By Oakland L. Childers
By Kelsey McClure
By Melinda Cooper
By Allison Babka
By Christian Schaeffer
By Allison Babka
By Melinda Cooper
By RFT Music
"Well, just play the songs backward, and you get it all back," Alan Culley cracks.
At 44, Culley is 20 years younger than Dooley, just a kid but a fine bass player, the kind who can lock into a Ray Price shuffle, nail a harmony, light a cigarette and tip the waitress 50 cents in one unbroken gesture. Dooley, the drummer and featured vocalist, calls this second-Saturday band Dealer's Choice, but they don't need a name. Along with Little Joe Carpenter, a smooth-as-sable guitar- picker who once toured beside honky-tonk legend Jim Ed Brown, and Don E. Curtis, another youngster and world-class pedal-steel guitarist, the foursome play a set dominated by Ray Price -- "That's one of the finest singers that ever was, ever will be," Culley says -- George Jones and Merle Haggard. For the last three-and-a-half years they've been gathering at Horstmeier's, playing classic country music for the 15 or 20 friends who sit at tables sipping tomato juice and Milwaukee's Best on ice, smoking 100s, laughing at the well-worn jokes and hanging on every swooping pedal-steel run, every jazzy Atkinsesque break, every towering climax from Dooley's deep, time-harrowed voice.
"I started in the '50s," says Dooley (whose given name is Edward Foster), "down at the Music Box at Vandeventer and Olive. I got up and played "Fraulein' and "Release Me,' and they hired me. I got 6 bucks and drinks, so I was making 100 bucks a night." He reels off a litany of clubs in St. Louis' vanished honky-tonk district: the Tic-Toc, the Alarm Clock, the Roxy, the Pink Elephant, the Hucklebee. "The buildings were still there, oh, eight years ago," Dooley recalls. "I was gonna take pictures of the places I played at, but I went back not too long ago, and they'd all caved in."
For years, Dooley was the drummer of choice with legendary St. Louis guitarist Bobby Ward; worked with Roy Queen's Brush Apes; and had a taste of the big time when he sang with Texas crooner Darrell McCall. Mostly he played the country bars as if unable to stop -- "I had a nervous come-apart once," he says, "and I knew if I gave up music, I'd fall apart completely" -- fronting bands like Dooley and the Good Old Boys or the Country Misfits.
"I drove an 18-wheeler five-and-a-half days a week and played music seven nights a week. What kept me in jobs all my life was my shuffle beat. I can do a shuffle beat and a rim shot at the same time, with one hand. It comes from my family -- they had a fantastic rhythm section. My grandpa was one of the fiddlinest fools you ever saw. We'd jam out at his place, and he'd get that foot goin' and all that dust could come up from the floor."
Joe Carpenter played those country bars with Dooley and with singers like Roy Meesey and Chuck Raue, both of whom can still melt a stack of Peavey speakers when they step to the mike at Horstmeier's. But Carpenter is less sanguine about the old days at Olive and Vandeventer. "Those were terrible places," he says. "They supported the music industry back in the '50s, but there were fights every night, drugs and prostitution, all right there on the corner. If you made $6 or $7 a night, you were lucky." Does he miss it at all? "Truthfully? No, I do not. I would not, under any circumstances, do that for a living. Maybe I had that dream when I was young, but that was a long time ago."
Don Curtis had that dream, too. Curtis grew up in Indianapolis and attended Ben Davis High School, where all the aptitude tests ranked him as a musical genius, even though, in his words, he "couldn't play anything." He says, "I graduated the worst drummer in the eighth grade, and so that summer I went through the whole ninth-grade drum book and came back and wiped their asses." But he dreamed of melody, not rhythm.
"A guy gave me a guitar, and for the first time I became aware of Merle Travis," Curtis explains. "Tommy Flint, who was Travis' second cousin and writes all those Chet Atkins songbooks for Mel Bay, he lived in Indianapolis, and he gave me lessons. Only I was limited by my left-hand dexterity; it was sucking because I couldn't do any riffs. But anything that was finger-picked on the right hand I could assimilate. I branched out to Delta blues, John Fahey, weird tunings. It wasn't popular; you couldn't play it in a band. I could sit on a stool and play Merle Travis for four hours, but I couldn't kick off one Johnny B. Goode song."