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Tell My Jockey: CUNTRY’s Discourse From the Horse’s Mouth

Ericka Pérez

The assignment was simple: meet the clown, create art, and dismantle capitalism.

Those familiar with Tarot and the Fool card would know that embodying the free-spiritedness of a clown requires a release of control and inhibitions—inhibitions that an overly precocious, anxious, twenty-something-year-old like me guarded with my life. When I met Cleo Reed, I couldn’t quite make sense of them—their outfit was distracting, their eyes wide, and their presence both unserious yet stern. As a stand-up comic, I assumed we would have much in common when it came to humor and satire, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Soon enough, I would learn the truth that turned my life on its head: clowning isn’t a performance—everything else is.

Over six weeks, we fellows would work together with Reed on their Session project, CUNTRY: Always the Horse, Never the Jockey. I hadn’t thought much of clowns nor country music despite Beyonce being on tour for Cowboy Carter. Reed, however, had not only crafted an astonishing album but further a project/artistic identity that critiques the very systems Reed, and their practice move through, both in survival and protest. The same capitalist system that forced me to go to college and obtain a ridiculously expensive degree to join a crashing job market made Reed, as an artist and human being, respond with a radical practice as labor.

Reed’s residency at the Abrons Arts Center allotted us a dance studio for our first workshop. We would listen to the album, and develop an understanding of clownery and the Black Southern Circus, all in preparation for a movement exercise. During this visit, we were also able to learn about Reed’s ancestry and southern heritage, especially that of cowboys and female workers, motifs that are central to the songs in CUNTRY.

After lunch, in a rather mythical, clown-like fashion, Reed returned with a human-sized sack full of clown clothes. They pulled hats, pants, and wigs out of the sack like a magician does with trinkets and rabbits. Reed assigned each of us pieces and led us in stretches to get our juices flowing. We were to perform a skit in which a flower was stuck to the ground, and each of us would struggle to yank it out. I let everyone else go first. My colleague, Vinny, struggled with the flower, flexing his muscles and exhaling profusely like a lunkhead at the gym. Upon finishing, he expressed finding pleasure in the exercise, for he saw it as a chance to criticize the “buff, serious, cocky man” persona he avoids being seen as.

Clowns do not prioritize coming across as funny. They might invite laughter, but they could care less whether or not it actually arrives.

When it was my turn to go, things got serious. As a comedian, I was used to the idea of being laughed at on stage. I had memorized dozens of bits and jokes that were carefully measured and rehearsed to make audiences laugh. The difference this time lay in the acceptance of not being laughed at, for I soon learned that clowns do not prioritize coming across as funny. They might invite laughter, but they could care less whether or not it actually arrives. That’s when I began to respect clowns, for they are able to expose deeper truths by refusing to people please, making Reed and, thus, CUNTRY a radical force of resistance in a world that demands control.

In my true compulsive fashion, I felt nothing but discomfort while on stage. My movements were limited, my facial expressions strained, and my overall performance inhibited. I was exactly what my colleague detested—the cocky, stern individual far too worried about appearances. When I finished my skit, I began to reflect on my relationship with appearances and control. My family raised me to be seen and not heard: “Close your legs… Sit still! Act like you got some damn sense!” Clowns breathe with their bellies; meanwhile, I had been sucking mine in since childhood. In the first workshop alone, CUNTRY had already taught me a great deal about myself.

When speaking about the inspiration for the project, Reed cites their experiences with labor. Trader Joe’s, food service, Apple Genius Bar—Reed had done it all listlessly but with perseverance. At a panel event with Artists Against Apartheid, Reed held a screening of Madeline Anderson’s I Am Somebody (1970), a documentary about the first successful union strike led by Black femme healthcare workers in Charleston, South Carolina, in the 1960s. The event highlighted the historical resonance between labor movements and the misperception of protests as spectacle. During a scene in which white men mocked and laughed at Black women marching for better wages, I was prompted to think of the parallels between the women and Reed as a clown.

I imagine that most of the white bigots in Charleston at the time found the union’s demands preposterous and downright laughable. When I pointed that same reflection at myself and my perception of Reed, and thus, clowns, I was reminded: clowns are not the joke; you are. Subconsciously, I had bought into the hegemony that had kept me chained and prevented me from demanding more from myself. Only a fool would go out into the streets marching for better wages and benefits, and thank God that “fool” exists! Everybody else is the true dunce for being complacent.

Once I understood Reed’s dilemma, the music began to resonate even more. On the closing night of the Session, Reed held a concert with live performers, sculptures, and visual art. The house was packed, not just with hay but also with a diverse group of laborers: baristas, musicians, teachers, healthcare workers, and more. People took pictures with Reed’s horse-swing statue, laughed at JoyBoy the clown, and gagged at annotated newspaper clippings I hung up when I helped decorate for the evening. My friend, Ian, admitted, “I’m, like, very lost, but I’m also very present.” The masses had gathered to hear Reed’s sermon and fill the cups capitalism had emptied.

Once on stage, Reed, dressed like a dark horse, began with a Badu-esque disclaimer: “Obviously, this music is for the laborers and a more liberated future.” Everyone chanted and applauded. Despite having a cold, Cleo’s voice carried the lyrics to Women at War:

“Life on the clock is like eating with your eyes / I might go on a hike, I might find God.”

And to every word, people bowed and put their hands up as if the Lord himself had sent a word for them. These laboring bodies, like those of their ancestors that came before them, congregated to cope with the demanding world they work in. They, like Reed, wanted more than what society allowed them to have.

On “Always the Horse, Never the Jockey,” Reed did their big one:

“I woke up in spite of fear / I didn't ask to be here / Will I win the race? / I glide on the asphalt / I wanna touch grass / Can you blame me for resisting?”

A true clown and musician, Reed improvised certain phrases that got the crowd wild with call-and-response:

“When I pull at the front line of the resistance, can you blame me?” NO! When I find true love at the Revolution, can you blame me? HELL NO!

That’s when I knew I was in a room of people who were tired of performing.

After a few songs, Reed began to acknowledge one of the most sacred aspects of CUNTRY: rest. After all, a more liberated future wouldn’t require so much of our energy. The house had been exhilarated all evening with chants and praise, but in between songs, it was evident our horse was losing energy (the concert was labor, albeit radical). Reed thanked everyone involved—their team, their ancestors, the audience, Recess, and the universe—for bringing us under the same roof. Playing the last few notes on their guitar, Reed began to say, “If I’m gonna live by the shit I write about…”

“YOU GOTTA REST!” someone shouted in the crowd.

“As I step into the world more publicly and less privately, I'll think of this moment, and it'll remind me of the type of bitch I am,” said Reed.

That’s what I loved about the experience the most—the promise that even in a more liberated future, Reed will remember what it was like to always be the horse and never the jockey.

About the Writer

Ericka Pérez

Assembly Fellow

Ericka Pérez is a Dominican Republic-made, Bronx-raised, multi-hyphenated artist, writer, and creative force. Through a blend of words, audio, and visual art, Ericka immerses themselves and their audiences in microcosms of freedom, recognition, and empowerment. Whether through stand-up, content creation, or community-building, they channel and radiate currents of liberation, authenticity, and joy.

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