He even called a few companies in Seattle, like Sub Pop. Sub Pop discovered Nirvana and a lot of other bands, but they never returned Thomas’s phone calls. They just mailed form rejections. Black letters on white paper, just like commodity cans. U.S.D.A PORK. SORRY WE ARE UNABLE TO USE THIS. JUST ADD WATER. WE DON’T LISTEN TO UNSOLICITED DEMOS. POWDERED MILK. THANK YOU FOR YOUR INTEREST. HEAT AND SERVE.
The taverns refused to hire Coyote Springs.
“We heard you was causing some trouble,” the taverns said. “We don’t need any more trouble than we already got.”
Coyote Springs shivered with fear.
“Shit,” Junior said as he ate another mouthful of commodity peanut butter, the only source of protein in reservation diets. Victor strummed his guitar a little; his fingers had long since calloused over. He barely felt the burning. Thomas snuck out of the house to make frantic calls at the pay phone outside the Trading Post. Chess and Checkers sat beside each other on the couch, holding hands. The television didn’t work.
Coyote Springs might have sat there in Thomas’s house for years, silent and still, until their shadows could have been used to tell the time. But that Cadillac rolled onto the reservation and changed everything. All the Spokanes saw it but just assumed it was the FBI, CIA, or Jehovah’s Witnesses. That Cadillac pulled up in front of the Trading Post. The rear window rolled down.
“Hey, you,” a voice called out from the Cadillac.
“Me?” the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota asked.
“Yeah, you. Do you know where we can find Coyote Springs?”
“Sure, you go down to the dirt road over there, turn left, follow that for a little while, then go right. Then left at Old Bessie’s house. You’ll recognize her house by the smell of her fry bread. Third best on the reservation. Then, right again.”
“Wait, wait,” the voice said. “Why don’t you just get in here and show us the way?”
“That’s a nice car. But I can’t fit in there,” the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota said. “I’ll just run. Follow me.”
“Okay, but this ain’t our car anyway. We rented it and this goofy driver, too.”
The-man-who-was-probably-Lakota shrugged his shoulders and ran down the road with the Cadillac in close pursuit.
“Can’t we go any faster?” the voice yelled from the Cadillac.
Sure,” the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota said and picked up the pace. He ran past a few other cars, which forced the Cadillac to make daring passes. They raced by Old Bessie’s house and then made a right.
“Damn, that fry bread does smell good, doesn’t it?” one white man in the car said to another.
Thomas’s house sat in a little depression beside the road.
“That’s where you’ll find Coyote Springs,” the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota said. He leaned down to look inside the car.
“You sure, Chief?” the voice asked.
“I’m sure. Did you know the end of the world is near?”
“We’ve been there and back, Chief.”
The-man-who-was-probably-Lakota saw two pasty white men sitting in the back seat. They looked small inside the car, but the smell of cigar smoke and whiskey was huge. The driver was some skinny white guy in a cheap suit. Curious, the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota watched for a while, then ran back toward the Trading Post. He had work to do.
The driver stayed in the Cadillac, but the two other white men climbed out of the back of the Cadillac. Both were short and stocky, dark-haired, with moustaches that threatened to take over their faces. Those short white men walked to the front door and knocked. They knocked again. Thomas opened the door wide.
“Hello,” the white men said. “We’re Phil Sheridan and George Wright from Cavalry Records in New York City. We’ve come to talk to you about a recording contract.”
From a fax transmitted from Wellpinit to Manhattan:
Dear Mr. Armstrong:
We just met with that Indian band we heard about. Coyote Springs. They played a little for us and quite frankly, we’re impressed. The lead singer, Thomas Builds-the-Fire, is good, but his female singers, Chess and Checkers Warm Water, are outstanding. There may be a little dissension in the group because Checkers apparently quit the band earlier. She rejoined when we showed up. I think that shows ambition. Checkers is quite striking, beautiful, in fact, while Chess is pretty. Both would attract men, I think. Sort of that exotic animalistic woman thing.
We had the band play a few sets for us in their home, and we feel confident in their abilities. Builds-the-Fire plays a competent bass guitar, while Victor Joseph is really quite extraordinary on the lead guitar. He is original and powerful, a genuine talent. Junior Polatkin is only average on drums but is a very good-looking man. Very ethnically handsome. He should bring in the teenage girls, which will make up for the looks of Builds-the-Fire and Joseph. Builds-the-Fire is just sort of goofy looking, with Buddy Holly glasses and crooked teeth. Victor Joseph looks like a train ran him over in 1976. Perhaps we can focus on the grunge/punk angle for him.
Overall, this band looks and sounds Indian. They all have dark skin. Chess, Checkers, and Junior all have long hair. Thomas has a big nose, and Victor has many scars. We’re looking at some genuine crossover appeal.
We can really dress this group up, give them war paint, feathers, etc., and really play up the Indian angle. I think this band could prove to be very lucrative for Cavalry Records.
We should fly the band out to New York to do a little studio work perhaps. To see what they can do outside their home environment.
Peace,
Phil Sheridan
George Wright
“Father Arnold,” Checkers called, “are you in here?”
She searched the church but finally found Father cleaning graves out in the cemetery. He cleaned the graves of five generations of Spokane Indian Catholics.
“Hello there, Checkers.”
“Hello, Father.”
“I’m really sorry to hear about Victor and Junior. Are they okay?”
“Yeah, they just got their heads bumped a little. A few bruises here and there. Sore ribs. Might knock some sense into them.”
“It might,” Father Arnold said and laughed. He leaned against his rake. Checkers studied the rings on his fingers. A college ring, a gold ring. She wanted to kiss his hands.
“What about those two white women?”
“They left. I guess we were too Indian for them.”
“Yeah, I know how that is.”
Checkers looked around at all the graves. She didn’t know anybody buried there.
“So,” Father said, “I heard there was some fancy car out at Thomas’s place.”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“It was some record company guys from New York. They really liked us.”
“And?”
“And I rejoined the band.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry.”
Father Arnold dropped the rake, took Checkers’s hands. He squeezed her fingers a little, smiled at her. She tried to maintain eye contact but turned her head, ashamed.
“I’m really sorry,” she said.
“Are you sure this is what you want?”
“No. But we need the money. We ain’t got no money.”
“Does everything have to be about money?”
“Of course it does. Only people with enough money ever ask that question anyway.”
“There’s a kind of freedom in poverty.”
That’s a lie, Checkers thought and felt worse for contradicting a priest, her priest.
“Jesus didn’t have any money,” Father Arnold said.
“Yeah, but Jesus could turn one loaf of bread into a few thousand. I can’t do that.”
“You’re right, Checkers. You’re right.”
Checkers looked down at the ground. She had not wanted to be right. She wanted Father Arnold to forbid her to leave.
“I think we should pray for all of
your safety,” Father Arnold said.
“Okay,” she said.
Both kneeled on the ground, still face to face, holding hands.
“You pray,” Father said.
“Dear Father,” she began, stopped, started again. She struggled through a brief prayer.
“Amen.”
“Amen.”
“Checkers,” he whispered, “it will be okay.”
She leaned forward and kissed him, full on the lips. Surprised, he pulled back. She kissed him again, with more force, and he kissed her back, clumsily.
“Checkers,” he said and pushed her away.
She looked up at him; he closed his eyes and prayed.
Wright and Sheridan sat in the back of the Cadillac. Sheridan was on the car phone. It had taken the driver more than an hour to find a place on the reservation where the reception was good. They sat on top of Lookout Hill, but there was still a lot of static on the line.
“Well,” Sheridan said, “what do you think?” He nodded his head, grunted in the affirmative for a few minutes, shrugged his shoulders once or twice. He hung up the phone with a dejected look on his face.
“Oh, shit,” Wright said. “He doesn’t like the idea, does he?”
“Mr. Armstrong says he got our fax, and he loves our idea,” Sheridan deadpanned.
“You’re shitting me.”
“He wants us to go check out some duo in Seattle first. Couple of hot white chicks, I guess, just started out and already causing a buzz. Then we’re supposed to come back here next week and take, as he says, those goddamn Indians to New York.”
“Well, this calls for a drink,” Wright said.
“A couple drinks,” Sheridan agreed.
The horses screamed.
“Well, we should tell them, don’t you think?” Wright asked.
“Yeah,” Sheridan said. “Driver, take us to Coyote Springs.”
The driver carefully drove the car toward Thomas’s house. He watched the two record company executives drink directly from a flask. That flask was old, antique, stained. Sheridan and Wright had been drinking from that flask for a century, give or take a few decades. They were never sure how long it had been.
“You’ve always been a good soldier,” Wright said to Sheridan.
“You’ve been a fine goddamn officer yourself,” Sheridan replied.
Coyote Springs was sitting in the front yard when the Cadillac pulled up. Drunk, Sheridan and Wright hurried out of the car with the good news. Everybody danced: Junior and Victor tangoed; Thomas two-stepped up a pine tree; Wright and Sheridan dipped Chess and Checkers.
“When do we get to go?” Thomas asked.
“Next week,” Sheridan said.
“That long?”
“Well, we have to go to Seattle first. For some other business.”
Coyote Springs’s stomach growled.
“But we ain’t got no money,” Thomas whispered.
“No money?” Sheridan asked.
“None.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” Sheridan asked and opened his wallet. “I’ve got a few hundred bucks on me. Is that enough?”
Coyote Springs took the money, bribed their way back into the Trading Post, and bought a week’s worth of Pepsi, Doritos, and Hershey’s chocolate. Victor and Junior bought beer with their share and drank slowly.
“What a fine beer,” Victor said. “A wonderful bouquet. Lovely, fruity taste with a slight bitterness.”
“Yeah,” Junior said, swished a little beer around his mouth, and then swallowed. “Gorgeous, gorgeous beer.”
“Even better with corn nuts, enit?” Victor asked.
“You’re such a fucking gourmet,” Junior said.
Sheridan and Wright left the reservation before Junior and Victor even finished that first beer and barely waved goodbye.
“We’ll see you in a week,” Sheridan said before they left. “Have all your shit packed. We’re flying you over there, so don’t take too much.”
“Flying?” Thomas asked.
“Of course. What did you think? You’d ride on horses?”
Thomas knew there was no good reason for Indians to fly. Indians could barely stay on the road when they were in cars.
“Well,” Chess said after the record company executives had gone.
“Well,” Thomas said. “What do we do now?”
Checkers felt dizzy, sat on the ground, and wished for a glass of cold water.
From a letter received on the day after Wright and Sheridan left:
Dear Thomas Builds-the-Fire,
I’ve heard you have a chance to audition for a large record company in New York. I don’t think you have a chance at landing a contract without my help.
In fact, there are many other complications involved in all of this. Your friend, Robert Johnson, is here. He’s been praying and singing for you. Please come see me at my home and bring the entire band. I’m looking forward to your visit.
Sincerely,
Big Mom
7
Big Mom
THERE’S A GRANDMOTHER TALKING to me
There’s a grandmother talking to you
There’s a grandmother singing for me
There’s a grandmother singing for you
And if you stop and listen
You might hear what you been missing
And if you stop and listen
You might hear what you been missing
And I hear Big Mom
Telling me another story
And I hear Big Mom
Singing me another song
And she says
I’ll be coming back
I’ll be coming back
I’ll be coming back for you
I’ll be coming back
I’ll be coming back
I’ll be coming back for you
I’ll always come back for you
(repeat)
Coyote Springs carried two guitars, a drum set, and a keyboard up the hill toward Big Mom’s house. She lived in a blue house on the top of Wellpinit Mountain. She was a Spokane Indian with a little bit of Flathead blood thrown in for good measure. But she was more than that. She was a part of every tribe.
There were a million stories about Big Mom. But no matter how many stories were told, some Indians still refused to believe in her. Even though she lived on the reservation, some Spokanes still doubted her. Junior and Victor once saw Big Mom walk across Benjamin Pond but quickly erased it from memory. Junior and Victor had limited skills, but they were damn good at denial.
“Who the hell is Big Mom?” Victor had asked.
“You know who she is,” Thomas said. “You’re just pretending you don’t know about her. You’re just scared.”
“I ain’t scared of nothing. Especially somebody named Big Mom. What the hell does that mean anyway?”
“She’s powerful medicine,” Thomas said. “The most powerful medicine. I can’t believe she called for us.”
“Oh,” Victor said, “don’t tell me she’s some medicine woman or something. That’s all a bunch of crap. It don’t work.”
“Big Mom works.”
“And besides, why did she address that letter to Thomas. We’re a band, you know?”
“Because he’s the lead singer,” answered everybody else.
“We have to go there,” Thomas said.
“When?” Chess asked.
“Right now,” Thomas said. “Everybody grab an instrument and follow me.”
“Wait a second,” Checkers said. “Can’t I say goodbye to Father Arnold?”
“Father Arnold can wait,” Thomas said.
“Now,” Victor asked again as Coyote Springs climbed up the hill. “Who the hell is this Big Mom?”
“I told you. Big Mom can help us, and she’s helped us before,” Thomas said. “That’s all you need to know.”
Coyote Springs walked the rest of the way in silence. They all thought about the help they needed and heard the word faith echo
in the trees. They all heard the same music in their heads.
“This is spooky shit,” Victor said.
“Way spooky,” Junior said.
There were stories about Big Mom that stretched back more than a hundred years. There were a hundred stories about every day of Big Mom’s life.
“Ya-hey,” Indians whispered to each other at powwows, at basketball games, at education conferences. “Did you know Big Mom taught Elvis to sing?”
“No way,” said the incredulous.
“What? You don’t believe me? Well, then. Listen to this.”
Indians all over the country would play a scratched record of Elvis, Diana Ross, Chuck Berry, and strain to hear the name Big Mom hidden in the mix.
“Didn’t you hear it? Elvis whispers Thank you, Big Mom just as the last note of the song fades.”
“Yeah, maybe I heard it. But maybe Elvis was singing to his own momma. He really did love his momma.”
But the faithful played record after record and heard singer after singer thank Big Mom for her help. Those thanks were barely audible, of course, but they were there.
Big Mom was a musical genius. She was the teacher of all those great musicians who shaped the twentieth century. There were photographs, they said, of Les Paul leaving Big Mom’s house with the original blueprint for the electric guitar. There were home movies, they said, of Big Mom choreographing the Andrews Sisters’ latest dance steps. There were even cheap recordings, they said, of Big Mom teaching Paul McCartney how to sing “Yesterday.”
Musicians from all over the world traveled to Big Mom’s house in the hope she would teach them how to play. Like any good teacher, Big Mom was very selective with her students. She never answered the door when the live Jim Morrison came knocking. She won’t even answer the door when the dead Jim Morrison comes knocking now.
Still, Big Mom had her heart broken by many of her students who couldn’t cope with the incredible gifts she had given them. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Elvis. They all drank so much and self-destructed so successfully that Big Mom made them honorary members of the Spokane Tribe.
Late at night, Big Mom’s mourning song echoed all over the reservation. The faithful opened their eyes and took it in, knowing that another of her students had fallen. The unbelieving shut their doors and windows and complained about the birds howling in the trees. But those birds weren’t howling. They all stood quietly, listening to Big Mom, too. She didn’t teach just humans how to sing. When those birds heard her mourning song, they also wondered which of their tribe had fallen.
Reservation Blues Page 17