Dead Skunk Nostalgia
Reservation Dogs may be one of the best television shows I’ve ever seen. I have no idea how I first came across it, but it became something I looked forward to every week. Even in an era of on-demand binging, the story was so wonderfully structured and paced that I never seemed to mind the wait between episodes or seasons.
As described by the FX Network:
“From Co-Creators and Executive Producers Sterlin Harjo and Taika Waititi, FX’s Reservation Dogs is a half-hour comedy that follows the exploits of “Elora Danan” (Devery Jacobs), “Bear Smallhill” (D’Pharaoh Woon-A-Tai), “Willie Jack” (Paulina Alexis) and “Cheese” (Lane Factor), four Indigenous teenagers in rural Oklahoma.”
That bit of corporate copywriting really undersells it, though. The show wasn’t just a comedy or “comedy-drama,” it was something more. Something incredibly authentic and universal.
I aged out of being a teenager awhile ago, I’m not of indigenous heritage, and I’ve never been to Oklahoma—but Reservation Dogs captured the experiences and emotions of life in a way that was relatable no matter where you hailed from. At its core, it was this beautiful narrative set in a time and place that I didn’t personally know, yet one I could often “find” myself in. Those notions were all summed up in one scene: the last of season two’s second episode where Jackie and Elora are rolling down the road in a stolen truck (while towing their stolen car)—all as Loudon Wainwright III’s “The Swimming Song” plays.
Look, I’m well aware of what a montage is. I myself have made many over the years, both in my career and in my head. I love music. Everyone does. But music becomes even more powerful in montage form. The proper song synced up to the proper visuals and proper circumstances can be mind altering—whether witnessed in media or real life. Sometimes it’s done with good intent, whereas other times it feels like an illicit enhancement. An emotional steroid.
I once trained myself to resist it, proud to be the only member of my Catholic high school class who didn’t cry during the senior retreat because I knew what the organizers were doing: selecting songs after each kid’s vulnerable speech that cranked up the emotion. I could fight back, though. I focused and tuned into the every day. Even if it was a powerful moment, I didn’t want to be manipulated into something more. To lose my tether to what I saw as the rational, objective, and larger world outside the walls of that conference center. I pushed aside the music and listened for the hum of the air conditioner, the creaks of repositioned chairs, and the coughs from the back of the crowd. My anchor to what I believed was reality.
Even someone as cynical as myself back then, who still carries a fair amount of cynicism today, can still get caught up in those montage moments, though. And as I’ve aged, I’ve stopped resisting them as much—allowing them to play out when they occur.
These moments are different for everyone. We all have our own nostalgia and emotional connections. Taylor Swift’s songs ain’t gonna do it for me, but as I paused while writing this to go back and watch that Reservation Dogs scene: tears of both happiness and sadness welled up as soon as the song kicked in and the montage played out.
All that to say: I love that song and I love that show.
A few months ago, when the series finale came out, I had some stuff I needed to get out of the way before I could watch. I sat down at my desk, pulled out my notebook, and started pressing on the keyboard. Loudon Wainwright III felt appropriate for background music, so I queued the man up on Spotify and let the computer start running through his catalog.
Admittedly, I’d never really listened to anything beyond “The Swimming Song,” and fittingly, it was the first track to play. The next wasn’t bad, but the third was so dreary that I just skipped it outright. And then, the skunk song came on.
Crossin' the highway late last night
He shoulda looked left and he shoulda looked right
He didn't see the station wagon car
The skunk got squashed and there you are
You got your
Dead skunk in the middle of the road
Dead skunk in the middle of the road
Dead skunk in the middle of the road
Stinkin' to high heaven
A novelty track that was apparently a moderate commercial hit for Wainwright in 1972, I’d heard it once before, but not by him. That was thirteen years ago, actually. On a public bus in Cincinnati during a music festival.
I was freelancing for City Beat, the local alt-weekly, and it was my first time covering the MidPoint Music Festival. A unique event that was spread across the city’s urban core throughout various venues, bars, parks, and public spaces. The local transit authority, METRO, had created a special route for the weekend: a free bus that circulated around the city to connect attendees with all the shows. To really tie it in with the festivities, the coach was staffed with not just a driver, but a slate of musicians as well. When I hopped on with my camera, a group was tuning up near the bus’ back seats. They began as soon as the bus lurched forward.
Take a whiff on me, that ain't no rose
Roll up yer window and hold your nose
You don't have to look and you don't have to see
'Cause you can feel it in your olfactory
You got your
Dead skunk in the middle of the road
Dead skunk in the middle of the road
Dead skunk in the middle of the road
And it's stinkin' to high heaven
As soon as the original version came on Spotify the other night, I was immediately transported back to that 2010 memory: these talented musicians casually singing about roadkill to a half-empty piece of public transit. A stark, but welcome departure, from all of the chaos and excitement of the evening.
If I’d taken notes back then, they were long gone, and the City Beat website no longer had the captions alongside my old photographs. I was able to find the original image, though, and now firmly distracted from the work I was supposed to be doing—and still yet to watch the finale of Reservation Dogs—I dove into the mystery of finding out who that band was.
Internet archives were of little help. I found the list of performers for that year’s festival, but the promotional stuff didn’t indicate which acts were slated for the bus. It was possible that maybe METRO had never scheduled anyone, that these folks had just shown up to play on board.
Reddit came through, however, when a few commenters confirmed the identity: “The Bears of Blue River! They were such a midpoint highlight.” The group still has some songs up, but I haven’t heard back from them and I’m not sure if they’re still producing music. What is available online, however, is a great listen—which brings me to “midpoint,” or, the MidPoint Music Festival.
I’ve never been a festival person. Seeing a long list of bands I’ve never heard of on an event flyer has never done anything for me. I’m not complaining about it, or even poking fun, just recognizing that it’s not my thing. MidPoint was more than just a music festival, though. I could sense how special it was even if I was just there as an independent contractor trying to make rent. That event didn’t just connect attendees with various artists and musicians, it encouraged folks to explore corners of the city that they may not otherwise get to. This wasn’t a collection of stages spread out over some rural festival grounds, this was a truly unique experience that the City of Cincinnati boasted.
Like the aforementioned Reservation Dogs scene, even though I did find a place for myself within it, I know that MidPoint wasn’t really my nostalgia. Any memories I have of it, even fun ones that involve singing about skunks on a bus, pale in comparison to the ones held by others. I appreciate their longing, I understand their lament, and I respect their loss. MidPoint meant something to many, many people.
Despite sponsors emblazoned on signage, the event had a feeling of scrappiness and do-it-yourselfness that seems to be missing from many aspects of life these days. It was something that seemed more likely to be found in an eclectic locale rather than the streets of the conservative Midwest. Yet, we (not just the folks in Cincinnati, but all over) now live in a world of “programming.” Programming that plays out in places like those funded by the public (yet often controlled by not the public) or through a glutton of streaming services cranking out content with abandon.
My goal here isn’t to fall into the baby boomer trap of a “back in my day” speech, or to stroke my beard and say “I was into that before it was cool” (I don’t think that would even be fair to attempt even if I was intending to go that route). This shift happened too rapidly, too recently. The seemingly more ambitious world of circa 2010 felt like it was rapidly hijacked and snuffed out by one that’s a bit more content with relying on mediocrity (and yet, still not objectively bad). The unique music festival unlike any other in the States is now gone, but hey: you can check out a cover band down at the main civic plaza that’s now sponsored by a corporate bank. And don’t you dare complain. Happiness, just like economic success, will always “trickle down” to you soon. Just “trust the process.”
A few years after I heard the skunk song on that bus, Midpoint was dead. Hell, even in its last official year, it was truly gone after having transitioned from its “explore-the-city” format to a pair of side-by-side stages atop asphalt parking lots. I’m sure there were multiple economic and logistical challenges with running something of that size and scope. A Herculean effort that maybe was never truly sustainable. It’s still a loss, though. And even for cynical folks like me who tend to listen to the same five bands over and over—it’s missed. In a way, it represented much more and was indicative of a different world trajectory that could be felt all over, not just within Cincinnati. A path that we were all somehow tricked into abandoning by people who’s success is measured by LinkedIN notifications.
Ultimately, these are inconsequential, privileged complaints in a world where there are far bigger concerns and many things still worth celebrating. Such is life. And that’s fine. But it’s ok to miss what’s gone. To be nostalgic, even after you’ve wiped the rose colored schmutz from your glasses to look back and see: yes, that WAS as good as I remember it. And if Reservation Dogs reinforced anything to me in its three season run, it’s that we as humans can use our past experiences, and even nostalgia, to propel some positivity forward. It’s not as simple as just “getting older,” or, “learning your lesson.” Rather, enjoy those montage moments when you get ‘em. And embrace ‘em
Yeah you got your dead cat and you got your dead dog
On a moonlight night you got your dead toad frog
Got your dead rabbit and your dead raccoon
The blood and the guts they're gonna make you swoon
You got your
Dead skunk in the middle
Dead skunk in the middle of the road
Dead skunk in the middle of the road
Stinkin' to high heaven
To the Bears of Blue River, and Loudon Wainwright III: thanks.
Since 2007, the content of this website (and its former life as Queen City Discovery) has been a huge labor of love.
If you’ve enjoyed stories like The Ghost Ship, abandoned amusement parks, the Cincinnati Subway, Fading Ads, or others over the years—might you consider showing some support for future projects?
