Incendiary Kid (4:04) (Featured Track)
Incendiary Kid(4:04)

Contact:
Dana Cooper-(615)438-3262
danacoopermusic@gmail.com
www.danacoopermusic.com

Songwriter:Dana Cooper
Publishing and PRO:
Dog Eared Music/Bluewater Music/SESAC
Administered by:Bluewater Music

Produced by:Thomm Jutz and Dana Cooper
Release date:2017

Musicians:
Dana Cooper- Guitar, Vocals
Thomm Jutz-Acoustic Guitar
Lynn Williams-Drums, Percussion
Dave Francis-Bass
Justin Moses-Dobro
Ingrid Graudins-Harmony Vocals

A group of Catholic school friends and I started a gang of sorts when we were eleven. We had a problem with authority, which meant everyone over the age of twelve. So we set about throwing water balloons and eggs and toilet paper rolls, graduating to firecrackers and cherry bombs. I had just turned thirteen when one night I decided to throw a cherry bomb on Harry Truman's front porch. I yelled "give 'em hell Harry" as the thing went off with a kaboom.

Luckily Harry and Bess were not home and there was no Secret Service assigned to retired presidents at the time. That changed the following year. After running off into the quiet, dark streets of Independence I eventually ran straight into a police car. The officer took me to the Jackson County Jail where I waited beside the front desk until my father came to retrieve me. Of course, dad was a huge Harry Truman fan and I never admitted to being the culprit who attempted to terrorize him.

Next morning I went to make restitution with another old gentleman for exploding one of his driveway lanterns with a cherry bomb that same night. He sat me down on his front porch and served me a glass of iced tea. He told me he had once done some rash things as a boy and only reported the shattered lantern to the police so he could file it with his insurance. That man's kindness kept me out of reform school and I remain grateful to this day. My life of hooliganism ended that day.

We lived in Tornado Alley back then and I was infatuated with thunderstorms. I would climb the highest hill to watch storms roll in. Many a time my mother, Betty, would wake my father, George, as he tried to sleep between shifts at the steel mill. She would send him to fetch me from being carried away in a funnel cloud. I would see dad trudging through the rain and wind, his wispy hair blowing, his shirt billowing, his face stern. He'd grumble and escort me back to the safety of our basement. Then he'd go back upstairs and fall sound asleep as the Venetian Blinds rattled and blew horizontally and my mom read from the Bible and hollered occasionally for him to come downstairs.

I concentrated even harder on songwriting and began going to the Catholic Youth Organization dances around Kansas City. There I met Juanita Cruz who danced with me nearly every weekend for a year. Juanita spoke little English and I spoke little Spanish, but we understood one another perfectly. We slow danced right in front of the watchful eyes of the Sisters of Mercy.

Then one night she didn't show up for a CYO dance. I later saw her on an escalator at Macy's Department Store. She was on the up escalator and I was on the down. We smiled at each other and she was gone. I rushed through the crowd and rode back up but couldn't find her again.