THE VISITORS

The Q-City Outlaws are riding the range, en masse.

The 55 representatives of this 1,400-strong dance group from Quincy, Illinois have taken full control of the dance floor, assembled in long rows and preparing for an electric slide as Tim McGraw's "Indian Outlaw" begins resounding through the studio.

"Six-seven-eight!" bellows Ed Willing, clapping on the beat, leading his warriors into action. Beard bristling, hat brim sitting low, Southwestern shirt trying mightily to restrain his beer-inspired gut, Willing bends backward, reaching his arm behind his back. Then he explodes forward, strutting with knees bent in a mock sashay–country voguing?–and finally drops down onto one knee, his other leg splayed forward.

"Double time!" he commands, springing up. His soldiers step to his instructions like Japanese auto workers performing morning calisthenics. "Spread yer legs! Wiggle, WIGGLE!"

The Outlaws are country dance rebels. Rather than emulate more traditional, popular dances, they have created their own, compiling a claimed 200-300 dances.

"The instructors teach us our basic dances, then we put a little 'personality' into them," blares Willing, a 51-year-old antenna-assembly technician. "Like, say, instead of doing a hitch, we'll just do what we wanna do. We're not like boot-kickers. Boot-kickers are pretty much regimented. They like to do things right. And I don't blame 'em, that's good. But we're outlaws, and we like to have fun when we dance. The boot-kickers get a little stand-offish about it, but some of 'em love it."

To the Outlaws, country dancing doesn't have to be staid–which just makes its appeal that much wider, that much more lasting.

"Country and western isn't a fad, it's a tradition," Willing brays. "There's a little cowboy in everybody. I learned how to two-step in '62–ya think it's fading? It's good exercise, it's a social gathering, it's usually good clean fun. And you have people from all walks of life, doctors, lawyers, lay people. It gives everyone that opportunity to let that closet cowboy come out in public …"

A white fog of dry ice gushes onto the Disco Deck, spreading its tendrils out over the main dance floor, sporadically lit up by neon flares of red and yellow. Off-stage, a slim cowboy in a faded blue tuxedo shirt strides through the cloud, a silken blue scarf around his neck. Sniffing out possible publicity, he comes bearing a sly glint and an outstretched card: "PLAIN COUNTRY BAND" it declares, "Bob Kelly, Pro-Lyricist." And below that, in humble letters, "Country • Folk • Gospel." The address reads Windsor, Ontario, Canada.

"I'm a songwriter–have my own band down in Windsor called Plain Country, and-uh we keep pretty busy," Kelly says in a diluted brogue, using "uh" as sort of an all-purpose Canadian suffix. "Last summer I got to work in-uh Nashville's Opry Land Park, and I worked at the-uh Quality Inn, and I got to do some work on the General Jackson, so it's coming along good."

Kelly looks to be in his late forties, a seasoned Canadian cowboy who got the country music bug at the age of 12 up in New Brunswick. The Bailey Brothers were performing in town and actually stayed at his parents' home for the weekend. Ever after, says Kelly, "I picked up a pencil and-uh haven't put it down since."

He currently has "over 300 songs" in his portfolio. Right now, Jimmy Dickens is looking at his latest composition, "There's A Lot of Country In My Veins 'Cause That's Just What I Am."

"I write ballads, too. I've got a song for just about every province in Canada, plus over here too. I've got one called-uh 'The Country Hall of Fame' I just wrote last year, and it takes in all the stars-uh past and present–you know, the ones that are dead and the ones that are living. So it's coming good. I get to do-uh a lot of my own material down around home. I've got a song called 'Ketchup and Potatoes.'"

Kelly came down to Club Dance with a 27-member dance group called the Dancing Friends. This is the Canadians' first expedition to the fabled show–"This is it. This is where it's at."–but it won't be the last. Although country music hasn't quite permeated Windsor ("There's only two places you can go for country music in the whole city," reports Kelly), it still has its faithful contingent. Tomorrow, the group will head to Music City itself.

"I'm going to be-uh doing a show at Robert's Bar tomorrow. And hopefully-uh, some of the material …" A serious look creases Kelly's face as he muses over his aspirations. "I've been writing songs for 30 years, and this is the first chance I got."

The artificial fog begins to curl over his lean figure as he watches the crowing dancers kick boots and slap hands.

"We're looking for big things to happen to us," he vows. "I wanna get one or two of what I've got in the Top 40–if I can do that, then I've got my foot in the door."

Outside the studio near the dressing rooms, Dorry and Jerry Davi are scoping out their heroes. Jerry looks as dapper as a riverboat gambler, sporting a solid-white Vandyke beard, a white vest over a blue-striped shirt, and gentleman's jeans with a hanky stuffed in the back pocket for country effect. Dorry is resplendent in a white blouse and colorful peasant skirt. The 65-year-olds are celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary with a trip to the country dance mecca.

"We've never missed a show," swears Jerry, a fast-talking deputy district attorney from Danville, California, near San Francisco. "Back in '91, I was channel surfing, and I found Club Dance. I yelled at my wife–my wife and I have been dancing now since 1952–and I said 'Come watch this!' From then on, the rest is history. I've got 'em all taped. As a matter of fact, I told (a producer) that if one of his tapes is destroyed, of any particular hour or session, to just give me a call and I'll resurrect mine."

But for a couple who've been dancing for over 40 years–ballrooms, jitterbugs, rhumbas, waltzes, tangos, and cha-chas–why has country music turned these city slickers into two-stepping fanatics?

"The music is like the old ballads and soft rock," comments Dorry. "Now they've got the heavy metal and rap music–at least they do in California, I'm assuming you have it here–and I think it's too much for people. The older people and the yuppies don't understand all the rap stuff and the heavy metal, and this kind of fills in where we used to have all the soft rock and Frank Sinatra ballads and things like that."

So far, the Davis have had good luck on their trip. Last Thursday night they went to Cotton Eyed Joe's to brush up on their steps "so we wouldn't get embarrassed on national television," and ended up meeting some of the renowned regulars: "We saw Brandon, Russell, Cindy, Darlene–we just saw everybody!" Jerry gushes. "We just barged into their party and they took us in! We got to meet all of them, and found them to be so genuine and so warm and friendly."

Next: Meet the Regulars

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