Title: Texas Gang new edition
Author: Wild Bill Blackolive
[$5, postpaid in the US. HUGE SALE! Reg. list $15.]
Here’s a $5 ZINEBOOK! Zines are cheap…so are ZINEBOOKS! Check it out! Pulp is back! The new pulp is here! …Yet another title in the ULA PRESS zinebook series!
Wild Bill’s writing has been called “really great” by the likes of William Burroughs and other Americana writing reviewers. A literature professor called it a “beat western.”
It IS great; it’s just not well known. Yet. I’ve been reselling vintage copies of the first edition of this novel for years. So here’s a new edition, a breakthru re-release.
Say, if you like the “Deadwood” TV series, well, you’ll like this far more. It has the gritty realism…and much more. It has wider action, more drama…and tons of humor. TV is so shallow compared to worldclass literature, isn’t it.
Ah, the first review of this new edition is now in! (6/08) And, surprise, it’s not from the American media. (Do you still think US art is rightly valued in this country?) Check out what Bruce Hodder of the UK has to say: “Probably America’s most famous underground author, justifiably… Has an almost mythical status among serious, hip readers… I promise, you won’t be disappointed.” See: bluefredpress.blogspot.com/2008/06/received-in-mail-today.html.
A Website for the Gang
I had an amazing experience years ago when I read the first edition of this book. I googled the author and found a TexasGang.com website. I clicked the email contact link and asked if there were any more Wild Bill books and I got a reply from…one of the characters in the novel! I went back and explored the website some more and it dawned on me that this gang was REAL, just re-cast back into the 1800’s in this particular Tale. The site contains textfiles of other Wild Bill novels plus artwork and essays by various gang members. texasgang.com.
From the Back Cover…
This novel is a classic from the 1970’s, 2000 sold on the street back then, it’s a favorite of many who found it, but overall it’s scarcely known. Now re-issued in this “rebirth” edition. It’s big—in the heritage of Melville, Twain, Kerouac, Abbey, Castenada, McCarthy. But pressing on farther. It’s a fabulous tale with a heart for the people and the land of the border. Set in the 1800’s but based on real outlaws of the 196’s. Bold. Untamed.
AUTHOR BIO:
Wild Bill has been an outlaw folk writer since a youth, with no connections, except for praise from William Burroughs. He’s published a word-of-mouth underground zeen, “The Last Laugh” for decades. He has a GED, has never held a real job, but has been homeless, a streetfighter, bouncer, boxer, bodyguard and art school model. He lives on SSI and cares for his elderly mother and an assortment of pit bulldogs in Port Aransas, Texas, on the Gulf, near the border. He has lived loyal to his art and in poverty his whole life as a result. All his writings have been rejected by publishers (but former “New Yorker” editor Bob Gottleib insists “there are no undiscovered geniuses toiling away in the hinterlands”). Wild Bill is the author of several other novels, including “The Emeryville War” (available here) and “Madam Z and Billy” (forthcoming).
EXCERPT:
I would rather live Indian than with preachers and sin. I ain’t a guilty man. Kelly and me once came upon a bunch of wagons, regular pioneers, some pretty tough people and they was about to get set for the night. We was a bit idle and rode up for a chat, Kelly about eighteen years old, me looking near Christianised in a hat and buffalo coat. They was mighty glad to see us, give us coffee and whiskey. We sit with them and they had a preacher, first one we had ever seen. We ain’t seen white people since we left Arkansaw, he said. He was a wide shouldered big young fellow, had a clean face, had a neat mustache, had a firm lip, and a pretty but dull woman kind of hid behind him, and next he said, you boys working men? No, I said, after the surprise went. What about yourself? Oh, yes, he bragged, happy with it. Sirs, my work is the Lord’s work. Why don’t he do it hisself, Kelly wondered. Thing of it, Kelly asked a mostly serious question. After all, if you’re just riding around and looking at the earth and picking a few antelope, and someone asks you about work, this is a strange question too. Preacher feller thought we was being blasphemous and these hard cases with him was some so foolish as to bristle up but we held our smiles inside till our pure innocence let that man ride his storm out. Have you heard about Jesus Christ, he said. Ain’t he the one they killed for disagreement, I asked him. He is the one that died for our sins, he said, and went on some about it. Is that right, we said. Sirs, he said, feeling better and poured a little more whiskey in the coffee pot. Brothers! Let me tell you about Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior. Well, go right ahead, we said even as our mother already had. He did not have much to say about Jesus but he was pretty big on hellfire and redemption and by tones of his voice first you were not sure he believed it all himself because it was mighty like play acting, you wondered maybe he was making some fun, but understand that we had just never seen a preacher and he worked himself to a lather, was fit to be tied. He did it about an hour and then he stopped, and smiled real calm at us, though like a joke cept the smile happened to be part of his serious sermon, and he wanted to know if now we believed. It was a even more confusing question, and before we could judge some kind of answer he said, would you like to be baptised. That one really startled me, I just could not get over this man, and was studying all these dead serious folk backing him up, but Kelly settled it, said, hell no. The preacher frowned, and all behind him frowned. Kelly rose, pushed back his coat showing gun and knife, and frowned back. My brother is a squawman and you are in Comanche territory and likely to get killed. They was all on their feet by time I was and I asked, what’s wrong with you people? They was looking us over with some new respect, looked over at our horses, one said, why don’t you men have saddles? We went and pulled our rifles from the blanket folds, mounted and they all jumped back. You’re squawmen, ain’t you, screams the preacher. Lost sheep of the fold! Amen, amen, went the crowd. I had to get into the spirit of it and give them a long Comanche turkey gobble, and then did one of my own, eee-eee-eee-haw-aw-aw! One started to shoot but Kelly still took care of me and in mean temper shot the man’s elbow when he bent, and that one moaning on his knees the rest went for cover, women screaming, preacher giving his best sermon, and we ducked into the darkness.
[JP: And, man, the scene above is only just starting! What happens next is a great addition to Western lit.]
