain't put there to fill in where the singer's forgot the words. It's his way of sayin' "Git to hell outa here y'u'l blankety blanks."

The "Old Chisholm Trail" starts out with - "Oh, come along boys, an' listen to my tale, I'll tell y'u my troubles on the Old Chisholm Trail."

Then ever' verse piles up them troubles plenty numerous. Most of his songs are doleful, slow an' melancholy. He wants to let it soak in while he's enjoying his misery. He likes to sing about the hard, dangerous life he lives an' the troubles he has, but he wouldn't trade places with a banker if he had the chance. He lives in a big country an' an empty one, but he likes it or he wouldn't be there. A heap of folks have the idea that a cowhand did most of his singin' when on night herd. If y'u was ridin' herd an' passed your podner goin' in the opposite direction, most likely y'u'd jes' hear 'im hummin' some tune without words - jes' somethin' to keep the cattle quiet an' help kill the time. Or if he sings the words it's jes' snatches of a verse now an' then. Singin' a song from beginnin' to end is reserved for the campfire at the chuck wagon, the bunk house, or some social occasion. It's the music that has a quietin' effect on the cattle, not the words. If they'd been able to understand the words more'n likely they'd quit the bed-ground quicker'n y'u could spit an' holler howdy. Night herdin' songs are always a croon. Loud singin' don't quiet cattle. Any song can be sung for night herdin' if it's got a lonesome soundin' tune that can travel as slow as a walkin' hoss. With the trail songs it's different. Even these are mostly sung soft-like except for a chorus breakin' out like a yell to urge the cattle on. When y'u hear a verse of a cowboy song delivered on the radio with a lotta power y'u can be sure it ain't bein' sung like a real cowhand would sing it. A real cowhand's always full of vinegar an' when he opens his mouth wide to yell at cattle to encourage more speed it's in a language understood by cows. These yells are fitted to tunes an' added to the chorus of some trail songs. Many's the time I've heard some cowhand let out a yell that would drive a wolf to suicide. Holding a herd on a dark night's a job for a man with fur on his brisket. If the weather's good an' ever' hoof's got a paunch full o' grass an' water, all is quiet. But if a storm blows up an' the weather gets whole-sale, the cattle are mighty apt to be so restless y'u'd have to ride a mile to spit. Maybe it's so dark y'u can't find your nose with both hands. That's when y'u do some real singin'. Y'u might be cussin' the very steers y'u're ridin' herd on, but as long as y'u do it with a tune it's mighty soothin' to a spooky longhorn.

In going on duty to relieve the guard, a new man approch-es the herd singin' to let 'em know he's comin', so he won't bulge up on 'em unawares. Charlie Russell used to say, "The confidence a steer's got in the dark is mighty frail." Loom up on cattle without singin' an' they'll be off on a run that's noiser'n an empty wagon on a frozed road. There's always some old stampeder or two lyin' out on the fringe lookin' for boogers.

When cowhands went to town, maybe one or two, after nosin' their way to the bottom of a few glasses of joy juice, felt like exercisin' their tonsils in song if the barkeep wasn't no music critic an' didn't have a bronc disposition. But y'u'd never see 'em standin' on the corner singin' like a bunch of college boys. Somebody'd be apt to build a smoke under their hoofs an' make 'em light a shuck without waitin' to kiss the Mayor goodbye.

A lot of the cowboy's singin's done when no one's around. I think his start in singin' was born of loneliness. While on some lonesome duty singin' would help while away the time. Most uncultured people living far from communities naturally turned to song for amusement. Using some old familiar tune they could make up parodies to bring back memories of their mother, their sweetheart, or their boyhood home.

The cowboy admires courage. It don't matter if his hero is good or bad, if he's got sand in his craw he's respected. That's why he makes a hero out o' some outlaw like Sam Bass or Jesse James. They liked men who loved danger an' adventure. Usually his hero outlaw was red-blooded an' square with his fellows. The cowhand condemned "the dirty little coward who shot Mr. Howard,"

"Where the wild coyotes will howl o'er me." A lotta his tunes were such well known tunes as "The Girl I Left Behind Me," "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean," "Old Hundred" an' such. In spite of the fact that calico on the range was scarce as an' the only thing we hear's songs all distorted to make 'em salable. They tell me now that even these modern dude ranches hire some git-tar strummin' crooner who looks like a mail order catalog on foot to sing to the visitin' dudettes. Maybe he's handsome as a new stake rope on a 30 dollar pony, one o' them kind that's so pretty y'u feel like tippin' your hat when y'u meet 'im - an' he can really sing good 'nough to give the romantic hearts of them girl tourists a flutter. But put 'im on herd duty an' he'd find out there wasn't no romance in a cow's life an' his pretty voice wouldn't mean a thing.

They tell me now that even these modern dude ranches hire some git-tar strummin' crooner who looks like a mail order catalog on foot to sing to the visitin' dudettes.

And such traitors as Jim Murphy, who squealed on Sam Bass. Y'u never hear 'im sing about some cheap swindler like Soapy Smith. He made up songs of his loneliness, his daily work, his hardships, an' troubles; his run-ins with the law; some bad hoss he'd rode; his thoughts of death, always close at hand, or his thoughts of Heaven an' life hereafter. Sometimes he picked up a poem from some paper or magazine written by some real poet like Badger Clark, Larry Chittenden, or Herbert Knibbs an' set it to a familiar tune an' it spread over the range till it becomes a cowboy song. Out into the cow country went runaway sailors, and they took their songs along. The cowboy would take any old song an' change the words to suit his own callin'. There's that old sea chanty "0, bury me not in the deep, deep sea, Where the dark blue waves will roll over me" - he made this into one of the best known cowboy songs by changin' the words to "O, bury me not on the lone prairie sunflowers on a Christmas tree, the cowboy had his love songs. These, too, reflect the loneliness of his life. When he sings of his unfulfilled love, he always tries to jerk a few tears. He's got his religion, too. Not the go-to-church, hidebound kind, but after his own way for he knows God's got somethin' to do with na-ture an' the cowhand's always close to nature. He lives in God's big outdoors an' stud-ies the stars as he lays at night on the open prairies. On such an occasion the song "Cow-boy's Dream" musta been thought up. "Last night, as I lay on the prairie An' looked at the stars in the sky I wondered if ever a cowboy Would drift to that sweet by an' by." The test of any song is its singability. Cowboy songs have that easy swingin' rhythm that appeals to us common folks. For years these songs were handed down by word of mouth till a few educated men put 'em down on paper. But now these printed editions have cut out all them words that could blis-ter the hide off a Gila monster The cowboy don't have to herd cattle no more an' his life ain't as lonesome as it was in the old days, but singin's still a part of his life. As long as y'u can bear a cowhand sin-gin', y'u know ever'thing's hunky-dory even if the singer can't carry a tune in a corked jug, an' his voice sounds like somebody's forgot to grease the wagon.