  The Seattle to
Omak Stampede
Rock writer goes
on the road to dusty death with guns, Shinola,
and a really big dog...
By Steve Stav
I had to get out
of town. Too many nights at the clubs; too many
hours at the computer, transcribing tape; too
many cigarettes. A trip with Seattle
rockers Shinola on their annual pilgrimage to the
Omak Stampede seemed to be a perfect means of
escape. The thought of a road trip to a rodeo -
with real-life cowboys and real-life Indians -
was appealing; it would give me a much-needed
dose of reality. However, after a
psychedelic weekend spent in the desolate hills
of Eastern Washington, I found out just how
blurred reality can be.
Shinola (T.J. and Kyle Martin, Kevin McGregor,
Mike "Boom Boom" Bailey, with long-time
sound tech Art Vacca), four of their friends,
McGregor's sweet Husky (Maybelle Ann, AKA
"Mabel") and I all rendezvoused at
Wade's in Bellevue, where we stocked up on
ammunition. On the way out to Leavenworth -
our first destination - T.J. lamented the fact
that, while the Omak Stampede is definitely worth
the trip, it doesn't draw the overwhelming crowds
that it used to.
"The first couple times we went, we had to
rent lawns to sleep on, twenty minutes out of
town, the whole place was packed...now, while it
will be crowded, we shouldn't have a
problem," he said.
As
the five of us (including Mcgregor and Mabel)
wound our way up Highway 2 in Kyle's Bronco, the
conversation turned to the band's recent career
upswing. The guys had just come back from a
gig at the Top Hat in Missoula, Montana, where
they were beseiged by hippies. I should
point out right now that while Shinola is perhaps
the most down-to-earth, cohesive band I've ever
encountered, they won't ever be mistaken for
hippies. With their crumpled straw cowboy
hats and well-worn Western getups, they could
easily pass for hillbillies - a misconception
they get a kick out of. Anyway, Shinola is
on a roll, having just spent some time being
filmed by Ignite Films of L.A., who were putting
together video clips for the Internet. The
band also just secured a second-stage gig at the
Neil Young/Pretenders show at the Gorge.
Understandably, these guys were on clound nine,
in their down-to-earth kind of way.
Suddenly, Neko Case and money entered the
picture.
"Anytime I get on the subject of country
music with somebody from out of town, I tell
them, there's a gal out there that sings circles
around everybody else," T.J. asserted from
the back seat. "Awesome voice, awesome
attitude, it's definitely country music, but it's
something new and fresh - it's Neko Case.
"I don't blame her for leaving
Seattle," he continued, "it's
getting harder and harder to live here. How
can you work a job that pays $10, $12 -if you're
lucky - 30 hours a week, so you have time to
write music, and still manage to pay the
bills? It's impossible."
His
inseparable brother (they're so close, they're
like fraternal twins) said, "We're actually
trying to figure out a way to turn our band into
a non-profit organization - because it is
non-profit - and try to get some tax breaks,
start the 'Church of Shinola' or
something." Kyle explained their
newest venture - an Internet/phone dating service
- and we promptly got into a discussion on its
merits.
"How easy is it for a guy in Seattle to go
out to a club and meet a girl?" he
profoundly asked. "At least online,
you're not starting off drunk - hopefully - and
not in a smoky bar, and you start off with
communication. The only problem is, some
people won't go out as much."
Being a Luddite with an Orwellian fixation, I
responded, "Yeah, there's an awful lot of
pathetic, lonely goofballs out there that need
such a service...the kind of people that
eventually go nuts and start papering their walls
with aluminum foil."
 Kyle and T.J. were not
amused.
Hours later, our caravan had exhausted, in Three
Stooges fashion, all avenues for lodging - the
guys spent too much time in Leavenworth drinking
(except for me and Kevin, who were on a budget),
it's past midnight, all campgrounds are
full. We finally pull off to the side of
the road, spilling out of the cars loud as hell,
and a guy in a nearby camper comes greets us with
drunken curses and a half-heartedly brandished
handgun. As we lay down our bedrolls on
gravel and dirt, the disgruntled camper rolls
another 40 yards away, and tents on our other
side are folded and a car started up. We
have the place all to ourselves. I loaded
my .38 and placed it and my grandfather's
skinning knife close to my head, in case our
remaining neighbor decided to evict his
claim-jumpers.
Cold seeped into my bones. In a fetal
position, I thought about the kinds of varmints
that might be strolling around - cougar, probably
bear as well. Soon, I heard something
licking it's chops right outside my bag.
Cautiously peeking out, gauging a reach for the
pistol, I saw that it was only Mabel, looking
down at me. I tried to get her to snuggle
up, but she haughtily turned away to find her
master.
An
hour had passed, and Bailey, by far the youngest
and rowdiest of the band, and their brawny friend
Jeff, are stumbling around drunk, shouting,
"Is anybody still up? Look at the sky
- it's the Aurora Borealis!" The night
was lit up like there was an artillery
bombardment over the nearby hills, but, too tired
and cold to admire the phenomenon, I go back to
sleep. Mike and Jeff eventually retreated
to a car to do some more drinking - we found them
in the front seat the next morning.
The
next day, after a cage-match basketball game
(which left me gasping like an out-of-water
carp), a nap, and a gluttonous trip to the Royal
Fork (all in Wenatchee, a nice town), we headed
for Omak. I was so anxious to get there, I
might as well have been with Dorothy and the Tin
Man. My first impression of Omak,
once we drove past the Safeway, Texaco, Burger
King and the other modern eyesores that seemed to
follow us from Seattle - was of the vast Indian
Encampment at the rodeo grounds, commonly
referred to as "Teepee Town."
T.J. gravely informed me that it was not safe
for a white man to go into "Teepee
Town" at night, and I believed him. We
found a spot in the adjoining campground - which
was dotted with the occasional teepee - circled
the wagons, and joined the fun.
 Shinola wasn't
perfoming, but rock 'n' roll found its way into
the Omak Stampede anyhow, albeit under
unfortunate circumstances. A Colville
Indian group, presenting a prayer song for the
Suicide Race, was introduced with the opening
strains of AC-DC's "Hell's Bells;" Thin
Lizzy's "The Boys Are Back In Town"
ushered in the Suicide Race jockeys, which
included a woman.
Another bizarre faux pas was committed by a
clown.
"We're twins - I was born in the daytime,
and he was born at night," said a Caucasian
clown of his partner, who was probably the only
black man in the county at the time. Our
collective eyebrows raised about an inch, and
somebody said, "If Spike Lee was here, he'd
have a fit."
This being a professional rodeo, it was
boring. The events were too uneventful, the
riders too slick, the clowns were too pathetic,
the "pro" livestock too used to being
thrown to the ground - and they all found the
gate easily after being untied. The
limping, stiff gait of the bronc- and-bull riders
was very authentic, though.
 Shinola and
I got separated well before the rodeo's
conclusion; they retired to the beer garden, and
I eventually found my way to the hillside
opposite of the legendary Suicide Race, where
throngs of people (including the band, who were
down in front) were already gathered in
anticipation.
I looked across the Okanogan
River to the well-lit, 250-foot cliffside, where
last-minute preparations were being made. While
cowboys, as per custom, dominate rodeos, the
Indians are the stars of the Omak Stampede, for
the Stampede's main event is the Suicide Race - a
literally-monikered competition virtually owned
by Indians, who train for months for it.
The race is also controversial - the animal
rights people usually protest (though I didn't
see any PETA banners). Surprisingly,
the jockeys are injured far more often than the
horses.
The
beat of a ceremonial drum kept the crowd
mesmerized as we waited. Suddenly,
magnificent horses and their
precariously-balanced riders appeared over the
cliff's edge, airborne, landing in loose dirt,
plunging into the narrowed river. From
where I was standing, they were out of sight once
across the water and headed to the grandstands;
it didn't matter, nor did it matter, to me, who
won - the few seconds of exhilaration was an even
exchange for an hour of pine-riding boredom.
I
couldn't find the guys after the race. I
checked on Mabel back at the camp and headed for
"Teepee Town" - pow-wow drums were
calling.
The
nonstop string of dance-and-song contests lasted
almost all night, under a huge canopy.
Tireless, brilliantly-costumed participants
performed dances that have existed long before
any other; competing for unmentioned prizes that
were obviously not the prime motivation for such
exertion. It was an awesome sight, an
experience that made the hair on the back of my
neck stand up.
After sharing a smoke with a fantastically
attired Canadian dancer, I went back to the
campsite, which apart from a couple of our group
already cashed in, was deserted.
I
sat in a lawn chair, trying to make sense of the
scene around me, a surreal kaleidescope that I
didn't need mescaline in order to conjure up: the
sight of headlights on the highway, 50 yards
distant; the stars above, serenely twinkling; the
cacophony of tribal drums, half-assed
country music, zooming cars, and Art Vacca's
prodigious snoring. I thought of the few
real cowboys - and many more of the dimestore
variety - clustered under the grandstands with
their "cowgirls," drinking Coors
(pronounced "kers") and Coors Light,
the two beers sold at the Stampede. I
thought of the alcohol-free, spiritual gathering
of tribes nearby - where so many people were
proudly maintaining customs that were, along with
their ancestors, almost wiped out by the Eminent
Domain determination of their close-quarter
neighbors' ancestors. I sipped my
single-malt Scotch and wondered, with Mabel at my
feet.
Eight hours later, we were fighting invisible
foes.
A
whole arsenal of semi-automatic rifles and
pistols were raining lead upon a hillside
seemingly carved for the purpose. We were a
few minutes out of town, in a sort of desert
landfill. I sighted down my World War I -
vintage Lee-Enfield, and blasted a spiked Hun
helmet coming over the rise. A milk jug
leaped into the air. Brass from Kyle's
modern assault rifle sprinkled in front of me as
I pulled the bolt back, trying to figure out how
the Legionnaires did it so quickly in the movies,
with Turks charging the fort. T.J. and I
concluded that fear played a part in making hands
move faster.
Our
individual demons vanquished, we packed up and
headed for the Emerald City, a whole world away
that we reached in an afternoon. The next
morning, I looked down at my dust-caked boots and
tried to sort it all out.
I'm
still sorting.
(Author's note:
In the months since this adventure took place,
Shinola won Lucky Strike’s “Band to
Band” contest in Seattle; subsequently,
they’ve recorded a new song, “Now
You’re Gone” to be included in a Lucky
Strike compilation CD. The band is opening
for the Paladins New Year’s Eve at the
Tractor Tavern’s Rockabilly Hell Night
festivities. Oh, and their internet
matchmaking service, after innumerable delays,
will debut in January 2001.)
Email Steve Stav
Shinola's Official Site
View Shinola's
"Rockjam" video
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