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TROUBADOUR AT LAST
by
Norma E. Wimberly
"The Last of the Troubadours, " a short story by O. Henry, begins, "Inexorably Sam Galloway saddled his pony." He and his guitar were leaving one ranch for another, confident of welcome for his presence and his songs, and hoping for a peaceful space to rest, reflect, and remember his mission: to entertain and give pleasure.
Inexorably Lee Domann zips his suitcase, hoists his guitar case on his back, and slips his frequent flier and credit cards in his wallet. He is leaving Nashville again for another town, confident of welcome for his presence and his songs, knowing there will be little time to rest, reflect, and remember his mission: to entertain and give a message of God's love.
I found O. Henry's obscure range story quite by accident on the Internet. Finding Lee Domann wasn't that hard. Fortunately, I live in Nashville, Tennessee, his home base, and Lee's peers and friends were eager to talk about him.
"I call Lee the 'high priest of country music,' one of my broadcasting spiritual advisors." (Matthew Gillian, Host of Opry Star Spotlight, 650 WSM AM Radio, Nashville)
"Lee has sincere compassion. He is blessed with the technical abilities to write and play…and with a gift to touch people with his music." (James Reynolds, actor and boyhood friend)
"Lee's friendship comes through in his songs. Most of us have a hard time accepting who we are, that we're not enough. Lee knows there's always enough." (Hugh Moffat, musician, mentor, friend)
Sam Galloway spent his life traveling from ranch to ranch in southwest Texas, his arrival aroused joy, his departure caused distress. In "The Last of the Troubadours," he left one ranch because the cook couldn't make decent biscuits and there was too much chaos to his liking. He moved on to old man Ellison's sheep ranch. Sam's arrival was a red-letter day. He was provided hospitality beyond his desires and a place to rest his soul.
Lee Domann, a singer-songwriter-storyteller, who is also an ordained minister, spends his life traveling from concert to concert, church to church. This 21st century troubadour books his arrival in advance and makes arrangements to assure food, lodging, venue, and a free-will offering.
Rarely does he have the luxury of repose. Weekends are short. His audiences are appreciative; but they have Monday lives that beckon, and Lee returns to Nashville to prepare for the next gig--and try to book appearances at least three to six months in advance.
The earliest troubadours were primarily in France during the 11th-13th centuries. William IX, Duke of Acquitaine, is the first one of record, but my gut tells me they have always been part of the human condition--and a result of it.
Will Durant, in his multi-volume The Story of Civilization, calls troubadours "nameless poets." He tells us they were called travatori in Italy, minnesingers in Germany, and bards in Ireland and Wales. These singer-songwriter-storytellers walked from village to village and occasionally to the king's court.
O. Henry knew the most common form of entertainment in the American West of the 19th century was storytelling. Many characters of his stories passed the time trying to make sense of the world around them, just as people of ancient history and Lee Domann today.
Some troubadours had patrons or an old man Ellison to rely on for some sense of security. Domann has no patron, king, rancher, or recording company. He provides for his own cot (house), horse (car or airplane), vittles (food), clothes, and guitar. Rarely did the troubadours of earlier times have a family. Lee does.
He considers his wife and son advocates, relies on a spiritual community of friends, but he charges an up-front fee for each appearance to cover some of the travel costs. The free-will offering supports him, his family, and the costs of CDs he sells after each performance.
What drives Lee Domann to defy the musical traditions of Nashville, California, and New York? He says it's a combination of fear and love, fear for human and musical survival and love for the music and whoever happens to hear him.
Domann admits to knowing very little troubadour history, seeing himself more as jester. Jerrie Jones, a preacher and psychology professor, says, "I always thought of a troubadour as a bit of a jester who has a profound message."
James Reynolds considers Lee's message universal, "a healing force we need today to bring divergent peoples together. Lee is the definition of a modern day troubadour." Matt Gillian says he's "one of the few people on the planet who is himself for a living."
Approximately 250 song fragments remain from the almost 3000 that once existed by troubadours of the Middle Ages. Many cowboy songs have survived, been recorded, and are performed today. Lee Domann has a catalog of songs he's written--other artists have recorded a few. But he often quotes Urban Carmichael, a singer-songwriter from Prince Edward Island, Canada: "Oh, there aren't enough songs."
"I wish I had all the tools, mental, physical, and spiritual, to execute what I hear in my head. Like most artists, I'm an affirmation sponge, but I think my mission is to share the light and love of God. There's something the Catholic Church does right. They teach that you don't have to be a flawless vessel for the grace of God to come through.
"I frustrate my friends with my low level of self-esteem and by thinking too much. They see me as creative, caring, and funny--but I find it difficult not to short-circuit compliments."
Not so with Sam Galloway. Through most of the story, Sam took his ease. The cook's biscuits were fluffy, the coffee excellent. He lay on his cot in the shade of the hackberry trees at Ellison's ranch and thought what a happy world to live in.
But old man Ellison met up with the king. James King, dubbed King James by the folks in the territory, was the biggest cattleman between San Antonio and Brownsville and not a friend to sheep ranchers like Ellison. The king informed Ellison that his land-lease was up, that a wire fence was going to keep him out, and his sheep had to be gone in one week. That threat was made clear when he patted his shotgun.
The sheep rancher, crushed and scared, spilled the story to Sam-- because Sam had the eyes to see the unhappiness in others around him, and found that disturbing to his happy world.
Domann's friends and fans concur he has the gift of compassion. Somewhat like Sam, the distress of other people and the world around him threatens his peace of mind. And Lee wants to help.
Several days later, on Ellison's third day of grace, he again happened upon King James. This time the cattleman wanted to know Ellison's family history. They discovered they had a relative in common. After verifying the connection with family stories, King James offered Ellison a shower of blessings: pasture for the sheep, money in the bank, and supplies on credit. Ellison suddenly hadn't a care in the world.
When the rancher returned to his spread, Sam Galloway wasn't there. Curiously, his guitar was still hung on a hackberry branch. It was odd for the troubadour and his instrument to be parted. Ellison did his before-supper chores, fixed a cup of coffee and waited for Sam, to tell him the wonderful news.
There may be instances of troubadours who go in and out of favor, but rarely does a king give generously to a sheepherder or a wanderer. Rarely does a recording company or radio market lavish praise and rewards on that singer-songwriter-storyteller whose "tunes and lyrics are a type of down-home, cornbread spirituality that reach to the depths of one's soul." (Jerrie Jones)
Here, Sam's story becomes "the last of the barons," and Domann's that of a "troubadour at last." Galloway cared about Ellison so much that he killed King James with the rancher's own revolver to save him from harm. "Three doses I give him, right around the lungs, and a saucer could have covered up all of 'em. He won't bother you no more," says Sam.
No, Domann closets himself in the tiny makeshift studio he has in his apartment/office, writes another song, books another church, and tries to balance his checkbook.
I asked Lee, "What is your fondest dream of yourself as a troubadour?"
"I'd honor my heroes," he replied. "I'd always remember Ray Charles, Bob Dylan, and Jimi Hendrix. It would be fun to have a big bus like Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters with a stage on top. I'd have a caravan of two or three buses, some of us old Hippies, and a few of the younger folks who believe in passing it on. We'd just show up somewhere, unannounced. We'd play for one or two nights on that bus-top stage, give CDs away free, and move on."
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