SHE’S A MOONSHINE GAL AND I LOVE HER STILL: THE JAMES COLE STRING BAND SWINGS “I GOT A GAL” TIL THE WALLS FALL DOWN.

 

Whereas some superstars date many ladies, most of the mortal gal-seeking universe knows that, once you’ve got yourself a gal, you ought to assemble the ensemble and set everybody to dancing. The James Cole String Band thought so, ‘round about 1928. Behold the keen roof-raising principles of “I Got A Gal,” which emphasize the piercing fiddle and capering rhythm.

The James Cole String Band was likely an African American group. Its musicians may have hailed from Indianapolis. Cole, the bandleader and fiddler, may have recorded additional records in the 1930s, yet there could have been a different James Cole by that point. Not much can be said with certainty about the ensemble, except that “I Got A Gal” rattles the windows.

Our Musicology Department has been working overtime on the particulars, and we’re proud to present lyrics, below, followed by discographic information.

We love the pun “She’s a moonshine gal and I love her still.” Lines like that — as well as “I turned out and told turn in” — could represent square dance banter or, you know, some early century inn-you-end-dough. The gal is either “mighty thin” or “big and fat” but either way she lives on the hill in her bathing suit. Of course, and thankfully, silliness prevails. (That, or a touch of the corn liquor.)

Do we think you should play this song on high volume, grab your sweetie pie, and jump around? Why, yes, we do!

 
I Got A Gal
James Cole String Band

[1]

I got a gal she’s mighty thin,
I turned out and told ‘turn in.’
I got a gal she’s mighty cute,
I saw her in a bathing suit.

[2]

I got a gal she lives on the hill,
She’s a moonshine gal and I love her still.
I got a gal she lives in town,
Going to see if I can run her down.

[3]

I got a gal she wastes her time,
I ain’t seen her for a long, long time.
I got a gal she’s big and fat,
But I can’t tell just where she’s at.
 

likely personnel / recording data
James Cole, fiddle; Tommie Bradley, guitar; Eddie Dimmitt, mandolin; unknown, string bass; unknown, vocal. Vocalion 5226 b/w “Bill Cheatem.” Recorded on June 22 or June 25, 1928, in Indianapolis, Indiana. 

sources of information
DAHR (discography) page for “I Got A Gal”
DAHR (discography) page for James Cole String Band
Document Records page for James Cole / Tommie Bradley compilation
Allen Lowe. Turn Me Loose White Man. Constant Sorrow Press, 2020
Diane Pecknold. Hidden in the Mix: The African American Presence in Country Music. Duke University Press, 2013

A POET MARKED HIMSELF SAFE.

 
Some of the partygoers had slurped down the Jell-O Shots. Some, the dishwasher pods. Amid the ensuing knee and elbow chaos, the projectile hiccoughs, and the bicycle bros slapping low fives, a Facebook Crisis Page appeared. “Mark yourself safe,” it suggested. Thus, the poet took action. He marked himself safe during the Accidental Jell-O Shots & Cascade Platinum Mix-Up.

Just a few minutes earlier, the cute hostess girl had passed-by, bearing a silver tray of the squishy delights — and, apparently, detergent — so he’d taken one. He’d swallowed something. Hmph. Pretty soon, the likes began piling up. Thirty-three … forty-one … forty-five. Comments, too. “Wait, what?” and “Jell-OMG” and “Pot-scrubbahs!” they read.

Too many nauseous hipsters had queued for the ground-level wash closet, so the poet traipsed upstairs, where he tried a burnished brass doorknob. The light from the hallway slashed into a humid bedroom where two slinky figures scrambled to cover their bodies with bedclothes. One of them, probably the cute hostess, lunged toward the door. Behind her, the “minnie haha” menace of what? Some kind of townie gangster? With bad teeth?

The poet apologized his way into the actual bathroom, at the end of the hall. There, he refreshed Facebook, but the likes had plateaued at fifty-six. He’d gotten many more reactions when he posted pictures of the impressive human poop someone had left behind in his cat’s litterbox. Hmph. He splashed water on his face, and in doing so, scotched his rumpled, holey sweater.

An acquaintance of his (the one w/ dreadful book on University Press — she) had swallowed a Cascade Platinum. She had not marked herself safe. “Oh, I am HORRID,” she posted. “I feel like a MAYTAG.” And the wows, cares, and hearts had exceeded one hundred ninety … A minute later, the poet trudged home, beneath the shivery chandelier of the gibbous, gibbous moon.

Should I mark myself safe, he wondered, from the local criminal element? From my own corporeal pinchings? Chilly winds chapped his ears, as if the Crisis Page immunization had already worn off. Let meter triumph, he declared, over metrics! He shook his fist merrily, yes, merrily, at nobody in particular. That would leave only God — or Facebook — as the recipient. Yet neither heard his prayers. God’s aloofness and Facebook’s aloofness had become the one, the only temperature.