Something I wrote after the death of the Beat Farmers’ Country Dick Montana, who might be my dad

photo by kevin statham

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON NOV. 16, 1995

By Steve Newton

On Halloween day in 1987, I did my first interview with Country Dick Montana of the Beat Farmers. At the time, the big, bearded mountain of a man was looking forward to an All Hallows’ Eve gig in “some giant airplane hanger–type thing” at the Del Mar Fairgrounds, in the band’s hometown of San Diego.

The Beat Farmers had just released one of their best CDs, The Pursuit of Happiness, and Montana himself had issued a promo-only solo EP featuring a sarcastic version of Culture Club’s “Karma Chameleon” and a wacky Led Zeppelin parody. The band was coming up to Vancouver 10 days later to play the now-defunct 86 Street Music Hall, and as the interview wound down, Montana urged me to check out the show.

“You really should,” he prompted in his deep, bottom-of-the-well voice, “ ’cause if it’s anything like the last [Vancouver] gig, it’s pretty over-the-top sort of action. The crowd was really great, and they’re very sloppy drinkers, and I appreciate that.”

Sloppy indeed. In years to come, the Beat Farmers’ local appearances would turn into gloriously rowdy, one-of-a-kind events, due in large part to the disorderly interaction between the usually sold-out house and self-appointed MC Montana. Near the start of a show, Montana liked to don ski goggles and approach the foot of the stage. “Let the games begin!” he’d announce with a hoist of his ever-ready beer, and the fans up front would instantly soak him in tossed torrents of brew.

Somehow, the sight of a full-grown man getting drenched with suds would set the perfect tone for a night of wild, no-holds-barred rock ’n’ roll, which usually included Montana’s X-rated version of Kenny Rogers’s “Lucille”, the performance of his crude theme song, “King of Sleaze”, and the hilarious sight of him being carried by a horde of fans (“Watch the penis!”) to the bar for a drink.

On November 7, 1990, Montana called me up to chat about the band’s then-current album, Poor & Famous, and during our conversation the unruly habits of Vancouver concertgoers came up.

“It’s meant to be a harmless thing,” he explained. “They’re doin’ it as a display of affection—that’s why I don’t get mad at ’em. But the thing that’s a bummer is that our guitar players could get electrocuted. You know, people have died on stage that way before.”

Exactly five years and a day after speaking those words, Country Dick Montana died onstage himself. The Beat Farmers were seven minutes into their show at the Longhorn Saloon in Whistler on November 8 when Montana collapsed behind his drum kit and died. At press time, the results of an autopsy were not yet available, but a heart attack is the suspected cause of death. Montana was 40 years old.

There had been no beer-slinging at the Longhorn that night. In fact, the band had been attempting to phase out the outlandish aspects of its live show and place more emphasis on the music itself. Since forming in 1983, it had released some half-dozen studio albums—including last year’s Vancouver-made Viking Lullabys—but continued to struggle financially. Montana’s side project with Mojo Nixon, the Pleasure Barons, was a Las Vegas–style R&B act formed less for profit than for sheer, unadulterated fun.

From what I could tell from interviews, concerts, and backstage chats, fun seemed to be the main pursuit of Country Dick Montana. To me, he’ll always be known for his willingness to do damn near anything to inject some much-needed laughter into rock ’n’ roll. Even when he was suffering from a bout with throat cancer, Montana—affectionately nicknamed “Zipperneck” after undergoing surgery—really knew what it meant to play in a band.

I’ll always picture the gentle giant as he was captured in a live-action shot by Georgia Straight concert photographer and close Beat Farmers pal Kevin Statham. In it, Montana is shown flat on his back on the Commodore stage, a bra stretched onto his cowboy hat, his feet in the air, clutching a beer bottle between his cowboy boots as its contents gush down into his mouth. He signed a copy of that photo for me, and I keep it framed on my office desk at home. It comes in handy whenever I need a lift.

“Quit laughin’,” Montana scribbled on it. “I might be your dad.”

For all you poor saps who don’t know about Country Dick and the Beat Farmers, here’s an in-depth documentary that tells the story.

To hear the full audio of my interview with Country Dick Montana from 1990–and my interview with him and Mojo Nixon from ’93 as well–subscribe to my Patreon page, where you can eavesdrop on over 500 of my uncut, one-on-one conversations with rockers since 1982.