Fiddlin' Pete Watercott

Fiddlin' Pete Watercott


"Fiddlin' Pete is a violinist version of western-music legend Don Edwards. Along with the excellent music and singing, Watercott provided fascinating stories about these western songs' origins" Mark Bedor, Western Horseman, May 2006


Fiddlin’ Pete has been playing his own brand of high energy, traditionally based Western Folk music for over thirty years. Out on the road, hitching, riding freights, and traveling in the “Lone Prairie Schooner”, (a pick-up/camper), Fiddlin’ Pete performed impromptu concerts for folks in rural communities all across America.

It was Pete’s love of the West and the people living here that led him to settle on the western rim of the Great Basin. Fiddlin’ Pete has become a popular entertainer through-out the Eastern Sierra region, playing at festivals, county fairs, schools, churches, dance halls, ranch gatherings, and for the outfitters who pack stock into and around the Sierra Nevada wilderness.

Pete often combines his culinary and musical skills to benefit non-profits and to bring the Owens Valley community together. Pete, along with his wife Kathryn, three cats, seven hens, and Zephyr, (a very intelligent border collie), live a relatively idyllic life in their rural Bishop home, surrounded by bountiful gardens and towering Sierra peaks.


"Songs of Curley Fletcher"

Written By: Lyrics by Curley Fletcher

1.The Tome of Time
I spread my sougans on the windswept plains,
Of an arid land where it seldom rains,
Where the desert ponders in muted mood,
And Death Valley slumbers in solitude.

Far to the west a primordial peak,
In primeval beauty rose bare and bleak,
Over rugged scarps where a primal butte,
In primitive pose, stood stark and mute.

The blistering orb of the setting sun,
Sank down toward the west, with day near done,
Swift spiraling whirlwinds swung and swayed,
O'er slopes where shimmering heatwaves played.

I pillowed my head on a pristine stone,
Where countless ages of winds had blown,
And I looked aloft to the azure skies,
Where the swift hawk swoops, and the eagle flies.

I pillowed my head and I pondered deep,
Where the restless white sands whisper and creep,
When a susurrus zephyr sighs and soughs,
Over drifting dunes and through screwbean boughs.

Taloned and toothed, and fanged and thorned,
Destitute, damned, deserted and scorned,
Steeped in eternal starvation, this land,
Seemed wrought by some vengeant, artful hand.

Dregs from the slag of time's melting pot,
This was the waste that Creation forgot,
Primitive, patient, proud and apart,
Waiting the touch of grim alchemy's art.

And it dawned to me as the sun sunk low,
O'er the distant range and the virgin snow,
That time was finite on swooping wing,
These arid wastelands, an infinite thing.

I saw the saffron sundogs slink,
With stealthy step to the shadowed brink,
To enwrap the peak in a somber shroud,
With the trailing wisps of a vagrant cloud.

As though they had worsted the sun to route,
In myriad hordes, the stars sprung out,
And bathed the skies in an eerie light,
The semi-dark of the desert night.

There in the presence of a stunted sage,
I read an ancient volume page by page,
It's characters astral-those orbs on high,
Engraved on a tablet, the farflung sky.

The soft sands whispered in rhythm and rhyme,
That the book I saw was the Tome of Time,
That it spoke stark truth, nor gave a damn,
For a lost illusion, or sordid sham.

How avid I scanned through that ancient scroll,
For glyphs to enmark my immoral soul,
But no page thereon saw my name engraved,
And reading it so, I ranted and raved.

Yet I flattered my soul in my blasphemous dread,
For I feared that those stars might hear what I said,
And my reason staggered as I stared afar,
At the magnitude of these things that are.

I found that I am infinitly mean,
An atom the stars have perhaps never seen,
The vain importance of self I had known,
Burst like the bubble an urchin has blown.

2. Yavapai Pete

Now Yavapai Pete was a cowpuncher neat,
From Arizona's fair clime.
Lived in his saddle and punched most the cattle,
From here to the Mexican line.

His ridin' was sassy, his ropin' was classy,
He liked to mix, mingle, and maul;
Not much of a thinker, was more of a drinker,
He could uphold his end of a brawl.

A face like a hatchet, a head made to match it,
And a nose like a pelican's beak;
His legs were all bowed and he was pigeon-toed,
With a chin that was plum mild and meek.

He'd been in the weather, his skin was like leather,
His hands were all horny and rough;
You could see by his stride he was just made to ride,
And no bronco for him was too tough.

A very good hand with a whole lot of sand,
And a voice like a bellerin' bull.
Pretty much on the brag, and at chewin' the rag,
He was a whole corral full.

He once told a tale of hittin' the trail,
A-huntin' new ranges to ride;
They'd hung up a bounty in Yavapai County
For whoever could bring back his hide.

He rode to a ranch and asked if by chance
They needed a good buckeroo.
They said he was rough, but not tough enough,
As a bronk peeler he wouldn't do.

Then he rode o'er a rise and battin' his eyes,
A-lookin down into a swale,
He'd come to the lair of a she grizzley bear,
And she was a-holdin' the trail.

He took a long strand of barb wire in hand,
And crawlin' along on the ground,
He made a big scoop with that barb wire loop
And they both went around and round.

Then he mounted that bear with a handful of hair,
For a quirt used a live rattlesnake,
He rode with a rush out thru the buck-brush,
A-swearin' that beast he would break.

To the ranch they did go where Pete hollered "whoa"
Then asked the boss what he'd pay-
"My mount is docile fer I've rode her a mile,
And we're a-huntin'a job today."

The boss called his stack, said "Come to the shack,
You look like you might be alright.
That growlin' old bear that yer ridin' right there,
Eat up my old range boss last night."

Old Yavapai Pete he couldn't be beat,
At lootin' and shootin' and sin,
The chuckwagon deck was a sorrowful wreck,
When Yavapai Pete butted in.

He fanned his gun fast but they got him at last,
And died with his boots on his feet,
The wild West was rid of a dangerous kid,


Folk Songs and Fiddle Tunes (1990)
Recorded live to stereo, no overdubs ! Full performance recording
includes 16 tracks, fiddle and folk favorites !

Songs of Curley Fletcher (2002)
A compilation of twelve musical arrangements and six spoken word
tracks focused on the works of the legendary Western poet.

Folk Songs and Fiddle Tunes volume two (2003)
New Release from Fiddlin’ Pete. Eighteen tracks include folk ballads and fiddle tunes
with a focus on the great music and legends of the West.

LIVE! At the I.C.A. (2006)
Recorded at the intimate Inyo Council for the Arts Theater in Bishop, CA. Eight of Pete's original compositions, five instrumentals, plus the Guy Clark favorite, "Home Grown Tomatoes". With Neil Gelvin and Charlie Broten.

A Christmas Album (2006)
Twelve traditional holiday favorites along with three classical instrumentals with Ellen Siegal performing on piano. Bishop rock drummer, Mark Medora is featured on "The Drummer Boy".

30th Anniversary Reunion Concert DVD (2007)
Larry Long and Fiddlin' Pete Watercott
Recorded live at The Cedar, Minneapolis, MN, November 10, 2006
With old friends Larry Dalton, (bass), Prudence Johnson, (vocals), Martial Besombes, (piano), Melvin James, (guitar), and Patty Kakac, (vocals)

Set List

Pokonobe Dinner Concert Set List July, 6, 2008

1. Dallas Rag
2. Lonesome Fiddle Blues (Vassar Clements)
3. Corinna, Corinna
4. Home Grown Tomatoes (Guy Clark)
5. If I Could (original)
6. Lime Rock
7. Yellowstone (original)
8. America the Beautiful
9. Blackberry Blossom

1. Over the Rainbow
2. Opus 57 (David Grisman)
3. Freedom Blood (original)
4. Me and Bobby McGee (Kris Kristofferson)
5. Bluegrass in the Backwoods (Kenny Baker)
6. Ashokan Farewell (Jay Unger)
7. The Freedom Song (Andy Wilkinson)
8. Star Spangled Banner (spoken word and song)
9. This Land is Your Land (Woody Guthrie)
10. Cattle in the Cane