Cat Mountain

Cat Mountain formed over the sharp end of a rusty nail. All four members were driving through the outskirts of Tucson when they caught their flats. They were all out buying cigarettes for other people. Once the tires were patched and they found the culprit nail, chucking the bastard as far as they could, they all looked at one another in the tangerine light of the setting sun and wondered, “Could I be vulnerable with these people?” Justin started things off, slapping the side of his cream-colored sedan, and Terry ran to the bass guitar in his trunk when Jon started to sing low and Syndenn came in a bit higher.

The air chilled as the sun shimmied away, but these four strangers kept on their impromptu serenade to the waking stars, letting the billowing dust from passing trucks coat their clothes but never their spirits. It was only when the coyotes came circling, licking their ragged chops, that these four people realized they still had cigarettes to buy. But that night on the side of the road couldn’t be the end, could it? The melodies appeared quicker than a startled jackrabbit, and Terry knew which string to pluck as Justin understood how hard to bang and Jon and Syndenn let their voices blend right along. One of them took the hope in the air and whittled it into a question, “Should we do this?

The four of them brought what they formed on the side of the highway, into where any good band has their first show: the basement belonging to a friend of a sometimes friend. Eyes darted and collars were pulled but by the time someone in the front took the final swig of their first cheap beer, Jon, Terry, Syndenn, and Justin began to play and the crowd wrapped themselves in the music, allowing the sound to melt away their shyness and welcome in the need to move.

Crowds at Cat Mountain performances love to get lost in the driving percussion and bass and the guitar’s melodies that are part cactus twang and one wave of surf, grounded by the droll and airy vocals.