THE HEARTWARMINGLY TRAGIC STORY OF COUNTRY MUSIC’S GREATEST RAPPER
I’m the best country rapper in the whole dang world
THE HEARTWARMINGLY TRAGIC STORY OF COUNTRY MUSIC’S GREATEST RAPPER
Blasphemous. Profane. Sincere. Compassionate. Prolific. Endearing. Generous and prone to wild mood swings. Many words can be used to describe Trevor Deakins. Adjectives mostly. A lover of both stompin’ and stunkin’, Trevor was born in Breg, Tennessee, in 1937 and became interested in music at a young age. He sang in the church choir and played around on a dusty old guitar that his uncle had given him and loved writing songs about the things that he enjoyed. Trevor loved to celebrate the seemingly mundane and to honor his love of boots and hats and all the accoutrements that went along with rural life.
Trevor finished high school in 1955 and set out on the road with the reluctant blessing of his family to begin the inauspicious life of a touring and recording musician. He took as many jobs as he could, singing back-up and playing guitar for whoever was hiring and though he loved being a part of whatever group would have him, he longed to start his own band and perform his own songs. As luck would have it, one balmy August night in 1957 on a gig with the Trubbers at the Olde Pilkt House in Lupelo, Texas, lead singer, Flanch Helt came down with Gaspers Flu, a truly debilitating condition that left him sweaty, feverish, nauseous and angry. The rest of the band called upon Trevor to step in, and, with a modest intensity, he did just that and history, as they say, was born. Or changed. Or set alight, or whatever they say. Whatever they say happened to history is what happened that night.
Flanch Helt’s recovery from the Gaspers was slow and long and when he finally was in the all-clear, his voice was but a fragile whisper of its former self. With sadness and regret, he relinquished his role permanently to Trevor and moved back to Vietnam, Arizona, where he took a job at the local nuclear furnace as a class 3 incinerating technician and never sang again.
Trevor dropped the name the Trubbers and re-named the band after himself, a move that none of the other members of the band really cared about as long as they were getting paid. Not to mention that they began to really enjoy playing Trevor Deakins’ surprising and irreverent music. Trevor began to miss his days playing with lots of different bands and soon came up with what would be known as the ‘Stinky Jamboree’, a sort of traveling group of different musicians who could showcase their various talents while Trevor served as Emcee and headliner.
Trevor did his level best to recruit as many small-time talents as he could, being a grateful man who felt blessed with the good fortune he had been given, he wanted to share that luck with as many others as he could. This earned Trevor a fierce and devoted following among a large cadre of musicians, club owners, beer drinkers and the like, and though he lacked the financial and managerial backing to tour much out of his locality, where the Stinky Jamboree did go, there was always a crowd of excited fans ready to get stunked up.
Somewhere about 1961 he came to the attention of two most ignoble partisans, Frik Reynolds and Gub Johntstont, owners of Veri-Luxe Records out of Dallas, Tennessee. After seeing Deakins perform at the Ment State ‘Hootstert’ Chicken Call and Jerk immediately saw what a colossal talent he was and approached Deakins and convinced him to sign an unprecedented 10-album contract. The duo wanted as large a catalogue of music as possible to guarantee a string of releases for several years without having to rely upon the notoriously flimsy whims and whams of the average musician. The arrangement stipulated that Deakins would not be paid until all 10 records were recorded and that he would be prohibited from performing until after the release of the first single from the first album.
Trevor set to recording as quickly as he could, knowing he had well more than 10 albums worth of material and desperate to fulfill his arrangement and start making some money.
In 1964, after almost two years of recording, Trevor was preparing for the release of his first album and began assembling musicians to take the next Stinky Jamboree on the road when Veri-Luxe Records burned to the ground in the Great Dallas, Tennessee Fire. All of Trevor’s recordings were, presumably, destroyed.
His contract, however, was not. Reynolds and Johntstont refused to let Trevor back on the road again until he re-recorded all 10 of his albums. Essentially penniless, Deakins demanded compensation and was told that until he fulfilled his obligation, he would only continue to receive his weekly stipend at a reduced rate as Veri-Luxe had to bear the expense of building and outfitting a new recording studio. Deakins refused and disappeared from public life.
He spent his several wilderness years writing music and working odd jobs, traveling wherever he could find work. He eventually settled in Brooklyn, New York, of all places, where he took a job as a salt man in a meat processing facility.
During his stay in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s he became exposed to what he considered to be one of the greatest art forms ever created, rap. He was taken by its brilliant immediacy and had fantasies of someday weaving rap into his beloved country music.
In 1986 Deakins was tracked down and contacted by Glenn Hobbar’d the son of Glen Hobbar’d, who was a former recording engineer from the old Veri-Luxe Studios. Glenn had found several boxes of tapes with Trevor’s name on them in his father’s attic and was eager for Trevor to come back to Dallas and see what they might contain.
Overjoyed, Trevor left for Tennessee the following morning. He was incredibly happy to discover that, despite the fire damage, they were able to recover many songs intact as well as several off-takes and partial bits that Deakins knew he could salvage. However, there was still the issue of Deakins’ contractual arrangement.
Deakins found an attorney willing to take his case pro-bono, and went before a judge who ruled that the contract was no longer viable as long as at least some of the material survived, and that it was incumbent upon Veri-Luxe to prove that Trevor had not fulfilled his obligations, and since they could not, the contract was voided and Trevor was paid a handsome restitution and allowed to perform and release his music again.
In celebration, Deakins gathered the surviving members of the Stinky Jamboree for a celebratory dinner where he talked about his grand ideas, including his desire to be the first and best country rapper. Those seated at the table were incredibly excited at the prospect of performing together again, but there was considerable skepticism about trying to merge country music with rap as well as some concern about Deakins’ own self-professed rap skills. Deakins was undeterred and grew agitated that his lyrical prowess would be questioned and is said to have boasted “I’m a better country rapper than God!” before, by divine retribution or pure, terrible coincidence, Trevor Deakins choked to death on a big piece of lobster.
The surviving members of the Stinky Jamboree dedicated themselves to preserving Trevor’s memory and spreading his music far and wide. They set to release as many of his original recordings as possible and re-record those that they could not. Several even wrote new material in the Trevor Deakins style that included what were becoming some of Deakins’ more cult-like aphorisms. HIs constant habit of saying “My name is Trevor Deakins!” during songs and of course, his astounding final words, “I’m a better country rapper than God!” were perfect fodder for all kinds of new material.
Facetone Records is honored to bring Trevor Deakins to a new generation of listeners and looks forward to the many wonderful recordings to come! My name is Trevor Deakins!
