My new bandleader, Tim, lays down the law:
“DC… whatever you do… never… ever… say ANYTHING into that microphone!”
(It seems my reputation had preceded me.)
Tim Sullivan: The country gentleman from Oklahoma.
It was January in the Rockies, 2016. I was about to turn 65 years old. I certainly didn’t consider myself retired… just plain tired; but evidently, singer/songwriter Tim Sullivan thought I had. He needed a drummer pronto and was pleading me to come out of “retirement.” I agreed to join his band if we wouldn’t be doing too much roadwork and one-niters. “I’ll go easy on you,” he said.
Well… his definition of “easy” was quite different than mine. The band was Tim Sullivan & Narrow Gauge. (After I joined it was 12-gauge. LOL!)
Country music isn’t my favorite genre, but it pays well and has saved my ass many times over the years. Some of those “slaughter house” dance hall gigs were like clubbing cows with a 12-pound sledgehammer… six nights a week. Phew! But it paid the rent.
One time, Linda Waring (Bugs Henderson’s drummer) called me to sub for her on a country gig. I was open that week, so I said yes. The gig was at the big Top Rail in Dallas and the band was top notch. One night while we were playing, we were watching an older dance couple doing some terrific two-step “acrobatics.” Of course, all the dancers would continually go around and around the huge dance floor in a massive circle.
The couple came around in front of the bandstand once again and did a flashy move. The smiling female dancer tripped over someone’s size 14 boot. She went down backwards and slammed her head into the solid oak floor. POP! The sound of her skull meeting that unforgiving surface was loud enough to hear over the band. Of course, we didn’t stop, and they soon hauled her away; don’t know if she survived or not. (I’m sorry to say it, but that horrible incident was the only reason I remembered the gig.)
Don’t get me wrong, I like a lot of Country music, and I’ve written some pretty good Country tunes. I wrote a number of songs for a young woman named Ashleigh Correl. One in particular: “Sweetheart” was definitely a keeper. Ashleigh sang lead; Red Greer on fiddle; Emily Tholberg & DC, background vocals; DC, piano, bass & drums; and Steve T, engineer.
Sweetheart, Ashleigh Correl.
Tim Sullivan had landed a Wednesday cocktail gig at the Pagosa Lodge. We played there for a few months. But over the course of four years, we had a string of Wednesday (or Thursday) gigs at the Taqueria, the Pagosa Springs Center of the Arts, the Pagosa Brewery, Shooters, and finally at Mountain Pizza. We also played weekends at the Bear Creek Saloon and Squirrel’s Pub; late afternoons on the deck at the Alley House; gigs for the “Fly Boys” at the airport and many private parties here and there – all of these in my hometown.
Tim and our bass player, Bill Boyer, a one-time Dog @ Large bandmate, lived in Durango and Mancos respectively. I, on the other hand, lived in Pagosa Country where, oddly, a lot of our gigs were — probably because Tim’s late drummer, and my good friend, Darin Rome, lived here until his tragic death in 2011.
Darin had big boots to fill. And it took quite a while for the boys to genuinely accept me into the fold. (Half the time I felt like a schmuck.)
Drummers Darin Rome & DC Duncan.
We played high paying gigs for four years at Parelli’s International Horsemanship ranch outside of town. Pat Parelli, who became a drinking buddy, was larger than life. He had his own national TV show filmed by my bro, Phil Swearngin, and had trained horses for Queen Elizabeth II! People came to Pagosa for his training classes from all over the world, and once a year Pat staged a huge international gathering for big crowds.
Of course, the Tim Sullivan band entertained in a large open-air arena. (Lots of pretty girls… and they all loved Pat!)
We often played the Wild Horse Saloon, the big two-steppin’ joint in Durango, on the club’s band rotation. I have to say that I enjoyed playing there immensely. A two or three niter, the crowds were always huge and appreciative. But what made it special was the soundman, Glenn Keefe. He was a consummate pro at the board and could control the sound remotely while strolling around the entire club. My drums were mic’d to the max, and Glenn made me sound like a million bucks! (The hooved kind.)
Tim also taught dance lessons and was truly admired for all his many talents to no end. By this time, I had developed a great deal of respect for the man. He was a real go getter, and honest to a tee. We were playing quite a lot and my arthritis was starting to bother me. But once behind my drums, I resided in a magical world without pain or problems. Most important, I was making good money, and that kept me going strong . . . and having fun!
Our show was professional and high-spirited. We’d perform new songs without any rehearsals. All songs were learned online at home and then perfected on stage. (We weren’t gonna rehearse – we lived in three separate towns!) Once in a while, Tim would take us outside to run over difficult three-part harmonies; and that’s all there was to it.
The Tim Sullivan Band at the Wild Horse Saloon.
We started doing regular shows at the fancy-schmancy Glacier Club near Purgatory Ski Resort. The “club” was for the millionaire members who owned luxury second homes but lived in major cities. They enjoyed golfing at the high altitude where a golf ball could be driven to unheard of distances. We actually made friends with a lot of these folks, and the tips (and the food) were phenomenal. One trophy wife, a younger girl, had gone to my High School in Dallas! (But there were no rooms – a problem in the winter months.)
We were doing a great deal of roadwork and all of the gigs were high paying special events. We did annual conventions at the upscale Omni Interlocken Hotel in Broomfield near Boulder; events in Denver, Wyoming, Oklahoma, Texas; golf tournaments in Cortez; the New Mexican Ford Dealers in Albuquerque; Eagle, CO; and a slew of events in Telluride. (Some of our “mountain” gigs were at an elevation exceeding 9,000 feet! Oxygen anyone?)
Tim was running me ragged; not exactly what I’d signed up for. But damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead! One time I asked where we were playing that weekend. He replied, “Lancing, Michigan.” Sure enough, we trailered our gear behind Tim’s car and drove straight to Lancing for a one-niter – 1,466 miles! We shared driving duties. I was driving when we crossed the Mississippi at sunrise. I woke the boys; Bill’s first ever gander at the great river. We did the event, tore down, loaded up and found our bed & breakfast. Got up the next morning and retraced our long route of the day before. Good money and lovely people!
Bill Boyer on the shore of Lake Michigan.
Here’s another example of a completely insane schedule from Wednesday, November 30 to Sunday, December the 4, 2016. We played our Wednesday gig at the Pagosa Center for the Arts and afterward packed up and loaded our gear into the big van, and then drove straight to Fort Worth, Texas! We were on the road for less than an hour when a bull elk ran out in front of us. Luckily, we barely missed him and kept the van on the road. (Damn!)
We finally made it to Ft. Worth and caught some shut-eye for a few hours and then set up at the private Founder’s Club at TCU Stadium. One of the old founders, a new friend we met in Telluride, was having his birthday party and specifically wanted us there for the big shindig. The next morning, we had breakfast, and then drove straight back to Colorado. Then we played a party on Saturday and another on Sunday. I was bushed!
When we played west of Durango I’d stay at Bill’s ranch next door to Mesa Verde outside of Cortez. There we’d listen to great music in the wee hours. Bill had barely survived rabies and had promised God that he’d be a good Christian. He was born again! (That means no cussing, goddammit.) The three of us often debated religion and Bill was sad that Tim and I, nonbelievers, were not going to heaven to be in God’s big band with Bill and Jimi Hendrix et al. Any nonbelievers, like the Jews, were excluded. I reminded Bill that Jesus was a Jew . . . but only on his mother’s side. We all laughed in agreement! In fact, on the road, we laughed quite a bit.
Big Hair
Tim Sullivan Band
Written by Tim Sullivan and Joel Racheff.
One rainy evening I was following Bill home from a gig at the James Ranch north of Durango. A huge bull elk ran out in front of him! Luckily my friend wasn’t injured, but his Lexus was totaled. Over the course of four years, each one of us had tangled with deer and elk on a regular basis. Traveling after gigs through blizzards over dangerous passes was getting old. I couldn’t take any more of that white-knuckle stress and felt my luck was running plum out.
In November of 2018, Tim announced that we had a one-niter coming up… in Tulsa. On the evening before the gig, after a late start, we piled into the big van and took off. On this trip, Tim’s lovely wife, Lori, joined us. We drove to Amarillo and pulled into a motel and got a few hours of sleep. In the morning, we continued on across Oklahoma to the home of Tim’s older brother. There we readied for the gig at the exclusive Southern Hills Country Club. The occasion was a black-tie dinner and auction for the Humane Society.
The event, a long one, was easy-peasy and the money was great. Especially since we only played for a little over an hour! The next morning, we took off for Colorado, stopping in Oklahoma City so Tim could purchase a keyboard piano at the Guitar Center. By the time we got to New Mexico, the snow started falling, and soon turned into a blizzard. When we got to Santa Rosa, we pulled over for dinner. Then we found out that they had closed interstate 40! My Evil Mistress had forced us to get motel rooms and continue on the next day through the heavy snow.
Tim exclaimed: “BASTARD!” His humorous word for anything that confounded him. (A word we heard quite often…)
Michael Martin Murphey
In the year 2019 we continued gigging at full throttle. At one point we warmed up for Michael Martin Murphey at the Glacier Club. Evidently, the millionaires simply hired the famous singer for their own little private show. The food was good, and so was the money – but Mr. Murphey seemed awfully cocky to me. La-de-da!
Later on, we were hired to play a surprise birthday party for Chuck Horning at Mountain Village, overlooking Telluride. Chuck is the eccentric owner of Telluride Ski Resort, and this was going to be a spectacular event. (He claimed that we were his favorite band!) We set up at the posh Telluride Conference Center and did a sound check. The soundman warned us that we would have “a chick singer” opening up the show. At that time Chuck would arrive and we’d all sing Happy Birthday.
At showtime, Bill and I got a couple of beers and made our way through the crowd to check out the singer. Man, she sounded great. And then I realized who we were watching: it was none-other-than, Jewel! One of my favorite singers. We made our way to the stage when Jewel finished her set. She walked over in my direction and I introduced myself. I told her how much I loved her music. She smiled and thanked me, and for a moment, we were face to face. And wouldn’t you know it . . . she had green eyes, just like my Jayebird’s.
The lovely green-eyed Jewel!
Finally, it was December, 2019. My arthritis was at the point where I had to make a critical choice: try to keep on playing, or retire. I chose the latter. No more drumming and no more hauling all those drums and hardware over the frozen Rockies at three in the morning.
I gave Tim my two-weeks-notice. My last gig was our third New Year’s Eve at the Glacier Club.
It was a bittersweet show that night, but all things must pass.
On January 1, 2020, I stuffed my drums into their cases and carted them out to my truck – one more time. I drove home on slick roads, seventy miles back to our home on the hill. It was a melancholy drive.
Just the other night I had a strange dream:
I was on stage playing drums in front of a huge audience. Suddenly my drum set was falling apart. All my cymbals and hardware collapsed and then the drums, including the kick drum, rolled off the stage. And there I was, sitting on my drum throne… stark naked!
What the hell is that supposed to mean?