From Field Veterinarian To Cowboy Poet, Baxter Black Has Been The People's Jester.
By Leo Banks
BENSON, ARIZONA--IT'S morning in the great room of Baxter
Black's ranch house. The place is a blur of activity. One assistant
is typing on a computer and answering the steady clang of telephones,
while another stuffs cassettes and videotapes into boxes for shipment
to Black's fans nationwide. Since 1981, he's sold about 400,000
tapes, and a monster pile of self-published books.
"Total number?" Black asks, stroking his snoozing-ferret
mustache. "Why, I don't know, what with all the editions
and such. It's more than 400,000, I know that much."
It sounds like the operation of a California self-help guru,
or maybe a shrimp-and-ginger-ale diet huckster with a fabulous
mailing list.
But Black is actually a cowboy poet, a kind of dirt-road Martha
Stewart. He takes the everyday grist of ranch living and turns
it into material so entertaining that rural folk pay a handsome
price, and sometimes drive hundreds of miles, to see his shows.
Consider this: On a weekend night in Ponca City, Okla., Black
will draw 700 people to a downtown theater at $15 a throw. In
one of his typically complex explanations, the 53-year-old former
large-animal veterinarian says, "I talk to cow people, horse
people and hog people. I tell 'em funny stories and they laugh."
Black was born in New Mexico, son of an animal science professor,
a man with his boots in the mud and the academy at the same time.
Baxter got his veterinary degree from Colorado State in 1969,
and one of his early jobs was for a company that owned feedlots
around the West. He traveled from lot to lot caring for animals,
and gathering with lonesome cowboys to swap stories.
He developed a flair for performing while working for a Denver-based
pharmaceutical company. Black spoke and entertained livestock
producers at some 250 meetings a year. When he got laid off in
1982, Black was two years into a column that today is syndicated
in 140 rural newspapers and trade journals.
He also does a weekly spot that airs on 220 commercial radio
stations, he makes 70 appearances a year, and is an irregular
contributor to National Public Radio. The latter, along with six
guest spots on the Tonight Show, has given him enough of
a following among urban sophisticates that when he appeared at
an autographing session in Rochester, N.Y., the organizers actually
sold tickets.
As a self-described mildly famous person, Black is a tad troubled
that people actually start to believe what he says. "They
confuse celebrity with knowledge," he explains. "The
real trap is believing it yourself. Now and then I get off the
deep end and have to remind myself I don't know what I'm talking
about."
An example was an NPR commentary on the current fight between
the government and big tobacco. Black launched into the frenzy
of politicians and lawyers lining up for a giant payday, and drew
calls from people who were indignant over his indignation. "I
might've been right, but getting indignant's no good," he
says. "What I do best is humor."
Like the guaranteed laugh he gets when he tells of the Boston
woman visiting Arizona who calls wanting to go to lunch with Black,
and they decide on oysters. "When you say oysters in my world,
it isn't the same thing as in hers," he says, eyebrows at
appropriate elevation.
Black describes that kind of humor as rubbing cultural tectonic
plates together. He's a living example of a cow-country boy who
sips Rimrock bottled water while drawling the signature opening
of his commercial radio show, "Call the dogs and put out
the fire"...yet he knows gosh-darn well how to book and
promote an engagement to guarantee maximum profit.
But he also knows that the work he does now isn't really work
at all.
"Work is laying on your back underneath a cow at night in
the middle of a field, a cowboy in a pickup nearby with the lights
on so you can see, snowflakes sizzling against your body as you
try to shove a prolapse back in."
|