#xerf

Moth Mondays with the Funtastic World of Hanna-Barbera: Country from Cattanooga Cats

Returning to this tribute to The Moth, reader, is no less than the male lead of that feline folk-pop quartet the Cattanooga Cats--Country, by name, who we all know is in a relationship of long standing with Kitty Jo, its female lead. As we find out, Kitty Jo may not exactly have been Country's first fling romantically:

You might say I'm pretty glad to have Kitty Jo as not just part of our band, the Cattanooga Cats, but also as a wonderful friend and companion. I admit that we may have our differences, but when all is said and done, things actually turn out rather wonderful. We may not exactly be Lulubelle and Scotty, but Kitty Jo and I have some rather lively exchanges on stage during our concerts which can get to be hilarious, with such rivalled only by Scoots' storytelling segments.

But to be honest about it, Kitty Jo wasn't exactly my first romantic interest.

This goes back to when I was just a carefree country boy practicing chords on my guitar, which turned out to be one of those rather awful-sounding ones as were offered cheap late nights on that high-powered Mexican radio station, XERF I believe was its call. And despite every attempt I could to get it right, it still sounded awful. No wonder the coffeehouse crowds were laughing uproariously at me playing such an awful-sounding guitar, and the jokes were innumerable. And it was at one coffeehouse concert in Nashville that I met my first love--she was like that Persian cat "perfumed and fair" of a certain poem who, we are told, encountered a tom cat "lithe and long, and dirty and yellow," in the words of that poem ... and I suppose you know the rest.

Her name, as I recall it, was Tabitha. She was rather heavy on the fur, and had that certain look which suggested that I might have something to look forward to. I do admit that she had class, judging by the way she was dolled up ... and after this particularly awful concert in another of those coffeehouses where tips are about the only pay you're likely to get, she invited me, a rather unsophistciated country type, to her apartment across town in the high-rent section. And I must admit the room smelled heavily of catnip. Tabitha, I must acknowledge, may have had some class, but when the dawn came along ... she explained that she wouldn't want to get caught dead with someone of my type, even if we were sleeping together on the sofa. Whether there was any serious romance that night, I can't quite recall; the catnip seemed to be rather heady, and then some.

Still, thanks just the same, she remarked ... but I tried not to let any disappointment show on the street. Mind you, I wouldn't be the sort as would take comfort in cheap muscatel, let alone Southern white lightning of the sort some crazy cousins of mine we never talk much about have been known to brew up in the worst possible way ... and even with an awful-sounding, out-of-tune guitar such as I had, practice seemed to be the best thing to do to kill the time. Which was enough to attract the attention of another feline as passed by--a tabby as was fond of worn T-shirts and a cracked sense of humour.Marsha, she called herself... and after a few choice bits of conversation, I decided to spend a few days with her in her basement apartment in a slightly-reechy part of town. Which was kitschy in its own way, and yet she know how to make a raw country tomcat like yours truly understand the basics of love and romance. Explaining that I was a small-time coffeehouse guitar act with an awful-sounding guitar as could never be tuned properly, Marsha understood my predicament. But unlike Tabitha, Marsha wasn't heavy into catnip; rather, strong black coffee and decent Southern cookin' were her weaknesses.

Which continued for about two weeks, as a matter of fact. At which time Marsha acknowledged that she was moving on, and that the relationship was wonderful while it lasted. But as a final thank you, she gave me the name of a close feline friend to look up for some support.

It turned out to be no less than Kitty Jo "herself."

And one of the first things Kitty Jo did that made sense for me was to get for me a much better guitar, to begin with ("That crummy-sounding Mexican border radio 'gee-tar' just sounds awful!") ... and to encourage me to get my guitar playing up to speed. After just a weekend of practice at her pad, I couldn't help but notice how things sounded much better compared to what had been the butt of jokes all over town. Which was all the more so, what with her finding some friends to put together a modest little band with an interest in light folk rock and "sunshine pop." (No, it's not the name of a soft drink.) And it took awhile, but after going through some 60 would-be drummers, we found ours in Groove, who's fond of talking away in rhyme and can do a mean rinshot. Not to mention a fondness for Southern comfort food, especially barbecue.

As for bassist, we didn't want a washtub bass; it was felt to be only cheapening things, and made us look too hokey. But still, we didn't want to be too high-strung either. Luckily, in Scoots we found the ideal such; as I heard him explain once, he's learned tp play music since he was the proverbial knee-high to a grasshopper, picking up the standup bass, banjo, eight-string guitar, musical saw, dulcimer and harmonica, among other insturments. As if that weren't enough, he can also be a rather adept storyteller, relating experiences of his crazy feline kith and kin from "back in the holler"; again, he picked up the talent from growing up in a nearly-dysfunctional family as included an episode of nervous breakdown on his mother's part during a rather hot summer as saw him learn "the facts of life" from a rather wonderful gal, Amy Catline. All in all, music and storytelling were the weapons he grew up on to get through such dysfunction.

Still ... Kitty Jo was a rather attractive gal, with a bit of the small town in her. And still is, come to think of it. Did I ever mention where Kitty Jo has this rather impressive recipe for chess pie, something of a Souther staple? (It's just a custard pie with cornmeal and vinegar, if you're not exactly from the South.)

"... and that's the story from The Moth"