Sacred Cashcow Cuts the Bull

Han Vance on American music: The United States of America more than any other place in the whole wide world deserves its artistic creation: PUNK. Uniquely American in origin and in earlier proto-punk pre-origins, those world conquerers who taxed their pretty planet to the point of exhaustion, the toothy Brits, only “borrowed” punk rock’s pure energy: Punk was Made in America (Greater Detroit/New York City).

It’s also one of the few modern-ish artistic movements clearly created by white people. Yet, it’s still a very valid art form. You deserve punk!

I was into Urban Cowboy before the Sex Pistols: The Pistols – a punk band from England straight up stole the fun look, sound, feel of American energy, which’d oozed from Ann Arbor area, to inner-Detroit’s industrial core, to the trash stacked up on scummy streets and purely ugly sex trade on every touristy corner of some of Manhattan’s then-worst, even affordable neighborhoods. They first played the States in my hometown of Atlanta.

At the time (Jan 5th of 1978), I was one in a million, baby, another cute blond child living in Greater Metro Atlanta, the then-fastest growing civilization in the history of mankind.

It was merely a newsy novelty I recall, not something we wanted to do as eight-year-olds, dude. Being a several-generation Texan and fan of the movies/dancing of John Travolta, two years later I was into…something (other than football, Batman, Spider-Man, riding BMX bikes, Star Wars, rock fights, gum and candy).

See, I was a dandy cowboy way before that, from the Ft-Worth-Dallas (I’ll say it in that order) Metroplex, Austin-born in the capital of Texas, spawned from San Antonio and Corpus Christi grandparents, Mom/Dad went to TCU – we worshipped the Dallas Cowboys. So, when Travolta accurately declared, “Some cowboys have smarts real good, like me,” I knew I was one of them.

I dressed the part, again, at least. My steed was a green bike my dad had painted, then a silver Schwinn once “Old Greeney” got stolen.

You know I wanted to ride the bull, if y’all know me at all.

So when another summer’s vacation – Cape Fear area most years – rolled around, we were in Carolina Beach, N.C., where they had a beachy saloon, with an electric bull. My mom is an extremely, um, persuasive individual (like me). She told them I would be coming in the bar; I would be riding that bull. I did. Good ride. Got tossed.

Instead of thinking about shagging (a coastal Carolina musical type and dance), how about you listen to a Carolina Beach band with something to say, I say! A punk band so smart their drummer Gary Cleaveland was on NPR talking about words…and stuff like that. He’s the genius behind the old oh-so-still-true phrase: TV IS GOODER THAN BOOKS, although, that coinage was conned from him by a marketer.

“F that guy!” …the marketer, I mean … (UGA product) Gary is cool. Don’t steal from people, y’all. When you hear someone’s good idea, it is not yours, even if you like it.

In homage to the dude Gary, I will write about electric bulls! Already off my checklist. I shall mosh…alone and I will listen again with ears! To one of my peers (a punk, that is), once I get some more beer(s). See, he is old yet doesn’t need to wear shirts, so cute it hurts. …Sorry, ladies, he’s already taken.

Aloud I say, “Let this next listen glisten with sensation.”

Ovation on this bloviation: Sacred Cashcow has a far better name than your band. They throw people off roofs and you don’t. Quit being so darn cushy and listen up! “Not Yours Never Was” (2020) is by far the best thing that happened this year, and that’s saying something good when you consider many of us have not had to go to work or school in months, and our real friends still buy us drinks.

CHEERS to and for Sacred Cashcow! (4-out-of-5 stars)