Rides and Tales

“”Rosewood”, the trio I play in, has been hard at work in Gilley’s Recording Studio, here in Corpus town.
Dennis hadn’t recorded an acoustic band before so he took some video of us to display on his website, and passed some still photos from it on to me.

“The area we began recording in is almost like a waiting room. The board that has all the sliders and knobs is almost window dressing, as modern recording is digital and lots of the engineer’s work is done with a keyboard mouse. Every function of the actual board can be displayed on the computer monitor and operated from there.

“There are different ways to record a band. We recored live, that is, we played as if we were performing with the instruments plugged directly into the recording equipment, rather than amplifiers.
“Each instrument has its own track (think of it as a file on a computer) that can be manipulated, over-dubbed or removed altogether without affecting the recorded sound of the other instruments.

“The singing is recorded first on what is called a scratch track. Since the microphone picks up the sound of the instruments, another recording of the vocals is made in the sound-proof booth and the original discarded, or scratched.
Some of the instruments were also re-recorded in the booth. Their rich sounds are captured better this way.

“There is still some of the business of the music business to attend to, fees paid to comply with copyright law and we’ll have to created art for the CD cover. Dennis will work his engineering magic on the recordings to make a master CD which we’ll use to burn copies. When it all comes together, its a beautiful thing. I’ll get back to you as things develop.

Memorial Day, time for Dan’s third annual “Rumble on the River” Memorial Day party. This year the barbecue vendor was the
United States Military Veterans Motorcycle Club.
We “thanked a vet” by enjoying both their cooking and another day in the promised land.

Dan’s place is on the Nueces River. “Nueces” (locally: noo ACE es) is a Spanish word that means, “nuts”. The plentiful Pecans (our state tree) may have inspired the name but the term has taken on a more personal, and no less accurate, meaning in this neck o’ the woods.

We arrived early in the afternoon, unloaded our instruments and kissed some cheeks and hugged some necks. Some of the more local riders had already arrived and begun to enjoy the day.

USMV MC had the pit fired up preparing for the hungry revelers they’d see a little later.

I took a short meditiation by the river. Then, my coffe cup went dry.
Wow! I never realized what a nice ass I have!

Folks began turning up by bike and car and we hobbed and knobbed with friends, some of whom we hadn’t seen since last year.

90°F? Not a problem for this bunch.

The music began and hasn’t stopped yet, for all I know. I was pleased to see pickers from the upcoming generation performing, as well the gray beards.
There was some rock, rockabilly, bluegrass, and lots of Texas music being played by enthusiastic musicians.

It’s good to be the fiddler. I had my annual picture taken with Steffan. This gal is a for-real singer and a genuine sweet heart. If she ever takes up fiddling I’ll be out of business.

So there you have it. Between great barbecue and cold drinks, boat rides and swimming, fast bikes, pretty women and excellent entertainment, it truely was, another day in paradise. A good time was had by all.

Except this guy.

Well I climbed back aboard my old semi,
Then like a flash I was gone,
I got them old truck wheels a rollin’,
Now I’m on my way to San Antone.
(T. Fell)

OK, it was “my old scooter” and “bike wheels”, but you get the drift: reaching escape velocity, we freed ourselves from the suck of the city and put our wheels on US-181 bound northwest for the general vicinity of the town of San Antonio.

Some twenty miles outside the town, on the river San Antonio, lays Riverside Ranch, host of the annual Breezy Ride. I thought Breezy Ride referred to the fact that Riverside Ranch is a nudist resort, but there is an old biker living there named “Breezy”.

Riverside Ranch is a nudist resort and community with rules of conduct. It is not a swingers club, and while the riders had fun hanging out (so to speak) with them, the highlight of the weekend, for the residents, was a poker tournament. Some riders particularly like this kind of venue because the atmosphere is laid-back, and they know who is armed.

I was surprised at how rural this area is, being nearly in the loop of San Antonio. Our travels usually take us to the south of the city.

At the rally site, we got acquainted and pitched our tent. Some folks we’d met at other events showed up but, overall, the turnout was sparse, perhaps due to the high price of fuel, not good for the vendors, but OK by me, as it keeps the dabblers away. I’m told a total of twenty-four bikes rode the poker run.

The weather guesser was a little off, again, but Friday’s all night rain was pleasant and mostly deflected by the tree we camped under. When we finally had to zip up the windows the temperature was a little lower and we slept in comfort.
The rain pretty much ended in the morning and the skies cleared as Saturday progressed.

Saturday’s poker run was one hundred fourteen miles of mostly back-road riding and stops at honky tonks and icehouses, the likes of which are pure Americana from days past.
One sweet old gal had a sausage and cheese buffet set out for the riders, which, of course, went down well with beer or soda.

My personal favorite was this remote watering hole, “ Mule Skinners Inn”. The cactus’ painted leaves is pure folk art and the bottle cap paved parking lot took me back to another time.

Jill was aghast at woman who decided that a couple plants did not measure up socially, pulled them, and threw them over by the old stock pen. .
Really, who gets on a motorcycle, goes off to play for the weekend and weeds a back-woods beer joint? Times has changed and I have not changed with them, I guess.



Once again, I drew a trash poker hand, but the ride to get it was gooder than snuff on a rag.

Later, there were off-bike games and the weenie bite, which Jill won.
I love it; she puts in the effort, I get the congratulations.

Still later, we ate barbecue. I got to tell you, the resort might look a little rustic but the cook really outdoes herself. Her food is excellent and there is plenty of it. We snagged a little extra brisket for a midnight snack.

As the sun went down, the band fired up. I was pleased that they’d booked
“Mean Gene Kelton and the Die Hards”. I like white blues bands and this trio rocks.
They played originals, including, “My Baby Don’t Wear No Panties” and
“Too White To Play the Blues”, as well as covers of blues bands, rockers (both southern and generic) and even a few very old country-western tunes (the best kind).
We abandoned the hot tub for the lawn where I tried to entice Jill into dancing the skagunga with me. You’d think that after all this time it would be impossible to embarrass her.

Gene has a CD titled, “Going Back To Memphis: A Biker Band Tribute To Elvis”.
He announced that a portion of the receipts go to Bikers Against Child Abuse (BACA).
Mean Gene is the real deal.

The remainder of the night, and part of the early morning, was spent in the hot tub with riders from around the state, relating unembellished stories about motorcycling and intellectual pursuits.

Finally, my sleeping bag called and I slept the sleep of the un-indicted.

Sunday was a ‘ten’. Since we were close to home, Jill dawdled over breaking camp while I helped by drinking coffee brewed on her new camp stove.

After settling our tab we hung around the pool, a little, with the few who were staving off Monday, made some dates for future rallies and then got in the wind.

Any ride you can walk away from is a good ride. If the bike is still usable, it’s a great ride. Our ride home was great, light wind in our face and no-one a-swerving in our lane.

Life is good in the Republic.