Gothic Theatre
Denver Joe
Denver Joe has been singing his unique sour mash blend of whisky-drenched country music at the Cricket on The Hill for more than a decade. Equal parts Merle Haggard, Red Foxx and Dean Martin, Denver Joe has become a local institution unmatched since Buffalo Bill’s grave became a tourist trap.
Every Monday night, backed up by Uncle Dick on the slide guitar and Aunt Lois on the bass (Joe has gone through more drummers than Spinal Tap), Denver Joe straps on his weathered and beaten acoustic guitar, black cowboy hat with white trim and sleeveless denim shirt.
Joe staggers onto the stage and launches into a set of classics from the likes of Johnny Cash, Hank Williams or Jimmie Rogers, broken only by bouts of drunken banter with Uncle Dick and the merciless heckling of hapless audience members brave (or stupid) enough to make a request.
“Play the Good Old Boys by Waylon Jennings!” shouts one PBR-soused sap.
“WAYLON JENNINGS?!” Joe roars. “Waylon Jennings is a (multiple expletives)!” And then Joe launches into Maybelline, Chuck Berry’s rocking ‘50s hit.
Amidst whooping and hollering and stomping and dancing, Denver Joe transforms the Cricket on The Hill from sketchy dive bar into authentic Amarillo roadhouse one night a week. Other nights, it’s a crapshoot, depending on which upstart local band is making its debut here, and how many friends the band members convinced to come down and cheer them on.
The Cricket is dark and divey, and it’s not the kind of place you go on a first date unless your date has more tattoos and piercings than you do. It’s the kind of place where you don’t sit with your back to the door and you don’t complain about the service if you ever want another drink.
But every Monday night, possibly since the Reagan administration (no one, including Joe, seems to remember how long ago he started playing the Cricket), the place gets a tad brighter, the smiles get a little bit wider and the drinks are poured just a touch stiffer.
“This next song is by Earl Scruggs,” Joe says. A neophyte up front asks who Earl Scruggs is.
“WHO’S EARL SCRUGGS?!” Joe bellows incredulously at the Philistine. “You take your (body part) to the back of the room right now!” Then it’s time for Scruggs’ Your Love is Like a Flower.
Joe’s besotted manner is offset brilliantly by the affable rhythm section, who are both eminently talented as well as the sweetest people you’d ever meet. Adding the sugary sweetness to Joe’s bourbon-soaked bitterness, the end result is the perfect capper to the first day of the work week.
“Man,” The German said as we headed out, “that almost made me forget I was drinking Pabst.”
Coming from him, there is no higher praise, indeed.
