THE VERY VERY VERY BEST BOWLEY AND WILSON STORIES

God, am I glad "Build a joke month" is almost over!" I peed my pants twice. I'm 60 now - it had nothing to do with any jokes. I may have peed my pants once and sat in something once - I'm 60 now, I don't remember. I feel something warm now...

Regardless, fresh meat! Your favorite B&W story - all Sept!. And before I forget, I see Mr. Bowley has finally paid the forum membership dues and been upgraded from "Groupie" status. Perhaps now he can also tend to his PayPal account. I'm sick of paying for his cigars. Who buys cigars on eBay anyway? Lest it be known though, Mr. Bowley has been a Groupie for years ... a crush on Martin Milner, the actor. Mr. Milner lives in Carlsbad, CA - a mere stone's throw away from where Mr. Bowley's daughter attends college. He's been seen stalking the residence just to secure an autograph. Keep watching "COPS" - there's a great episode where Mr. Bowley, dressed as Fay Ray, is wrestled to the ground and tasered as Milner laughingly looks on.

Oh yes, the stories ... for some of us - past and present members of the band - these stories may well be salacious, depressing, and frightening. Many of you have children who access your computer. So many tales! Bowley, where should we start? The fish in George M's mailbox?




Edited by bowley - 05 Dec 2008 at 4:57pm

WHY MY NECK HURTS EVERY FREAKIN' MORNING (BOWLEYS VERSION...WILSON MAY REMEMBER THIS DIFFERENTLY ... OR HE MAY HAVE FORGOTTEN IT ALTOGETHER ). When we first started to record a few Bowley and Wilson songs, John W set up a "recording studio" in his house on Daniels Avenue in University Park (I had a house across the street).  He cut a hole in the wall between two bedrooms, put in a pane of glass, and presto, a studio and control room.  Old socks, t-shirts, and sneakers were employed for their superior baffling qualities.   The first Bowley and Wilson album (actually, Bowley, Wilson and Kendrick) "EAT IT" was recorded there,  Quick, convenient, but not really quality.   WILSON HAD AN IDEA.  "Let's start a recording studio!" he said, using his best Mickey Rooney voice.  A partnership was formed between Wilson, Bowley and Jim Wallace (the owner of Up Your Alley), a business plan developed, a loan secured to buy some wonderful Ampex Recording equipment, a great location on McKinney Avenue rented, and HARVEST RECORDING STUDIO was born.  The big project was to turn the office/warehouse into a sound studio, and to do it as well as our limited budget would allow....which meant doing most all the construction work ourselves.

A massive wall was constructed between what was to be the control room and the studio, with double window and to sound-proof it, the double wall was filled with sand to the ceiling (by hand...or should I say back).  The walls in the studio were covered with foam panels covered in tasteful fabric in cool colors, drum booths made, a wonderful piano ordered.  But the sound was not going to be right, because of the high and metal-beamed ceiling.  The sound waves would bounce around like a kid the morning after Halloween.   Research at the library gave birth to the solution.   We would "FLOAT" a ceiling of individual sheet rock panels hung from hooks we made from a special wire and multiple  rubber bumpers which would allow the ceiling to absorb the sound and not let it bounce around.  The wire and bumpers had a special construction that had to be done by hand.

Now, keep in mind that Bowley and Wilson were also performing every night at Up Your Alley, doing the  construction during the day.  Jim Wallace often stayed at Harvest and worked at night.  During one particular night Wallace made great progress with the bumpers and it was time to hang the ceiling, standing on ladders, each of 100 or so panels separately so it could be adjusted, but each overlaped the next.    I was in the middle of the room when the job was about 2/3 complete.  There a
was a "creak" at the far end of the room, then, like dominoes, the panels started falling one after the next.   Then all came down together with a crash.  Being sheet rock (thank god), when the roof fell over me, i just broke right through the middle of a panel and was standing there, covered in white chalk, with the ceiling now at my feet...knocked rather stupid.

Wallace, the night before, tiring from slowly bending each wire hook, had found that with a much softer lead wire, it bent very quickly and 10 hooks could be made in the time it used to make one.  Overlooking, of course, that it would UNBEND JUST AS EASILY YOU PEA-BRAINED IDIOT!!!!! and that is why my f**king neck hurts like hell every morning for the last 36 years,  PEA-BRAIN.


Edited by bowley - 05 Sep 2008 at 9:16pm

RELIGION, BOWLEY & WILSON, AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE F*CK TIME IT IS.....?  (THIS IS BOWLEYS' VERSION:  WILSON LIVED THIS  BUT ALSO SLEPT COMPLETELY THROUGH IT)  Bowley and Wilson only had a winking relationship with religion in their professional lives.   We were not known for gospel ditties (although when we first started out we did a fun version of the Doobies 'Jesus is just alright with me"  where I delivered a mocking Southern Baptist sermon in the middle....which I recall often ended up with     "...so take off all your clothes, get nakid in the sight of God, step into your bathtub, put both hands on your radio, and I guarantee you will feel the power of the lord flowing through your body....").   We (B & W) obviously kept different hours than church goin' folks.  During he 1970's a wave of religious fervor swept over the youth of the nation.....and a huge convention or conclave took place, in August, at SMU.  We lived in houses on either side of Daniels just two blocks down from Southern methodist U.   And never ever ever went to bed before 5 in the morning.  Well, during the big meeting, the kids decided to fan out though the surrounding neighborhoods to make some converts to their Lord.  At 8 in the morning.     Sigh.     They knocked loudly and persistently on my door  I staggered there naked (it was August and no air cconditioning).   I expressed (wagged) my displeasure.   I went back to bed,floating in a twilight daze.  In about ten minutes, the amount time it would have taken to get to Wilsons' house, I heard a massive crash.   Wilson had been similarly awakened, and had slammed his front door so hard that he broke out not only the glass in the door, but also his living room windows.    Welcome to University Park, kiddies!

A couple of years earlier, Bowley and Wilson had a pad (club house? animal house?  headquarters?  looney bin?)  on  Lovers  Lane.   We lived  next door to a church.  Good planning.  One weekday morning...too too early...the church started ringing and ringing and ringing their church bells.   By our back door were big stacks of Peavey speakers and amplifiers.....club size sound system we'd used the night before and just an hour or two before had loaded into the house.  It seemed like a very good idea (at the time) to move the speakers out the back door, hook 'em up, point 'em at the church, and put on a tape of "Loosey gotta Poosey" "After you blow me"  "The Fart Song"    and etc.   We went back to bed.   When the police came by to "politely ask" us to turn off the freakin' music.......and they told there was a funeral for some little kid next door who had died tragically.   There will be some "splainin'" to do to Saint Peter if either of us ever makes it as far as the Pearly Gates.  After you blow me.
 


Edited by bowley - 07 Sep 2008 at 4:11pm

SHEIK, RAMBO, EL PRODUCTO AND THE WATER MOCCASINS (BOWLEYS' VERSION: WILSON WAS LOOKING FOR HIS ASS DURING THIS ONE) This story kinda moseys around for a long time, like a Grampa war story that goes on and on with little payoff,  so grab a beer and find a comfy chair.  We loved George M. Jones' farm. We loved George M. too, but we really loved the farm.  George M. (or El Producto......because he was the producer of OUR TURD ALBUM)  was our best buddy, our inspiration, our supplier.  Of ideas, of course.  Some of you will recognize his voice as STUIE SUCKMAN...OR MR. SUCKMAN, the recurring character in the Turd Album.   George M.'s dad was also Art Davis, the movie cowboy about whom the Appaloosa Rider Song was written.  George M. owned a wonderful farm out in Canton, Texas, 60 miles east of Dallas.  22o acres of cow pastures and fences, a big barn, a trashed mobile home, and a glorious spring-fed stock pond smack in the middle.  The stock pond was the biggest draw.  It was stuffed with huge catfish, bass, and god knows what else.   Texans would call it a bucket, as in "fishin' in a bucket" cuz you were guaranteed to catch all the fish you wished.   Wilson and I loved going to that farm on Sundays.   We'd close up Bowley and Wilsons' after Saturday night, make a long stop at GUADALAJARA Restaurant in downtown Dallas for Napolitos con Chirizo (eggs and cactus and Mexican tripe sausage...yummy).  Also, in those days, Guadalajara would bring you cocktails in a tea pot, even if it was 4 a.m. and long after closing.   We'd take an extra order to go for George and head for the farm. We'd get to the farm at 5 or 5:30 in the morning....sun-up....and the perfect time to go fishing.  (SERIOUSLY, HOW DID THOSE BOYS JUST STAY UP ALL NIGHT AND NOT NEED ANY SLEEP AT ALL.  I WONDER.....).

Now Rambo is Bobby Rambo, first a friend of George M.s and then ours.  He was one of the most talented musicians in Dallas and a very funny and generous human beings.  We introduced Bobby to Jerry Jeff Walker one day at our recording studio, and he thereafter spent many years touring with Jerry Jeff.  Bet he got f**kin' sick of Mr. Bojangles.   Bobby Rambo was RAMBO long before Sylvester Stallone ever thought of the character and the movie.  Bobby loved fishing and hunting, always carried a big knife and gun when he went fishing at the stock pond....a red bandana around his head to keep the Texas sweat out of his eyes.  You'd of thought Stallone had seen  him and cloned him. 

Another character came along occasionally.   I had a poodle for a while.  Yup, a poodle. A Royal Standard Poodle that I'd bought from a Bowley and Wilson regular.  I named him SHEIK. DON'T SAY SHEEEK. The correct pronounciation  is 'Shake'    like shake rattle and roll, shake your tail feathers, like lets put some shake n' bake on that gaddam catfish.  Sheik was huge, as big as poodles come, solid white, full of life and himself, and he love-love-loved to chase Georges cows.   There were always 50 or so cows grazing around the farm.  We (actually Sheik) chased the cows  away from the stock pond so we could fish.   Wilson, Bowley, Rambo, George M. all casting and pulling out a mess of fish to cook up and eat while we were calling our bookies and watching the Cowboy game on TV.   And Sheik kept chasing cows.  Until he got Texas Hot.  And sweaty.  And dirty.  And very thirsty.   One hot dog plus one cool lake equals fun fun fun.   Sheik decided to go for a swim.  Poodles were originally water dogs from Russia (long before they became 'French' and are great swimmers.  Sheik leaped into the lake on the far, longest side away from me and started to paddle across, his big pom-pom tail wiggly-waggling on the water surface like a big lure, or a splashing frog.  From out of the cattails and reeds lining the pond came five or six Water Moccasins all swimming after the flicking lure.   Yikes!!!! 

Sheik is swimming and smiling, totally unaware of the snakes.   The tiiiiiiime of his life.  I'm screaming "Come on boy sheik sheik commmmonnnnn hurry up boy sheik sheik fella come on"  as the flotilla of fangs followed.  George M. decided that throwing things at the snakes would distract them.  All he could find around the stock pond, of course, was an ample supply of cow patties.  Both fresh and old  frisbee-shaped cow patties.   George was flinging the pies like a little kid skipping rocks, until he slipped in the shoreline mud and landed on his butt in the water. 

Rambo had a gun.  Which he pulled out and proceeded to pepper the water all around the snakes.  And the poodle.  I waded out in the water.  "Sheik, Sheik, Sheik......"   if I'd only added "your Booty'  I'd a had a hit.

Wilson, always cool and competent in a crisis, of course, laughed his ass off. 

After we got the dog out of the pond and cleaned up, we spent two hours looking for the ass that Wilson had laughed off.  Found it in a creel.  The Cowboys lost the game and I lost two hundred bucks.  The fish were very tasty.  Sheik never went back to the farm.






Edited by bowley - 07 Sep 2008 at 4:09pm

THE BIG BUST: NOT A TIT TALE, BUT THE HARROWING ACCOUNT OF BOWLEY AND WILSONS' ARREST AND TORTUROUS INCARCERATION IN THE DALLAS CITY JAIL (BOWLEYS' VERSION.....WILSON TELLS THIS MUCH BETTER THAN I DO, BUT I'LL TAKE THE FIRST SWING AT IT).   First of all, there had been some contact with the Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission (TABC), concerning the deportment of Bowley and Wilson on stage.  "A little over the line..." was mentioned.  And a $5000 fine. Deal or no deal?   No deal.  We took it as a shakedown.  Extortion even.  And we were young and cocky and stupid.  Stupid smart, as it turned out.  So, the TABC started to send in undercover "agents" (these were guys who didn't quite get accepted to the Dallas Police Department, but still wanted to walk around with a gun.   And cheap suit).  They didn't own tape recorders (or didn't know how to run 'em) so they'd write down everything we said, and had a secretary transcribe it later. (BTW, I read some of the transcriptions  and was reallllllly funny......where I said to some gal "Don't be such a sour-puss"  in a double entendre-ish wise-guy way, the TABC wrote down "Mr. Bowley says to the young lady "You have a sour smelling Pussy").  Yikes!!!    

When the TABC thought they had a tight and righteous case, they launched their invasion plan.  Would have loved to have been in that meeting.  The maps. The second by second schedule.   Blocking the escape routes.   What kind of ammunition.  Hollow points???   Please please just this once??????

Now, Bowley and Wilson almost always ending the first show singing Eric Claptons' 'Cocaine'....during which the band and the whole audience would get drenched in corn starch powder, Bowley head to toe.  it was then the TABC sprung their trap.   The head TABC guy was named Elvis.....Something-or-other.....anyone remember to help me out here......who lead the "task-force" to the stage.  Guns . Badges.  Bad haircuts.   The audience HOWLED thinking it was part of the show.  Top gun Elvis I guess was introducing him self ("I"m officer Elvie ---------- from the TABC and you're under arrest, " or something.  My ears were packed with corn starch and my eyes with the same....the only word i heard was "Elvis"  and thinking someone was requesting an ELVIS song at that inconvenient moment, I said something like "f**k off, were takin a break."  Yikes!!  The handcuffs went on.  The audience HOWLED.   The fake fuzzies went through the dressing room looking for drugs, and OF COURSE found nothing.  It was in the kitchen.  Putzes. 

Into the police cars and downtown to jail.   The fake fuzzies turning us over to real cops.  Please bare in mind that we knew tons of Dallas Police Officers.  We'd had so many cops' bachelor parties in our place we were practically members of the union.  They made sure we got home at night.   They were incredulous  when we were hauled  in.   And  HOWLED.   

The  booking officer, whom we did not know, took our information and wanted to take our stuff.   I was wearing (and still am actually) a solid gold band that my friend Jerry Forrest of the jewelry forrest had made for me and permanently soldered onto my wrist.  The officer wanted to get it off me.  "How do you get this f**kin' thing off?  There's no f**kin clasp here?  What the f**k am I supposed to do with this?   God damn motherf........"  He cut it off.    "Now" he said "what were you boys arrested for?"
"Sayin' the word f**k" we said.

Remember, we were covered head to toe in white powder.  And a matter of GREAT CURIOSITY to all the other prisoners.  "What's with you guys?" they asked.  "Well,' we'd explain "we were making a Coke delivery in the convertible when the Cops started chasing us.  We tried to throw it all out during the chase, but it kept blowing back on us."  We were stars.  Dollar bill were rolled, pens taken apart to make straws, and we were followed everywhere, our clothes and clouds of trailing dust sniffed, snorted, licked and loved.  

Our crackerjack legal team of Kevin Clancy and Bill Bratton arrived and bailed us out.  The law the TABC had arrested us under had already been declaired unconstitutional, but some prick in the D.A.'s office decided to charge us with public obscenity.  Because it was already all over the newspapers and TV I guess.  We were famous.  And now obligated to be ten times dirtier than we ever were before.   Eventually the Playboy Magazine Defense Team got involved in the case (read all about it in the 1982 August issue of Playboy Magazine).   We have been in prison in Huntsville Texas ever since.

Elvis and his Keystone Cops were transfered out of the Dallas office to Big Springs Texas.   Serves 'em right.


Edited by bowley - 05 Sep 2008 at 9:40pm