Beat #307 | Horse, Sweet Horse
A Fistful of Marshmallows
Prickley Pete
Original Release Date: 02/16/2043
One of the truly great musical chameleons, Prickley Pete, never rested on his last album. A pirate, a martial arts reptile, a knight in shining armor, and, now, a bandito of unsure moral fiber. His Crinkeley Clint phase was met with applause and anticipation, leading to a frenzy of tourists flocking to his desert studio to watch his new material in action. After the success of The Fright Album and his fear of vending machines finally fading, it was the courage he had summoned during its production that created his latest character: a gunslinger modeled after those in the old American West of Earth. Crinkeley Clint was neither hero nor villain, drifting in and out of morality with a bag full of coins and a horse full of beans. The beats on A Fistful of Marshmallows did not lose their signature Prickley Pete-ness, but here, much like on the fifty-song, sea-shanty-focused Graveley Guybrush, his subject rang true with the twang of old guitars, the hum of empty moonshine bottles, and the rattle of snakes setting the mood. To prepare for the album, Prickley Pete joined a herding outpost contracted to bring hefty bovines to greener pastures before winter set in. The road was arduous, the brutal sun cooking his marshmallowy exterior into a golden brown butter. Many nights were spent playing harmonica, poorly, while on lookout for those who might steal one away from the herd. He heard tales of ancient creatures who lurked among the monuments of rock, ready to steal away livestock and injure those who did not respect nature. Roping jackrabbits, cracking open a can of beans without a tool, and knowing how to back up properly on a horse; it was a crash course in the tender, ancient art of "cowboying." Back in the studio, he found it hard to shed his new persona, often muttering to himself about Arch Stanton, a fellow cowboy who had met his demise in a red clay canyon, just miles from the gift shop. A Fistful of Marshmallows is a somber album, though fresh with thumping melodies. Still, the rage of the range and the crashing thunderstorms that turn the desert into a tundra permeate the journey of a gunslinger looking to make a little extra coin, maybe to save the one he loves, maybe to save himself. There are no bad or ugly beats here, just the good nature of cowboys and the cheeky melodies of a ghost with nothing to lose. That is, until his next album...
Side A
Toodoolee-Doo
Horse, Sweet Horse
Dance, Varmint!
Reach for the Stars
Side B
Home on the Shooting Range
Two Kinds of Ghosts
Blondie
Riders on the Dust Storm