RISIN' OUTLAW

Among old country and new, Mike Dean is head and shoulders above the crowd.

When it comes to Mike Dean, he and country jingo-master Toby Keith have a few traits in common. For starters, both men's music falls under the country tag. Dean, a man of formidable stature, has yet to shuck his day job for a full-time career as a musician, instead spending his days in the oilfield industry of his native Louisiana. Before Keith, a linebacker-sized performer, devoted his life to music, he toiled in the oilfields of his native Oklahoma. Both men, whose Christian and family names are first names, pledge an allegiance to the country hit-makers of the 1970s, and that is about where the comparisons end.

"I tell you what, he's a superstar, he's got that status," starts the soft-spoken Dean, "and I think he tries a little too hard to be an outlaw. I'm sure he grew up listening to Willie and Waylon and all that. I just think he's trying a little too hard to portray that image." Dean doesn't offer much more on the subject of Keith, admitting only two things about the Angry American: "He had 'Talk About Me,' that dorky song I wouldn't sing even if it meant a No. 1 hit" and he enjoys "I Love this Bar."

That outlaw image - the '70s outlaw country movement, which was, rather than robbing banks, more about artists gaining creative control and opting for simpler sounds instead of the over-produced tracks of flashy Nashville studios - is one Dean isn't portraying. It is one he lives. Along with comrades and occasional stage-sharing pod'nuhs Troy Richard, Rex Moroux and Drew Landry, Dean is part of a local mini-outlaw movement similar to the one that sprang out of the likes of Willie, Waylon, Kris and Merle, in the fact they prefer stripped-down sounds and songs about drinking and just plain honest heartache and living. For the locals, the man in front outweighs the music trying to drown him out so much so that their bands are intangible, more often being just the front men instead of a van full of musicians.

Although Dean looks up to the one-name legends of country's past, he is hesitant to pigeonhole his as country music, saying, "You say country it's not like when you turn on the radio." With the more material he does, the more difficult he says it is to fit into one genre, opting instead for, "Just a guy with a guitar and a few songs." His CD, because it is more talk of simple earthy goodness - horses, Johnny Cash, rifles and the bottle - than twang, is as country-fried as a stockyard auctioneer. It's blue collar. It's hard work and hard times. Recorded in one night, in an 8 p.m. to 5 a.m. session before he had to be at work at 6, it is a testament to an ethic Keith boasts, but Dean walks.

It would be hard to figure Dean, a Church Point native, any other way. He grew up living the simple life, fishing in nearby ponds, having woods for a back yard and a good hound or two for a pet. As a young buck, he picked up on country music through both his grandfather, a Hank Williams fan, and his brothers, who preferred Jr.

Before 2000, the only place to hear Dean would have been singing along with his radio or in his shower. When he made the leap to performing in public, he initially looked to George Strait for inspiration, but the songs, "they just took me different directions."

"When I first started writing songs, I wrote a lot more drinking songs," says Dean. "They're fun to sing, they're easy to write and they are easy to pass around here 'cause a lot of people drink. But you don't want to have too many of them. (You) start trying to, uh, getting certain songs you are writing down and that bottle always wants to try to come in. But, if you listen to country music growing up, it's just part of it ... before you know what drinking is you are singing drinking songs."

Like any good country singer, starting his career off wasn't all gumdrops and gold records. When Dean talks of his early career, he is not doing much boasting. Seven months in, singer/songwriter/picker Dean stumbled into his first gig at Broussard's The Landmark. With a set list of covers and only two originals under his belt, a friend talked the bar's owner into letting him play a Friday night, a traditionally slow night for the bar. The night of the show heavy rains killed the chance of any outdoor activities and what the owner hoped for, a 10- to 20-person door, turned into a packed house. On its face, it should have been a good start.

"It was pretty rough, I'm going to leave it like that," Dean laughs. "No one threw anything, but ..." To his surprise, the owner booked him again, and the second show one was even worse. Thankfully, his stage presence has come around, since opening twice for the poet laureate of the outlaw movement, Billy Joe Shaver. Before the first slot, he impressed the Texas tear-jerker's palate with an order of cracklins. During his set, a buddy asked Shaver what he thought of Dean and he once again gave him the nod.

"It stops and makes you think how far you can come in four years, from nothing to opening for a songwriting legend," he says of Shaver. With four years and a fresh disc ready for sale at his shows and his Web site (www.mikedeanmusic.com), he has no misconceptions of stardom, saying he's not looking to Nashville because his music is not commercial.

"At this level, it ain't about being a superstar. Growing up, listening to Merle Haggard, he was always called a poet of the people. I heard him say in an interview one time he was just singing and playing guitar when he first started. He told them singers come and go - which is true, there is a lot of good singers out there - but poets last forever." Haggard wrote about his life and things normal people could relate to, whether it was his imprisonment or his freedom or digging ditches. Says Dean, "I like doing things where people tell me that my songs makes them think of something about themselves. ... Country has always been about fans."