wordplay by Scott Mastro

On a rusty interstate exit, crazy-haired minstrels cakewalk ‘round a washtub fire and a Ford Galaxy 500 spits perfumed sweat onto a tattered-banjo two-lane.  An old couch sings a barrel-house, sousaphone song, and an old boot dons one spat, commencin’ ta’ kickin’ its leg up high.

The Yard Dogs Road Show was sincerely borne of such an event, the railcar wanderings of one Eddy Joe Cotton and common hobo-camp cohorts, a cabaret throwback to Vaudeville and a fastball over the plate to the future, connecting the simple-and-local-yet universal in us all, vicarious, in-your-face entertainment touching and torching our hearts and loins, taking stars from the circus night and placing them raucous-lovingly in our eyes.

The members, some 11 or 14 at any given time, hail from San Francisco’s environs, and when not troupe-trampsing, depart like wind in each of his and her own singular endeavors, everything from house-painting and human-statue art to jewelry making and fortune telling.

Something ruckuses in the trunk and when that old Ford hits that back-road shoulder, the trunk-flap flies open and up jumps a can of paint, slabbering away a carny backdrop. A broom wearing a bowler hat leaps spiritedly, and sure as a flood insurance salesman drinks strong, black coffee, that duster gets ta’ settin’ barrels and boxes ‘round a wire-mesh microphone stand along with a cotton-candied-bass-drum spotlight.  Rumble, rumble from deep within a steamer trunk drum roll, out bounds a pair of scantily-clad under garments wearing nothing but themselves!

While the show is a mixture of Old West saloon entertainment, soul poetry, magic, and comedy, it’s solidly backed and driven head-on by drum, bass, and dual guitars, at any time joined by horn players and a myriad of hand instruments.

Up the roller coaster of side-show emotion the Yard Dogs take us, topping out and shooting back down, around, and every which way, fast and giddy, like a bull with a rope around its parts, snortin’ fire-brand music and monologues, bursting the gate, a’kickin’ and a’buckin’ in song, dance, and celebration.

In the pretty and perpetuous personality of one Lily Rose Love, “The Yard Dogs Road Show is an amalgamation of archetypes agreeing to collaborate in a bizarre
sociological experiment of love and devotion. We are music boxes, chickens, dancing girls, swords, and a torrent of music with a feather fan dance finale.”

Dancer and trombone player, of the slip, slide, and spit of the horn’s allure, she confesses, “My papa played.” Besides, “You can't kiss a cello.”

She waxes road-wise.  “We are a snake-oil homage to homespun horseplay. We are here to remind anyone that they have the strength and the sparkle to choose and create the life that they want to live in... that enjoying life is the biggest thanks one can give for having it. Our show can be enjoyed at a fancy theater or in a bowling alley, at a derelict rock club or under a tree in the park.  Fans of ours can be eight years old or 80. They can be opera singers and gutter punks, teachers and learners, youngsters and oldsters, business men and cowboys, retired burlesque dancers and your mother. Hopefully, a fan of ours could even be you.”

The Yard Dogs are a link to our past, a gritty yet polished Dust Bowl, dance-hall education, a bawdy baptism of burlesque, embodying love, sex, death, birth, creation, life, water, fire, sky, and good old terra firma where hobo meets highway at the hoedown.

“Spin around three times, clap your hands twice, and hold tight to your heart,” Eddy Joe Cotton advises, a poet and prophet of the wandering life, author of “Hobo” with Soft Skull Press. He’s been ridin’ the Yard Dog Road Show eight years now and doesn’t plan to get off the train any time soon.

Headed to Europe in the spring of 2007, a goodly portion of their show won’t need translatin’. Laughter, tears, fun, amusement, heart-pounding thrills, sheer carnal delight, and glad-ass foot-stomping music are universal qualities firmly rooted in the very essence and being of every man, woman, and child on earth, no matter what they’re wearing nor what language they’re a’speakin’.

Dearest Mom and Dad, having decided not to shave my head and sell my worldly possessions, I’ve quit my job just the same and hit the asphalt to Oz with the Yard Dogs Road Show. You can too! Clink, clank, clomp, the caravan careens to Colorado.

Leave a penny on the railroad track and hobo on over.  Yowsa’, yowsa’, yes-sir-ree!

September 14th @ Tour de Fat (Durango)
September 22nd @ The Bluebird
September 23rd @ New Belgium Brewery (Fort Collins)
September 24th @ The Fox (Boulder)

YardDogsRoadShow.com