By Buck Rawlins – Rodeo Retiree, Fence Repair Enthusiast, Accidental Headbanger
“Well, Here’s Somethin’ That Ain’t Got No Horse In It…”
Name’s Buck Rawlins. I’m 55 years young, born and bred in the sun-scorched dust of Amarillo, Texas. Rode my first bull at 12, broke my first rib at 13, and married my third wife at 41. I’ve spent most of my life covered in dirt, sweat, and whatever mysterious substance ends up in your boots after a rodeo in July. I eat jerky like it’s a food group and still think George Strait should run for president.
But lately, I been thinkin’… maybe it’s time I tried somethin’ new. My knees don’t bend like they used to, my saddle’s startin’ to creak louder than my bones, and my grandson—smart little rascal with holes in his jeans on purpose—decided to hand me a CD for my birthday. Said it’d “change my perspective.”
That CD was called Cowboys from Hell, by a band named Pantera. Now, I ain’t never heard of a band named after kitchenware, but I figured, what the hell. I’ve stared down bulls named Satan’s Elbow, I reckon I can handle four fellas with guitars.
So I sat down, poured myself a finger of Wild Turkey, looked my dog Rusty square in the eye, and said, “Well boy, looks like we’re goin’ to hell.”
“Riffs, Rage, and Rethinkin’ My Life Choices”
So track one kicks in—“Cowboys from Hell”—and I nearly spilled my bourbon. Thought maybe the CD player was possessed. It starts off with this guitar riff that sounds like a hornet’s nest got plugged into a car battery. Then the drums come in like a bar fight in a tornado, and by the time the singer starts howlin’, I’m sittin’ there thinkin’, “Is this fella alright? Did somebody set his beard on fire?”
But y’know what? About thirty seconds in… my foot starts tappin’. Against my will. Like some demon in them speakers reached into my bones and said, “You’re gonna enjoy this, Buck, whether you like it or not.”
I’m listenin’ to “Primal Concrete Sledge” and wonderin’ if these boys ever rode a horse, or if they just headbutted trucks for fun. That riff hits harder than a bronco with relationship issues. By the time we got to “Cemetery Gates,” I almost felt emotions. And that ain’t happened since my dog got neutered in ’98.
Now, I ain’t gonna pretend I understood all the lyrics. Some of it sounds like threats, some of it sounds like poetry yelled by a man who just lost a wrestling match with a grizzly bear. But one thing’s for sure: that Dimebag Darrell fella could play guitar like a chainsaw carvin’ God’s name into a thundercloud.
Also—side note—if y’all haven’t tried air-drumming in a La-Z-Boy recliner at full tilt, I highly recommend it. Lost control around track 7 and knocked over a cactus lamp, but it was worth it.
When the album ended, Rusty (my dog) was lookin’ at me like I’d joined a cult. Maybe I have. Maybe Pantera ain’t music in the traditional sense. Maybe it’s a rite of passage. A sonic branding iron for your soul.
“Final Thoughts from the Wreckage”
I started the night thinkin’ these boys were pretendin’ to be cowboys. But hell… turns out, they’re just the kind that ride riffs instead of bulls. And that takes guts, too.
Final verdict? I may not trade in my George Strait records just yet, but I’ll be damned if this album didn’t put a little more fire in my step. Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go buy a shirt with skulls on it and try not to throw my back out headbangin’.
