Partners in Play

A Richmond music scene veteran who performed in dozens of bands, Dean Owen loved a good spoof

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Editor’s note: In this online companion to our December 2019 article remembering notable Richmonders, two close friends share their memories of J. Dean Owen, who died on Sept. 14 at age 56.      

Every year, the late, great Hamaganza — a December variety show for charity featuring local musicians, politicians and media types —  tied to outdo itself for over-the-top vaudeville raunch. But as we sat in Bandito's, I think, ahead of the show's 19th year in 2013 — me, Deano, probably Kyle Christians and Herschel Stratego — we were stumped. We got talking about Donnie Corker, aka Dirtwoman, always talking about having Dean's baby or Mark Holmberg's baby or my baby or whoever's baby. Then I glanced over at Herschel, who happens to be a rather small-statured fellow. Divine inspiration struck. What if Dirtwoman had a baby and we delivered it onstage?

Impossible! The plan would require more than a medical miracle, plus it would require Herschel's begrudging cooperation. But Dean and I were determined. This bad idea only became worse as we confronted the technical, but still theoretical, issues of committing to fate’s own hand a human being dependent on oxygen and avoidance of biohazard concerns that existed as a natural course in the vicinity of Dirtwoman’s rump. 

Dean and I basically drew straws on who would be Herschel’s delivery doctor. I think I might have claimed some excuse I couldn’t entirely back, but Dean wasn’t, for once, quick enough with a counter-argument. He looked terrified even sitting there at the table. And that terror continued through to the night of the performance, right up until I had to manually shove Herschel — Did I say he was a willing participant? — under the back of Hamaganza's surreal Santa sleigh that served as Dirtwoman's royal throne. 

It’s worth noting that part of Dean agreeing to play OB-GYN involved me lending him my military-issue full-face gas mask. Anyway, I got Herschel under the sleigh, and things predictably went south. Among best laid plans, this was one of the worst. Herschel got hung up, stuck under that part of Dirtwoman’s anatomy that Dean labeled his “foo-fah.” Completely and utterly lodged, face-first.

I was shoving from behind, and Dean dug in like a real delivery doctor, now racing against time to rescue the patient. It was almost a full minute before Dean, genuinely yanking and pulling, popped Herschel out like a cork. Herschel’s face was pure horror. He’d stared death in the eye — or in the ass — and it smelled real bad back there.

Dean didn’t look much better than Herschel. He’d had to abandon the gas mask to get the job done. I never got it back. Never asked.

I honestly thought Dean might kill me that night. Luckily, he let me live so we could tell each other that story a million times afterward, each time gasping for air not unlike that night, but induced by fits of maniacal laughter.

And of course there was the reprisal: That skit inspired our final Hamaganza sendoff for Donnie/Dirtwoman in 2017, after he left us. Dean, by then, had been told by his doctors that he was never supposed to perform again under any circumstances or he could die at any time. F--- it, was his response. This was for charity, and it was our last toast to Dirtwoman, a final fond farewell to our partner in slime. 

And damn if Dean wasn’t going to make it nastier and even more over the top than the “Virgin Birth” skit. This one was no virgin birth, more like NC-17. But it was glorious. I’d conned a local burlesque dancer into lending us her manger. We broke it. She was very angry. We were elated, and never questioned why she owned a manger. Donnie’s spirit was honored. The Massey Cancer Foundation got some dollars in Dirtwoman’s honor. And Dean was a million watts of smiles that never will fade away. —Chris Dovi, executive director of CodeVA and a onetime Richmond magazine contributor

To me, Dean Owen was the puppy dog and mascot of Richmond’s vast and largely unheralded underground music scene. No one’s tail wagged harder when it was time to practice, play, dress up, talk and dream up crazy twists to try. If you had a band and needed help, he was at the door, scratching to get in. 

He absolutely loved RVA’s punky, trippy, hippie and heavy scenes (he was the only one I know who performed in all of them) that should’ve long ago made Richmond famous as the nation’s offbeat music capital. It was music meets art and rebellion, fueled by Virginia Commonwealth University’s art department and the evolution of the city’s strong beatnik scene that thrives in old industrial buildings. 

Dean was one of the few true locals, as opposed to the many musicians who came to go to VCU and fell in love with this gritty city. He was also a tireless chronicler of the scene, scrapbooking and collecting photographs, art and flyers, a collection that was partially destroyed when his Fan basement was flooded.

 I worked a good bit with Dean on his daytime renovation jobs and absolutely loved his enthusiasm, his laughter and offbeat humor. I remember attending and later reviewing for the Richmond Times-Dispatch many of his many bands’ performances in the heyday of local music — the late ’70s and ’80s and beyond — when Shockoe Bottom, the Slip, the Fan and Broad Street were peppered with small clubs that catered to local original music and cool national acts. My favorites were Ultra Bait and the Vapor Rhinos. Like so many, I loved Dean. —Mark Holmberg, freelance writer, former Richmond Times-Dispatch reporter and columnist, former television journalist for WTVR CBS 6, and bricklayer