Trophy Tail Wives Taking Boner Pill Rides
A tribute to two great works of art: “Shit Shots Count” and the movie Road House.
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When I listen to “Shit Shots Count,” I picture the Double Deuce, the titular road house from the 1989 movie Road House. The cult classic – directed by a man named Rowdy Herrington — imagines a world where there is such a thing as a famous bouncer, known only as Dalton.
This legendary “cooler,” capable of taming even the most intractable bar crowds, is played by Patrick Swayze, a 5-foot-10 formally trained ballerina. Dalton has a bouncer mentor played by an equally sinewy Sam Elliot. (“I thought you’d be bigger” is a recurring joke.) Dalton studied philosophy at NYU and stitches up his own wounds. Like a superhero, he shows up where his powers are needed most.
Located in Jasper, Missouri, the Double Deuce is described as “the kind of place that they sweep up the eyeballs after closing” — as if this is a common category of dive bar. For their safety, the road house band (including a charming blind guitar player, played by Jeff Healey) must perform behind a chicken-wire fence. The bar routinely erupts into comical WWE-worthy brawls, with so much broken glass you wonder if they have heard of plastic cups. Also, a redneck crime syndicate is terrorizing the town, led by cartoonish villain Brad Welsey.
Nancy Einhart
The script contains some truly jaw-dropping one-liners, like when Dalton describes the Double Deuce crowd as “too many 40-year-old adolescents, felons, power drinkers, and trustees of modern chemistry.” (Eloquent.) Later, one of the evil henchman gets Dalton in a headlock and says, “I used to fuck guys like you in prison.”
Road House is a singular piece of art. (And yes, I have seen the 2024 remake starring Jake Gyllenhaal).
The chorus calls to mind the bar in Road House, where people get into bloody fights while playing pool and where they might also serve steak, where everyone is a little corrupt and way too drunk.
Like famed director Rowdy Herrington, Mike Cooley marks his territory with “Shit Shots Count,” the first track on 2015’s English Oceans. As with “Ramón Casiano” on American Band, “Shit Shots Count” feels like a deliberately in-your-face choice for an opening track. Cooley was super-prolific on this album, and every song of his on this record rules: “Shit Shots Count,” “Made Up English Oceans,” “Primer Coat,” “Natural Light,” and “First Air of Autumn.” To borrow Cooley’s verbiage, the songs veer from “chainsaw rock 'n' roll” to gentle, nostalgic ballads.
Nancy Einhart
“Shit Shots Count” sounds like a chainsaw rock band playing at a honky-tonk, with a two-stroke engine of grinding guitars and heavy-duty horns. (Let’s hear it for the horns!) Given that Patterson Hood and Mike Cooley used to perform at honky tonks like Club XIII on the Tennessee state line, Drive-By Truckers could easily be the band behind the Double Deuce’s chicken-wire fence. And the lyrics — like “trophy tail wives taking boner pill rides for the price of a happy meal” — are brilliant B-movie poetry.
“Shit Shots Count” emanates analog warmth with lyrics that alternate between crude and graceful. The opening lines — “put your cigarette out, get your hat back on, don’t mix up which is which” — rival “Marry Me” as the best starting lyrics Cooley has ever written. And while I have never seen an intoxicated person confuse their cigarette with their hat, I can sure as hell picture it.
Nancy Einhart
As a songwriter, Cooley is cryptic, clever, and a fucking good time. Like the tumbled-together lyrics of “Filthy and Fried,” the hyper-specific details in “Shit Shots Count” are more abstract than literal. The chorus calls to mind the bar in Road House, where people get into bloody fights while playing pool and where they might also serve steak, where everyone is a little corrupt and way too drunk:
Shit shots count if the table’s tilted
Just pay the man who levels the floor
Pride’s what you charge a proud man for having
Shame is what you sell to a whore
Meats just meat and it’s all born dying,
Some is tender and some is tough
Somebody’s gotta mop up the A-1
Somebody’s gotta mop up the blood
But as with many Cooley songs, “Shit Shots Count” isn’t just here for a good time, and it’s not really about a bar with a pool table. The song is speaking to men who take foolish pride in their work, who think they’re climbing a mythical economic ladder. But the table’s titled, the game is fixed, and unless you’ve got enough clout or cash to level the playing field, you’re stuck in a soul-crushing suburban nightmare:
The boss ain’t smart as he’d like to be,
But he ain’t nearly as dumb as you think
He just wants evolution on a budget, with a schedule to keep
Suburban four lanes move like blood through an old man’s dying heart
Enough at a time to keep hope alive at the speed of a stream of tar
He bought in young and I’ve no doubt,
He’s gonna cash out with a winning deal
Trophy tail wives taking boner pill rides for the price of a happy meal
“Shit Shots Count” suggests a cautious approach to ambition. You might think your boss is a moron, but he’ll still come out on top while you do the dirty work. The Man is squeezing every last bit of meat from your bones, eating you alive, bleeding you dry — just like Brad Wesley and the hard-working residents of Jasper, Missouri. By the last verse, you can feel the narrator’s frustration that this proud, drunk fool still doesn’t quite get it:
High ground ain’t high enough to kill you quick if you fall
Idealistically speaking it sounds like you ain’t listening at all
Friday night rich is all you’re ever gonna be
Until the fight in you on Monday’s gone
One more drag, tuck your hair in your hat
Don’t act so surprised, and try not to look so lost
The final minute of the song repeats the chorus — “somebody’s gotta mop up the blood” —and concludes with a barrage of horns, guitars, and percussion that sounds like winning an argument. If you have too much hope, you’re a sucker. You’re the whore.
If that economic worldview sounds too bleak to you, allow me to direct your attention back to the movie Road House, where the bouncer superhero saves the town and the working man triumphs. Buckets of blood are spilled in the process, but in the end, everyone lies to the cops and justice is served. Jeff Healey gets the last word, singing “When the Night Comes Falling From the Sky” (one of my favorite ‘80s Dylan songs) on a stage unencumbered by chicken-wire.
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