At some point in 1988, 14 year-old me was doing homework in my suburban basement bedroom in Plymouth, Minnesota, listening to KEEY, “The FM Country,” K-102. Radio was my constant musical companion. Although I could read endlessly about country music in industry magazines, radio was really the only place where I could actually easily listen to it. WDGY 740, offered an AM country alternative on the country dial in the Twin Cities. Beyond that, as far as access to country music went, it was my mom’s record collection, the Twin Cities’ public library system, and my own slowly growing collection of 8-tracks, vinyl, and cassettes.
I was at the mercy of program directors for my musical education. Thankfully, K102 had a great one in Wayne Elliot. He ran the evening show from 7:00 pm to midnight, Monday to Friday. He had been working in country music radio for over ten years, and in a column he wrote for Tune-In, a free, country music monthly newspaper distributed at local gas stations, he said, “…I have gained enough knowledge to offer some intelligent answers to some excellent questions.”
Long story longer, I had an excellent question burning a hole in my head. I wrote the station a letter, in pencil on lined school paper. In it, I asked why we didn’t get the chance to listen to a new act out of Austin, Texas made up of four musicians, all in their early to mid twenties. Somewhere along the way, I had read either a record review or feature profile on them. I got hold of their 1988 A&M debut album Stout & High, and I thought it just might be the best thing that had ever happened to me.
My question to Wayne Elliot was, “Why wasn’t there room on his playlist for The Wagoneers?”
I want to pretend now that the letter then was inspired by their punkish energy, or that I connected with their cooler-than-cool retro-rockabilly sensibility. Truth was I didn’t know a single thing about the music or ethos of either cultural touch point, though I could connect with the familiar sounds of their traditional country music. What really mattered most, however, was that I was better able to see myself in their music. It mattered that the members of the band were closer to twenty-years old than thirty as was the case with Randy Travis, Dwight Yoakam, Steve Earle, and Lyle Lovett. That group still registered as adults. The Class of ’86 was certainly younger than the older stars who had previously dominated country radio in the ’80s, but The Wagoneers were that much closer yet to me as a young teenager. The thrill of that kinetic closeness was magnetic. Physics be damned, the energy of their potential was electric. I felt I could see, hear, and almost touch the future of country music.
DJ Elliot didn’t get the same charge from the youngsters. After the thrill of hearing my letter read on air, he took the wind from my sails when shared his belief that young country was a fad, even though Hank Williams, Jr. had just run a single titled “Young Country” to #2 on the charts that year. Elliot kept to his guns that country music was a genre for adults, despite the 1988 Bocephus’s video for “Young Country” enduring as a wonderful testament to the young stars who would dominate and define country music come the following decade. It was the perfect forward-looking video response to George Jones’s 1985 backwards-looking lament “Who’s Gonna’ Fill Their Shoes?”
Despite not getting traction at radio, The Wagoneers actually charted three singles from Stout & High. Their debut single “I Wanna Know Her Again” was their most successful, climbing as high as #43. “Every Step of the Way” would reach #52. “Help Me Get Over You” stalled at #66. More significant was the inspiration they provided other young artists ranging from Raul Malo of The Mavericks to Jeff Tweedy of Uncle Tupelo. The Wagoneers were pioneers of alt-country, Americana and Texas/Red Dirt country. And the Emory Gordy Jr. album is still as cool as the other side of the pillow on a hot Texas night.
Monte Warden was the creative centre of the quartet. He was the dynamic lead vocalist, rhythm guitarist, and the band’s primary songwriter. Brent Wilson played lead guitar and provided vocals. Craig Allan Pettigrew played bass. Thomas Lewis Jr. played the drums. In the album sleeve each of them looked as mysterious as cowboys walking down the streets of Laredo. The album is simultaneously pretty and driving. It ripples with crashing waves of intensity and energy. The drums roll and gallop. The twangy guitars are moody and atmospheric. The harmonies ring. It is a clean sounding and sparkling collection of songs. Emory Gordy Jr’s powers as producer didn’t let this devolve into the messiness we often associate with this spirit and drive.
I can’t imagine a world where Chris Knight was not aware of the murder ballad “Please Don’t Think I’m Guilty, “ or where Mark Collie wasn’t listening to the carefree joy of “All Night” from a classic car with its top down. The title track is a spectacular historical ballad about the battle of the Alamo, an “El Paso” for my generation that would make Mary Robbins proud. It listens like a movie, full of narrative detail, Herb Albert’s trumpet, and dramatic pacing, complete with the crazed cry, “Great God! They’re in the wall!”
I have a soft spot for the more tender ballads like “So Many Mistakes” and “It’ll Take Some Time.”
There isn’t a blank or misfire in the entire eleven-song, fully loaded gun-belt of an album. The cover photo of the band on Stout & High could be a stand in for a Sons of the Pioneers album from fifty years earlier. The entire production is cowboy cool through and through.
A second excellent album would follow this in 1989 , but the band later disbanded after a fight in a Detroit hotel room.
This debut album matters. It still sounds beautiful, exciting, and excellent, standing defiantly Stout & High this many years later.
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