Outlaws and Puppies
Musicians make it look so easy. Cellists gently push and pull the strings with the bow to create a comfy, sultry sound that chills and warms the soul. Jazzers excite and thrill with their smooth improvisational skills and impressive virtuosity. And guitarists – guitarists strum like there’s no tomorrow.
While skill and practice undoubtedly figure into the equation, over time the tactile ability and muscle memory involved in playing an instrument become second nature – like breathing to a musician. That’s why the thought of losing that ability or desire to play strikes a chord of fear. Rockabilly musician Mandy Marie has known this feeling all too well.
While skill and practice undoubtedly figure into the equation, over time the tactile ability and muscle memory involved in playing an instrument become second nature – like breathing to a musician. That’s why the thought of losing that ability or desire to play strikes a chord of fear. Rockabilly musician Mandy Marie has known this feeling all too well.
The Girl Is Just Gone
“I was in a really bad car accident when I was 19. I had 3 skull fractures, broke 14 ribs, punctured my aorta in my heart – it was major. Because of the skull fractures, I lost so much memory. Literally, I didn’t remember my mom and dad’s names; I didn’t remember my grandparents, nothin’. And unfortunately, I forgot how to play guitar. Literally, I didn’t know how to do nothin’. And every time I picked up a guitar it made me angry. Because I thought about what I used to be able to do, but I couldn’t remember. That feeling was so horrible. I think that feeling would be my biggest fear in the world, living that again.”
On a sun-baked fall day, I sat in a southern Indiana field behind the stage with Mandy Marie, the lead singer, guitarist, and songwriter for Mandy Marie and the Cool Hand Lukes. This Indianapolis based rockabilly/alternative country band is getting ready to record their first album. We chatted before her performance, and in a syrupy drawl Mandy told me how she relearned the guitar.
“A lot of it was the man I’m now married to, my husband. He is an amazing guitar player. He would just sit down, and he’d play guitar, and he’d try to get me to and I wouldn’t want to, because it made me feel mad, ya know? Eventually he just kept doing stuff, and I’d think ‘oh that’s cool, I wanna learn how to do that.’ Finally, he just kept playing, kept playing, and I kept trying to play – and eventually everything kinda started coming back to me. I really did have to start from scratch too. I think probably the guitar player I am now is just that much better than what I was when I was 17 – because I had to relearn everything. That’s why I’m always in such a good mood. People tease me all the time. They’re like, ‘you’re always smilin’ and happy.’ It’s just because life’s short. You don’t know what’s going to happen, and enjoy it. If it ain’t fun, don’t do it.”
This was not her ordinary staging area, this field in southern Indiana. She usually performs at live music venues in Indianapolis or at rockabilly festivals among hot rods, greasers and cool cats. She fits in well there among the greasers and cowgirls with her Aviator sunglasses, casual blue jeans, black pigtails, and a tattoo poking out of her shirt’s neckline. On this hot, stagnant afternoon in Noblesville, Indiana, where people wearing casual cutoffs and t-shirts have gathered, Mandy was playing for the annual Proud Heritage Picnic. She was there because a 79-year old Noblesville woman took a liking to the group when she saw them perform in concert. Mandy chatted her up, and they seemed to hit if off – especially when they noticed they had matching turquoise bracelets.
Free food, classic cars, a small open-air market, and tap cloggers made for a pretty eclectic event. The small plot of land was cluttered by bales of straw dispersed about for sitting on. I noticed a hot air balloon – on the ground. The balloon offered a free ride without the danger of actual flight – until a gust of wind blew in and picked it up. After about 10 people wrangled it in, general consensus seemed to quietly decide that it was time to deflate the balloon for the evening.
Mandy had to be on stage in about 15 minutes but was cool as a cucumber and in no big rush – eager to please. I asked if she wanted to go get set up. She laughed and casually looked behind her toward the stage.
“I think I’m good,” she said, laughing. “If I wait long enough they’ll set up my stuff.”
Our conversation kept getting interrupted by Omar, a local kid of about 12 who was selling goods at a festival booth. He battled for her attention and seemed enamored by Mandy, promising to buy her a tape recorder like mine. He said he could probably find it at RadioShack. If he’s looking for love, he has some definite competition. Mandy and her husband Danny go together like apple pie and ice cream.
On a sun-baked fall day, I sat in a southern Indiana field behind the stage with Mandy Marie, the lead singer, guitarist, and songwriter for Mandy Marie and the Cool Hand Lukes. This Indianapolis based rockabilly/alternative country band is getting ready to record their first album. We chatted before her performance, and in a syrupy drawl Mandy told me how she relearned the guitar.
“A lot of it was the man I’m now married to, my husband. He is an amazing guitar player. He would just sit down, and he’d play guitar, and he’d try to get me to and I wouldn’t want to, because it made me feel mad, ya know? Eventually he just kept doing stuff, and I’d think ‘oh that’s cool, I wanna learn how to do that.’ Finally, he just kept playing, kept playing, and I kept trying to play – and eventually everything kinda started coming back to me. I really did have to start from scratch too. I think probably the guitar player I am now is just that much better than what I was when I was 17 – because I had to relearn everything. That’s why I’m always in such a good mood. People tease me all the time. They’re like, ‘you’re always smilin’ and happy.’ It’s just because life’s short. You don’t know what’s going to happen, and enjoy it. If it ain’t fun, don’t do it.”
This was not her ordinary staging area, this field in southern Indiana. She usually performs at live music venues in Indianapolis or at rockabilly festivals among hot rods, greasers and cool cats. She fits in well there among the greasers and cowgirls with her Aviator sunglasses, casual blue jeans, black pigtails, and a tattoo poking out of her shirt’s neckline. On this hot, stagnant afternoon in Noblesville, Indiana, where people wearing casual cutoffs and t-shirts have gathered, Mandy was playing for the annual Proud Heritage Picnic. She was there because a 79-year old Noblesville woman took a liking to the group when she saw them perform in concert. Mandy chatted her up, and they seemed to hit if off – especially when they noticed they had matching turquoise bracelets.
Free food, classic cars, a small open-air market, and tap cloggers made for a pretty eclectic event. The small plot of land was cluttered by bales of straw dispersed about for sitting on. I noticed a hot air balloon – on the ground. The balloon offered a free ride without the danger of actual flight – until a gust of wind blew in and picked it up. After about 10 people wrangled it in, general consensus seemed to quietly decide that it was time to deflate the balloon for the evening.
Mandy had to be on stage in about 15 minutes but was cool as a cucumber and in no big rush – eager to please. I asked if she wanted to go get set up. She laughed and casually looked behind her toward the stage.
“I think I’m good,” she said, laughing. “If I wait long enough they’ll set up my stuff.”
Our conversation kept getting interrupted by Omar, a local kid of about 12 who was selling goods at a festival booth. He battled for her attention and seemed enamored by Mandy, promising to buy her a tape recorder like mine. He said he could probably find it at RadioShack. If he’s looking for love, he has some definite competition. Mandy and her husband Danny go together like apple pie and ice cream.
He likes to sing. He’s my hot rod king. Yeah baby, he’s got it.
Mandy and Danny met on the Internet in 1997 over similar interests. They met online through the Telecaster guitar discussion page. Both play Telecaster guitars, and their common interest in music turned into something more. Who says you can’t fall in love online?“He didn’t know I was a girl for the longest time, and I had a huge crush on him,” Mandy told me. “Probably about two weeks into talking to him everyday, I had made a comment about Elvis being hot – that he’s gorgeous. He asked me like ‘are you a girl?’ I said yes, and he was like ohhhh. We started talking on the phone and hangin’ out, and he was meant to be my husband, meant to be.”
Music brought Mandy and Danny together.
When I go through El Paso, my heart will fill with pride.
She started playing guitar when she was thirteen with the help of the second good man in her life, her dad. He’s a southern Baptist preacher and “one of the best gospel singers that you’ll ever hear in your whole life,” she said. She grew up around gospel and country music in Missouri and Arkansas honky tonks, playing three nights a week with her dad and then getting up early to go to school. Mandy never had a single guitar lesson. She learned by doing. She was around music growing up and was able to hone her talent. Then she lost everything she had taught herself after the car accident at 17. Rehabilitation brought her back to her world of boots, boys, and guitars.
“When I get to play guitar, I’m happy – the happiest in my life. But as a girl guitar player, men expect nothing from you, at all. Which is good, because they expect nothing, but it’s bad because they expect nothing. So if I play a James Burton lick on guitar, people are like absolutely blown away. Which is cool, because I don’t have as much to aim for, but it’s bad because I truly want to be a good guitar player. Not just a good guitar player for a girl.”
She glances at the stage, which is a mess of snake-like cords. The rest of the band, all guys, continue to plug guitars into amps, haul instruments, and warm-up. Mandy is definitely in a boys club. She said she’s used to “traveling around with a bunch of stinky boys.”
It’s clearly time to see her in action. So I cozy up on a bale of straw.
This song’s just for you, darlin’
The small crowd of about 50 people has gathered as the band takes the stage. They applaud politely, but they seem more interested in their mashed potatoes and conversations – except for the 79-year old sponsor who watches intently. The group has barely started, and already the drummer is on his fifth cigarette of the day. He keeps a pack of Marlboros on top of the bass player’s amp. The band’s collective garb consists of jeans, wifebeaters, black overshirts, tattoos, sunglasses, cowboy hats, boots, teased hair, and pink barrettes (on Mandy, of course). A baby crawls by, narrowly missing my foot. A few minutes later a coal black puppy scampers through the grass.
Mandy’s voice changes from syrup to gravel with “We’re coming DOWN that line.” She belts it out with guts, right in tune and full of power. She’s giving it her all, and everyone from the ponytailed little girls dancing barefoot in the front to the older folks in the back gets into it. Conversations halt. It’s like she’s channeling Johnny Cash.
As I watched this small, local community just eating up her performance, I thought back to something I overheard before the band took the stage. The bass player’s son was talking to Mandy about the atmosphere of the festival.
“I don’t know what to do, this is boring,” he said glumly.
“Darlin’, this is my dream,” Mandy said with a wide grin and a toss of her long, black pigtails. Yeah baby, she’s got it.