Review: Ross Cooper honors cowboy roots with ‘I Rode the Wild Horses’ -

“So, it’s been my lot for many years / To have worked for some of the best / Of these men who may be a ‘dying breed’ / yet have not shirked the test,” self-proclaimed “Packsaddle Poet” Chris Isaacs writes about “The Dying Breed” of cowboys and cattle wranglers in one of his best-known works. Rooted in a life-long career as a working cowboy, a packer, a horseshoer, a day-work cowboy and a rodeo cowboy, Isaacs, three-time winner of the Academy of Western Artists “Will Rogers” Award, approaches storytelling with great discernment, depicting the heart and humor of the cowboy way of life. He then parades his admiration for those “who have not knuckled under / Or sold out to the corporate dragon / Who’ve held the ranch together and still ride out with the wagon.” It’s a teary, sun-parched passage which carries with it tremendous sorrow but hope for tomorrow.

Ross Cooper‘s third record, the ragged and dusty I Rode the Wild Horses, fits quite snugly next to such a refined and perceptive wordsmith. Coincidentally, Cooper was born and bred in a rodeo family himself and spent many years as a bronco rider, and he assembles those experiences into one hearty, western-styled, spitfire record, frequenting open ranges, rodeo corrals and tucked-away honky-tonk bar tops. He’s a son of the road, wearing that distinction in sheepish braggadocio on his jacket. His cowboy hat sits cocked on his head, but he’s not arrogant; he’s simply stating truths as they are. “The old stomping grounds are all stomped out for all the slow-rolling tumbleweeds,” he paints nonchalantly on opener and titular cut, the jangle of drums and guitar clinking in the dust at his feet. Cooper’s illustrations are as easy as they are lush and cinematic, merging traditional, campfire cowboy music, tales of wily temptations, swift heartbreaks and feeble recoveries, with ingenious modernisms. “Heart Attacks” boils savagely, leading into the twinkling neo-traditionalism of “Old Crow Whiskey and a Cornbread Moon,” an earthed gemstone which could have been first chiseled in the late ’80s but lost to time and the fleeting harvests.

“Lady of the Highway” quivers between the blurred lines of a rumbling pickup truck’s silver headlights and the expansive unknown lying in wait in the darkness. “Oh, lady of the highway, if you hear me, help me on my way,” he whispers into a foggy composition of lonesomeness and sleep-depravation. “Travelling comes with the territory, and there have been times where we should’ve pulled off and got some rest,” he explained, opening up a musician’s cost of living for the road. The throng of guitars trickle down upon cracked pavement, and Cooper feeds the story with a listless but determined gaze. “Living’s Hard, Loving’s Easy,” brimming with Erin Rae’s supple, gorgeous harmonies, is among the album’s sweetest. “Erase all the struggle when our parents were younger / With the bills in the breadbox and not much in the cupboard / If anyone was keeping score, we didn’t know / It didn’t matter,” he surmises, depicting a steadfast devotion amidst crippling financial chains ⎯⎯ but you’ll soldier the storm as long as you have the one you love right next to you.

“Damn Love” pours down with torrential force, as nature fancies in the height of summer. The sun scurries behind charcoal clouds which burst wide open. The rain is bittersweet, cleansing the earth of the day’s scorching touch and replenishing anew; but it also reminds of the necessity of misery. It’s a masterful performance from Cooper, who rips the listener’s heart from their chest as he, too, picks up his throbbing organ off the hardwood floor and tries to replace it. “When I ain’t dream, I’m praying / If I ain’t praying, I’m probably dreaming about love / Damn love,” he glares off into the distant, a former love-kissed darling galavanting off into the sunset. “If I’m drinking, it’s to keep from crying about love / Damn love,” he nearly weeps into his beer.

“Damn Love” sets the pace for three of the other album’s most arresting songs, a 1-2-3 high-voltage cattle prod. “Cowboys and Indians” unwinds like a lethal John Wayne western, the electric guitars spitting like a withering flame at dusk. It’s sinister and overwhelming. “Strangers in a Bar” then oscillates in fevered intimacy, as he croons, “We don’t have to be alone.” He sheds his cool demeanor and allows you to come even closer into his world. Finally, “Me Only” barrels along like a freight train, devilishly charming and soaked in deep southern rock. His phrasing is just as slippery and laced with a sneering gleam in his wild eyes.

I Rode the Wild Horses is best broiled underneath producer Eric Masse’s watchful eye. Known for his work with Miranda Lambert (The Weight of These Wings), Andrew Combs (All These Dreams), Aubrie Sellers (New City Blues) and Caitlin Rose (The Stand-In), among others, Masse lends a commanding hand to the lineup. His choices are bold, enchanting and summon richer contexts. “All She Wrote,” a frolicking mid-tempo, serves well as the final bow, giving the album space to ferment in its final moments, and Cooper, unsurprisingly, extends his emotional expedition. “I don’t feel like I’m leaving ’cause you can’t leave a man already gone,” he howls. “And you know I tried to love you / So, if you ever loved me, let me go…”

Grade: 3.5 out of 5