EVIL MISTRESS: A Lifelong Affair with Music, Part Twenty-Nine

Photo: Brant Leeper, Dean Murphy & DC Duncan

Back in the late eighties, before my time in Colorado, Big Pete Pearson started playing Farquarht’s in Durango. Big Pete was the patriarch of the Phoenix blues scene. The brother was quite the entertainer and soon became a local favorite.

By the late nineties, the stand-out in his band was his impressive guitar player, Dean Murphy. Later, I’d be playing with Dean. According to him, Big Pete’s real name was Lewis Paul Pearson, aka LP Pearson. Originally from Austin, his cousin was legendary Texas bluesman, WC Clark.

Not only was Pete endowed with a magnificent voice, he was, simply put – well-endowed. That’s why they called him Big Peter. (Pete for short. But there was absolutely nothing short about it!)

My adventures with Dean Murphy: alias “Mean Dean” Murphy

In late 2006, I met Dean on Main Street in Durango. A mutual friend of ours introduced us. Dean commented: “You’re DC Duncan? Really? Huh,” like it was a let-down to finally meet me. But that was just Dean’s sarcastic way of saying: “Hello, fucker!”

So began a great musical collaboration and a close, but sometimes wacky personal relationship. I fastened my seatbelt and braced myself for a topsy-turvy ride. Dean never liked me calling him Mean Dean Murphy – he got mean about it. (Oh, the irony.) But it wasn’t that. I called him that nickname because he was a mean guitar player, although somewhat of a grouch.

Soon after that odd meeting, we somehow formed a jazz band with saxman Bob Hemenger and keyboardist Brant Leeper. Called the SwingRays, we started gigging at the Sidecar beneath Scoot ‘n Blues. I thought we sounded great but, unfortunately, Dean and Brant wanted to go ahead without Bob and I was outvoted – something that has troubled me to this day.

So, it was Dean on guitar and vocals, Brant on keys and yours truly on drums and vocal harmonies. Brant, who had a B-3 organ, for longer gigs, was also playing bass lines with his lefthand. So that was the trio for a short while. The jazzy SwingRays wasn’t working, so we switched the repertoire to rockin’ blues and had them up on the dancefloor. We changed the name to Dean Murphy, but out of earshot – at the risk of being clobbered – I defiantly called the band, Mean Dean Murphy. So there…

Dean had always had a love/hate relationship with his audiences; including diehard fans. If someone requested “Free Bird” Dean would say: “Here’s your fucking free bird!” And shoot them the bird. One time a sad little man requested a “slow” Free Bird. So, Dean, ever so slowly, raised his middle finger and softly said: “There you go, you little shit.”

Brant had been raised in Farmington, NM, but had been gigging in Austin for many years with WC Clark and other luminaries. He was, by all standards, a damn prodigy. And like Dean and I, was a prodigious drinker. His poison was Maker’s Mark whiskey. Dean enjoyed Irish whiskey, and I drank Budweiser. Occasionally, I’d slam down ten or twelve shots of peppermint schnapps. Because, if I got sick, it always smelled minty fresh! (Just joking.)

On gigs, Dean avoided alcohol; he was a devoted pothead. But if he ever ran out – which he did quite often – he’d hop on the whiskey wagon and all hell would break loose! If he smoked all his stash on the gig in some distant town, Brant and I would have to go around begging for ganja, hopefully finding some before he hit the bottle. Moe, Larry, the cheese!

Jealous Man

Dean had a beautiful wife named Trish. He had met her at Farquarht’s while playing for Big Pete Pearson and it was lust at first leer. Trish drank tequila and at home, he drank whiskey. I assure you tequila and whiskey don’t mix; neither did Trish and Dean when they were imbibing. You had to give them plenty of space – such as a wrestling ring with a referee.

They had separate bedrooms due to Trish’s loud snoring. So, one morning, Dean was feeling frisky and headed for her room with romance on his mind. They were getting it on when Dean looked down at his wife – and to his astonishment – she was wearing a Rumbelly T-shirt with my cartoon caricature staring up at him. I guess he freaked out and scolded her for wearing such a hideous shirt to bed. “Goddam DC!” He lamented.

Brant and I had gotten mighty close: he called me Dad and I called him Sonny Boy. His lovely common-law wife, Sister Mary, was a popular R&B singer in Santa Fe. I actually met her before Brant had and appreciated her awesome talent. At one of our gigs in Canyon, City, Colorado, Sister Mary joined us and brought down the house.

Now that was a band, my friend.

Of course, my wife, Jayebird, chose not to attend our gigs in those loud crowded venues. Unless it was a jazz gig in a cozy little café in Pagosa, she was absent. After many years of marriage, she had been-there-and-done-it and didn’t do it anymore. And she knew enough to keep out of the music business, except to snatch every penny I made.

Jayebird knew from the start that there was another woman: my evil mistress…

Dean was a working stiff, and he definitely had the workin’ man blues – and that ain’t no lie! He moonlighted as a baker and a highway flagman, an extremely dangerous occupation. But his musical mistress was always waiting for him after sundown.

We decided to lay down some tracks in the studio, but with Dean working all the time, it was challenging. The only time we could book was an early morning session after Dean’s baking job in the wee small hours. So, one morning we all showed up at Eagle Sound Studios, in Durango, at 9:00am (The last time I recorded at that godforsaken hour was when the session started the night before!)

Au Privave

The recording session, engineered by Scott “Scooter” Smith, was a pure delight. We put down five tracks and each one is a little gem: “Crosscut Saw” by Albert King, “Au Privave” by Charlie Parker, “Jealous Man” by Buddy Moss, “Sleepwalk” by Santo & Johnny Farina and “Mystery Train” by Junior Parker. I’ve included three of these tunes here for your listening pleasure. Enjoy!

In 2012, not long after this session, Sonny Boy was offered a job with recording star, bluesman Coco Montoya. Poor Dean blew his top; he had lost his main man. I congratulated Brant and wished him well; it was the chance of a lifetime. Sonny Boy was now on the road from California to the east coast, to Europe and all the way to Moscow — as well as recording dates in exotic venues. (One good thing: Coco and the boys listened to The Adventures of Captain Rumbelly and the Panhead Pirates halfway around the world, and laughed their asses off!) Brant was with Coco, off and on, for eleven years!

Dean hired a good bass player, an ex-marine/Jesus freak named Robert Ernest. We got along pretty well with Robert, until he started reciting Bible verses and trying to convince us to go to church in every town we played.

He once stayed at my brother’s house across the road, but brother Ross went insane listening to his never-ending sermons. Robert was basically a good guy: he actually got up on my roof to help me shovel off three feet of snow. Unfortunately, the big guy didn’t know his own strength and damaged the asphalt shingles. At that point I was beginning to think that God had sent him to punish me for being a heathen. (I was getting religious though… I was yelling the words ‘JESUS CHRIST’ quite a lot!)

After the Reverend Robert finally accepted he couldn’t keep his dog in his motel rooms, he moved on to other ecclesiastical pursuits. He probably formed a cult and forced them all to drink the Kool-Aid. (Hell, a few more gigs with him and I would have chugged the Kool-Aid!)

Finally, we found a really good bass player who was one of us. Dan Hancock was a fellow biker and kept his religion to himself. (Where it belongs.) Suddenly, we were back in business! We rehearsed the song list, including Dean’s originals and started gigging immediately.

We played the usual joints and started playing the Northern Edge Navajo Casino southwest of Farmington, New Mexico. It was a good sounding room and great audiences. Some of our most avid fans were Apache bikers from Dulce, NM. We also played their casino, the Wild Horse, operated by the Jicarilla Apache Nation. So, they were familiar with us.

Our new friends invited us to play their annual 4th of July bash across the way from the fireworks display. They put us up at the casino and that was a good thing – the gig was a rowdy all-nighter! At one point a bunch of young bucks showed up and things got rather tense. All things considered the Apaches are wonderful people, and they sure know how to party. The next year we did it again with Lisa Saunders singing.

We also played the Sky Ute Casino in Ignacio, CO and did an outdoor concert there that was a lot of fun. Of course, we played the annual Iron Horse biker rally in Ignacio for a large crowd. And don’t forget the Billy Goat in Gem Village. Everywhere we played they loved the blues.

As stated before, Jeff Strahan had asked me to take over his New Year’s Eve gig in Telluride. I agreed, but there was a hitch: our bass man, Dan, was laid up in the hospital. I thought I’d try calling Brant Leeper at his home in Santa Fe. Thankfully, he agreed to do the gig, but had to get out of his New Year’s obligation. As an added bonus, Sister Mary, agreed to sing for us!

On New Year’s Eve, 2013, we played the New Sheridan in Telluride for a packed house. We were given a luxury condo and an Eggs Benedict breakfast on the first of 2014. And I had brought my brother Ross along to roadie. Our performance was spectacular. And after our first set the owner and manager approached me and were all smiles: “You guys are fantastic!” The owner handed me a check for $500 as a tip! That says it all. Bar none, the best New Year’s I ever played!

“Mystery Train”

Old Dean and I were cut from the same cloth. Despite all of our shortcomings, there was always something special about our quirky friendship; and when we were on, we were on top of the world! Here’s a special toast to Mean Dean Murphy:

Here’s to you, here’s to me
May we never disagree,
But if we do, fuck you,
Here’s to me!