"walking down the road— with that pistol in your waist-- Johnny you're too bad . . ."—Jimmy Cliff
Blaze of a day, hot wind shaking the trees' green shadows; I'd been banging a blog post into shape for hours, and finally just had to let the damned thing go. Went into domestic mode and took the garbage can overstuffed with glass bottles to the dump for recycling. Came home and went to the East Nashville Farmers' Market with the family; still hot at five o'clock, so we didn't stay too long. But what a great community event this is—a weekly thing; organic farmers set up booths and sell their produce, meat, and dairy. Something about fresh, real food grown locally that suggests community, that is community; something about the abandoned McDonald's bag blowing down the middle of my street that suggests something less. Came home, ate a salad for dinner, then Evan and I took the dog for a walk. Something like water-skiing on dry land, one end of the purple leash wrapped three or four times around my wrist, being pulled down the sidewalk by a 75-pound beast that always wants to go a little faster than I do, like what's next is always better than what's now, trying to outrun the present tense, taking it all in through the nose, all that secret canine knowledge lost to those of us walking erect, sensory narrative reeling between his twitching ears, inside that wide brick of pit-bull skull. I've loved being back home for a while—being able to do things like this--talking with my son while out following the dog as the daylight and heat begin to fade. Every time we cross the corner of Greenwood and Chapel, though, I think of my neighbor Eric who was shot and killed very near there in November of 2005, victim of an attempted car-jacking by a then 15 year-old assailant. I think of that happening there, and it's totally incongruous with the present: lush summer, gold light, a car passing us now and then, a cooling breeze carrying mower-buzz and grass-smell, dog piss on the telephone pole. Not a hint of danger, past, present, or future. Why do I expect more? Like the street's supposed to show more than Nature's unforgiving neutrality—it's like I want it slanted, subjective as any painting, some melodramatic shadow hinting at what's happened there, that this would somehow be a greater justice to posterity. This is part of the eastside ethos, though not unique to our zip code, certainly, and has been since we moved here thirteen years ago: young people moving in here like us, new blood, new business, new money, fueling a neighborhood revival in an area still frayed by a legacy of decay and poverty, with our sleepy notions of prosperous comfort occasionally knocked hard to the ground by a kid's desperate one-handed grab at something, the random violence such as Eric's murder being the most extreme example in recent memory. Last night, though, I got a little dose of the "urban drama" that I mention when telling non-locals about the 'hood:
It was happening before we knew anything was happening; a typical late-night (well, 11 p.m.) hang at the Wash, I was sitting at the bar talking with Marty Lynds and Jon Byrd. I hadn't been in there for a month. A couple sitting down the bar to our left, Tom Mason and one other guy to the right. Somebody sitting alone at the little table just inside the door to the main room. The first thing I remember seeing that made me think something was wrong was that the three people who'd been at a table near the front window were now outside, crouched down and running towards the back parking lot. Two black guys, 16-17 years old, were suddenly just there . . . one in a dark green winter coat w/the fur-lined hood up, a pistol in his right hand, the other kid in just a black T-shirt, I think. Both of them trying unsuccessfully to keep their shirt collars pulled up over their noses. So quiet. But you could sense the vibe shift—from normal to a kind of silent chaotic uncertainty. Jamie and Greg behind the bar—Jamie asked the guy in the coat: "what do you want? You want the drawer?" He takes the cash drawer out of the register and hands it over the bar to the guy in the coat. One of them tells us he wants our "wallets, whatever you got; put them in the bag". Trouble was, he didn't have a bag. They took everything in the drawer except the nickels. Starts coming our way, collecting from each person sitting there, moving left to right. I remembered that I had a wad of 11 ones in my front pocket—change left over from the farmers' market earlier--and thought that maybe if I handed him that, that he wouldn't ask for my wallet—which I didn't want to hand over if I didn't have to. It worked, though now I feel fairly stupid even thinking of withholding anything for the sake of my own convenience—by the time he got to me, he was moving faster, just wanting to get out of there. I turned to my right, still on the stool, and not making eye contact, put the money in his hand. He took some cash from Jon, then turned and they were gone. I looked at Jamie, who was watching them leave, making sure they were gone and out of sight; then he picked up a phone and called the cops. The people who'd managed to run out the door had already called 911. Within five minutes the cops were there; within ten there were 5 or 6 cars there, blue lights spinning quiet across the dark. Those of us at the bar were still sitting there, taking it in, quickly downing the fresh pints that we'd been offered—to calm the nerves, which seemed to be just waking up. I did get up right after it was over, and went into the bathroom and called Boo to tell her what had happened. After a little while, a cop came in and interviewed each of us, taking down our contact info and recording what we'd lost. There was something about a motorcycle, too—somebody outside flagging down a motorcyclist right after the robbers left, and the guy went after them. As of this morning, despite all efforts, no one had been caught. Strange how it didn't feel dangerous. Just muted, nervous, and fast. Like time stopped and let these guys in for a minute. Only afterwards did it register—if they'd wanted to, they could've killed us all.
Paul Griffith and Lorne Rall recently invited me to play a week-long stint with them at the Hog's Breath Saloon in Key West. They've done the gig many times, and after hearing their various tales of hi-jinks and debauchery, I'd always wanted a crack at it. We were working the "late shift", 10 p.m to 2 a.m.,(the last of three acts a day), on a covered outdoor stage just inside the front entrance to the place. I went to have fun, to make some money, yes, and to go somewhere I'd never been. I accomplished all of the above, following a schedule that went as follows:
We'd walk or bike the quarter mile over to the venue at about 9. (The venue provided us decrepit but functional bikes for around-town transport). The comedy began with our heroes dragging the amps, drums, mic stands and monitor out of the band closet (a triangular space of about 3 cubic feet, in which there inhabits the smell of some rat's last wish (god rest his funky ass) to stink out the joint by dying up in the wall there about two weeks before. That, or it's just the collective residue of 30 years of alcohol, smoke, heat, and humidity). Negotiating the route of delivery from closet to stage through a crowded room presented familiar challenges for interpersonal relations (drunk college boy and his beautiful yet very much in-my-way girlfriend turning and accusing me of calling her "hon"(as in "hon-ey"), and asking me "you're not trying to get smart are you?", when in fact I'd just said "Hi", as a way of subtly cueing them to please move the additional nine inches the hell over, so that the 50 lb. guitar amp in my hand would not collide with anyone's perfect tan or pedicure) and exciting near-misses (I almost clipped that kid's skull! Sheesh!). Next task: figuring out the previous act's mixer hoodoo—it's 90 degrees at 9 o'clock, and there's 60 knobs on this thing . . . do the math—inevitably there'd be some godawful circa 1984 God-talking-to-Moses reverb hex on one of the channels which could not be killed by prayer, will, or, least of all, our knowledge. Or the vocals would come through the monitor but couldn't be coerced out of the mains (the speakers that face our loving public). By mid-week we'd figured most of this out, boiled the code down to a language we could understand; the routine went faster, so we could devote more time to pre-game indulgence(s).
Easy for me to say that I was following Lorne's and Grifter's lead, because I was, but I would've gone there anyway: tequila, Corona Light (because of the heat, this stuff was perfect), or a shooter called the red snapper (sweet but refreshing—but nothing I'd drink elsewhere). Why this felt, um, necessary? Well, blame it on the heat, (dripping with sweat before you even played a note), on the raging desire to follow the "Key West way" (this place, like New Orleans, just implores you to lose your mind for a while) , on the peculiar requirements for this gig: the venue loves singer-songwriters, in theory, but you'd better come loaded with some easily identifiable covers, 'cause that's what most of the tourists want to hear. So therefore, songer-singwriter, ye shall not take thyself seriously, and do what it takes ("cheers!") to restrain the impulse to do otherwise.
10-11:15 pm: 1st set
Heavy expectation hangs in the salty air as we carefully choose the first few songs, to set the tone of the evening: "What'd ya wanna start with?" "Ah . . . whatever". One crucial strategic move we developed was to place J.J. Cale's "Call Me the Breeze" as the second song in the set—thereby quickly killing off the ever-present Skynyrd request by playing a song they covered, yet doing it much more Cale than Van Zandt. As with any gig, however, I pretty much knew, after the first couple of songs, how the night was gonna go—easy, fun, or . . not so much. So, we'd do a few, then throw in "Church House" and a few other originals. Crowd seemed to like it just as much as the other stuff, hoorah. Better to make this first set longer—this was Paul's advice—it tended to make the rest of the night go by more quickly. Our "Not Fade Away/Mona/Who Do You Love" medley also took care of the Grateful Dead, Stones, and George Thorogood requests. It also happened to be one of my favorites to play. I only had to fend off one extremely offended dude sporting an extreme mullet, who came up after a Slim Harpo song and indignantly yelled at me: "play COUNTRY mew-zick!". "Okay!", was all I could say . . . after which we tore into a rolling-on-three-flat-tires-funky rendition of Hank Sr.'s Bucket's Got a Hole In It. So there!
By Thursday night, I'd sold all the CDs I'd brought with me; because of throwing some originals out there, I guess folks were hungry for them. I think next time I'll try to lean a little harder on the original material, though most of the covers were fun, and it was great not having to sing every song. Extreme thanks go out to Stephen and Evie, fans who drove all the way from Orlando, and my new friend and rum expert Rob, who drove down from Miami, after discovering Down to the Well had mysteriously landed on his iPod. ("Who the hell IS this guy?", I think he said his initial response was.) Rob trolled the bars with us one night after the gig, and had us sample at least one fantastic rum which had earned his praises. For a fella who'd never traveled past Myers, it was a palate-opening experience, even at 3 a.m. And Chris, whose enthusiasm was damn near frightening, who asked me if he could "recycle" the D-string I'd just broken during the previous set.
11:45-12:20ish: 2nd set (Small Pleasures Ever Passing)
I believe it was early in the second set one night, while Lorne was delivering his heartfelt version of the Archies' "Sugar Sugar", that a Jayne Mansfield look-alike in bright red blouse and black pants appeared on the stage, shaking and twisting her parts with great vigor. Paul responded by spanking her repeatedly on the ass (in time with the song) with the stick in his right hand, while continuing to carry the groove with his left. Let's just say she enjoyed it, so much that she took things into her own hands, and there I was, sweating on top of sweat, watching this woman take herself to the good place right there on the stage of the Hog's Breath. All the while, her husband played witness from the bar, four feet away. I was laughing so hard I could barely play. Sure wish I coulda recorded an mpeg of that. Would've made for a nice loop on the myspace page. Well, maybe.
1:15ish-2 a.m.: 3rd set
Predictably, the last set was when the more courageous song choices come out. I'd been practicing G-tuning guitar before the trip, and had worked up an earnest but halfass version of "Happy", from the Stones' Exile on Main St. record. Absolutely slaughtered "Love Potion 9" one night, trying to back up an inspired and somehow unoffended guest vocalist. Played Springsteen's Open All Night, from the Nebraska record, a risky move considering the amount of lyrics involved and my ability at that time of night to deliver them. I've done this song live plenty of times, but it had been quite a while. This was for bartender George, one of my favorite people I met in KW. She met us at a non-tourista bar after hours, and bless her heart bought us very tasty Van Winkle bourbons to share there in the dark.
2-2:30 a.m. (Breakdown)
House rules—every act had to stow the gear back in the closet when their shift was over. The least fun of the entire experience, but, as with the set-up, we got faster at it as the week went by. By 2:30, we'd head back to the bandhouse, drop off the planks, and ride on to the Green Parrot.
The Parrot ("southernmost bar in the continental U.S.") is a book, a world, a film loop, all to itself. As Paul puts it: the drain at the bottom of America. Open since 1890 (really???), you get the feeling that it's the same old souls recycled and spat out to sit here, regulars around that oblong resting place eternally in the dark, a web of little green lights strung along the celing meeting at a point over the center of the bar like a vortex, the place we all came from, or the place we're all getting closer to . . . I remember a married woman from Milwaukee or Mankato, husband (who she described as an "entrepreneur") very loosely in tow, leaning her head all the way back to look at us upside down, laughing loud and wide, talking up the bald man sitting next to her, who's fresh out of prison and so damn glad to be free he could scarcely find words for the feeling.
4 a.m.: Pizza, Yes
Closing time, we'd ride home down Duval, the main drag for this part of the island, and stop for pizza if we found a place still open. One night, the pizza was free—they were about to toss it all. We sat there on our bikes, feeling a little lucky, a little blessed, quiet while snarfing down a couple of pieces of pepperoni with crushed red pepper on top. The last night we were there, there was a woman selling sausages off of a cart, sizzling them up on a flat metal cooktop, silver tongs browned from a legacy of grease, dropping them into buns. Italian the best-seller, followed by the generic hot dog, and Midwestern bratwursts running a distant third. While waiting to order, a very intoxicated young man from New Zealand said to me: "I'd like to share something with you". I said, well, okay. "I like to f**k sideways." Thanks. Thanks so much for sharing. Good night now.
5 a.m. Good night/good morning, er, afternoon
Back to the house, and fall out til noon, if you're lucky. Usually the parking lot activity out front woke me up beforehand (pesky non-nocturnal types in the realtor's office below). Make coffee and try to come on back. Clothes, shoes, money all over the floor. Grease from my bike chain marked up the right leg of my jeans. I'd bought a dozen eggs, cheese, some tortillas and tomatillo salsa; breakfast just about every day was a murderous attempt at an omelet, a mess but still pretty tasty.
I don't watch much TV. Usually held captive by the will of the family (Dad doesn't want to be the odd man out . . .), if I'm home on Friday nights I'll get couch-bound by the likes of, oh, what's her name—gives good wardrobe and talks to the dead, sending their annoying, grotesque, yet plot-providing asses on across to the Other Side. In KW, around our breakfast time we'd gather round the glowing screen for episodes of Cops, Leave It to Beaver, and/or Beverly Hillbillies. Saw the episode of BH where Flatt & Scruggs come to visit; this is when Miss Jane first gets the idea of becoming a folk musician. How long did it take her to realize she oughta stay at the bank? Cops: yeah, politically it ain't so pretty, though the kleptomaniac's story to the authorities after being stopped two blocks from the dept. store is inevitably as hilarious as it is shaky.
After an afternoon at the beach, or in my case, just going back to bed sometimes, we'd meet at the Hog's Breath for dinner; they provided us one meal a day. If I were feeling healthy: blackened fish dinner, with corn on the cob and boiled red potatoes, salad w/Italian. Burgers here are great, though, and were hard to resist.
After dinner we'd retreat to the band house for a crucial nap; wake up at 8:30, leaving for the venue at 9. Repeat this sequence 7 times and you have my week in Key West. Except for Saturday:
Our friends Brian and Jill invited us out for a boat ride. They have a groovy remote spot on one of the smaller keys east of KW. Outdoor living at its finest—beside the RV, a tiki hut with living room furniture and a TV, the palm-frond roof just redone by some local craftsmen. Adobe-colored patios, walkways out to the dock, lush tropical plants and clean sand, so otherworldly that it was easy to imagine that I was on the set of a Shatner & Nimoy era Star Trek episode, down on some paradise planet waiting for the beautiful alien female lead to come round the coconut tree and make her fateful entrance, somnambulantly speaking the words "Captain James Kirk?" in plain Indiana English. White light. White heat. Sunscreen? Yes, please. What is the name of this planet?
The five of us walked down to the boat: a cigarette-looking sort of thing, long and skinny, with two places to sit—the driver's seat (wide enough for two people to sit half-ass on), and a cooler with a padded top, at the front of the boat, directly in front of the windshield. Brian explained that to get out to our destination, Picnic Island, we're gonna have to go really fast for several miles, because the water is so shallow that unless he gets the boat high enough out of the water, we'll run aground and potentially destroy the thing. Great. For blast-off I picked the seat in front, on the cooler. Handles on both sides; I figured it was a good choice. Stow your hat and shades, unless you want to lose them.
I'd had a beer before boarding. But when we reached the end of the canal and Brian opened her up, no amount of sedation could've prepared me for the intensity of the experience: within ten seconds we're doing 60 mph over very choppy water, and all I could see in front of me was the white prow of the boat, banging into the green waves beneath wide blue sky. We're getting airborne over the rougher stuff. Wind burning my eyelids; my vertebrae being banged together with each slam back to the surface. Here I was, holding on to two plastic handles of a cooler that's bungee-corded to the deck, praying in way I've never prayed, just wanting this part of it to be very much over and now, thanks. About halfway out, we got to a deeper spot and slowed down. I moved to the side, standing up and holding on to a rail next to the wheel. Was this better or worse? Just different really, having to remember my skateboarding skills—bending at the knees in response to what's coming, all the while that water's going by really fast at my side, about a foot away and I'm barefoot on a wet slab of white fiberglass. Finally, we got out to the island; about thirty boats anchored there, beautiful water like green glass from an old Coke bottle, about chest-high and 80 degrees. Now, aqua man, exhale . . .
Brian put up an umbrella on our boat, and I just sat there for about a half-hour, staring out at the water, trying to recover from the ride. I remember being in such a state that I actually let that Rupert Holmes masterpiece, the Pina Colada song, play on the boat stereo at close range and loud volume, and didn't move an inch to kill it. After that, Paul came over and checked on me. "Enjoying the music?" he asked. That was enough to shake me from my stupor. We crossed over to a pontoon boat where a large red-faced man in a denim shirt named Bill was very much master of ceremonies, his barbecue pit smoking, some domestically engineered device pouring up margaritas for the taking. We sat up on the top deck of his boat; Bill handed up trays of pork roast and jalapeno potato salad, a round of margaritas. Jello shots thrown from boat to boat. People, dogs, everywhere in the water. Bliss overload. Some fractal zone of reality, where time passes quickly and simultaneously not at all. Down from Bill's boat, I floated in the water, eating fried chicken, and watermelon so sweet you'd swear it was deep summer already. I knew some threshold had been reached, however, when ol' Bill fell sideways off his jet-ski and it rammed into another boat. No injuries, no damage, but maybe some of us had reached that fateful point of containment.
A line of thunderstorms appeared to the south; we packed up and started back, trying to outrun the weather. The ride back wasn't as bad, maybe because I knew what was coming. Once we'd docked, Brian said if the water had been any rougher, we'd wouldn't have gone out. So I wasn't overreacting, then, ha ha. But I'm glad I went: even though I was a little freaked at times, I did pick up on that particular exhilaration that fear (what keeps us awake when riding between imagined risk and real danger) provides—taking life between the teeth and holding on. And both he and Jill were gracious hosts and skilled boaters—we couldn't have been in better hands.
I've been home for a week now and after a month of busy busy busy, (often having a helluva good time), I'm enjoying being back—kids out of school, Boo done with work, everybody moving at a slower pace, falling lazily into summer. My level of consumption is back to healthier, pre-KW levels. Feeling sane again. But I did get a call from the Grifter yesterday; there might be a chance we'll be going back to Key West in July, and it looks like my calendar is open that week . . .
(see the key west photo album for accompanying pics of our adventure)
Here's a link to the site for Random Acts of Music, a music-related television program for which I recently taped a segment, solo in Sergio Webb's living room:
Should be up next week, I think. Look for it on youtube as well. You can also see other episodes featuring my friends Dave Olney and Sergio Webb, and Gwil Owen w/Richard Ferreira.
Thanks to all of you midwesterners who came out to the gigs last week--by all accounts it was yet another victorious march, though I did seem to fall into some psychological mud in the first set of the Iowa City show. Second set was better, but . . . dang. Did manage to stutter out a couple of new songs despite the internal weather.
Good stuff: our dinner with pal M. Chechik at the incredible Iron Barley restaurant in St. Louis(smoked pork chop hell yes and really nice folks); visiting a while with my old friend Bo Ramsey; promptly receiving an unrequested shot-and-a-beer from my friend Marty, owner of the Mill in I.C., upon our arrival there; a great night at Fitzgerald's Side Bar, with Bill at the board, Camille at the bar, and many many fans who show their support loudly and often(Cate and co., Van, et al.)--thanks!
Disappointing: a not-so-great lunch at one of my favorite barbeque joints anywhere: Jim's Rib Haven. The sauce is magical enough to cover just about anything and do it some good but these ribs were way too dry . . .like they'd been cooked about a week ago and left to sit under the heat lamp since. A rare misstep--these people know how to do it right.
Leaving for Louisiana today, driving through an all-day rain. Two shows there in Monroe this weekend, including an outdoor show with the sublime Paul Burch on Saturday. Then I haul ass back home, do laundry, and re-pack, leaving for a week of gigs in Key West FL at 6 a.m. Monday morning, under the guidance of seasoned Hog's vets Lorne and the Grifter. Stay tuned . . .
Yesterday, unloading into this place: 30 some-odd sparrows up on the powerline overhead. At my feet, one scrawy mockingbird giving me all kinds of bird-verbal assault, scraw, scraw, scraw. One crow sitting on top of the pole, directly above me, picking at its feathers in the gold fade of late spring sunset. Good evenin' to ya. I look around the van, under the van, in the flowerbed next to the van, for a fallen-out-of-the-nest baby bird, but there's nothing. I'm just invading their turf, I guess. First sound I encounter when getting into my room is a woman next door, getting very sick for a very long time in her bathroom. Yum. Hardee's and a gas station beer for dinner.10 pages of my book and I'm down for the count.
Great gig Monday in Atlanta. Thanks to all of you who came out on a school night. Many kudos to Marian Daigler, who not only interviewed me during her radio show on Sunday morning, but also emailed several people from the local blues society about my show, most of whom came out.
I never quite know how I'm going to feel when I get up there to play; it was my first show in this venue, and when I first loaded in, the vibe felt cold to me. But I know it was probably me projecting--even after doing this for 20 years, playing a venue the first time still can make me nervous. That quickly changed as the downbeat approached and I saw all these folks come in. But even with a crowd, I don't know if I'll talk a lot between songs, or, more likely, embrace the default setting and not say much. Well, Monday night I felt like talking. Hope y'all didn't mind. Seemed to be entertaining, on some level. Thanks too, to Mel Pinson, who booked me for the gig, taking a chance on a not-strictly-blues show in what has been Atlanta's landmark blues club for many years. I was intrigued by the idea, but slightly terrified—having visions of certain notorious "tourist blues" destinations in our what-a-country and the sometimes god-awful sounds rendered from within, so much being about post-Hendrix tonal distortion/SRV hot licks and playing fast(none of which are necessarily bad things), or riding the nostalgia train round and round on that narrow gauge track til you're beat-sick on Mustang Sally or Sweet Home Chicago, picture the young secretary, happy hour, her executive in tow, third strawberry daquiri spilt all over the dancefloor, but that souvenir glass is plastic so don't worry darlin. Sorry, I digress; I was headed into my own little nightmare there. This was NOT here, er, there. Everybody was cool and let me do my thing. I like the room—dark enough to feel comfortable, simple lighting, no distractions. It felt great. Thanks, Mel.
Next morning I checked out of the Highland and found Son's Place, which Richard Bicknell had suggested, for an early lunch. Really good—Son himself sitting there in a black & white tropical print shirt, holding court, talking with two regulars about football. The occasional verbal tear-down of a slacking employee. And that woman behind the counter, dressed all in white like a nurse, (or, thinking New Orleans, that singular artist and bride of Christ, Sister Gertrude Morgan), sure can put the scald on the boy when she needs to. I had fried chicken, rice and gravy (sure, it's a vegetable, right?), and collard greens. The greens were the standout, with a mysterious flavor both sour and sweet. Plenty of pot lickker floating around for the hoecake.
They're vacuuming in the hallway out there—must be my cue. Next stop, New Orleans, where I morph into an Ark-La-Mystic, playing guitar for Kenny Stinson's set on Thursday afternoon. Hope to see you there!
This place reminds me of a hotel where I stayed in Paris many years ago, little rooms, open windows, squeaky floors. An occaisonal black cat taking its own sweet time down the comfortably dim hallway. Much quieter than France. Through my open window in the middle of the night I heard the rain come in, and go out. Love that sound. Thankfully, no audible adult intimacy from nearby rooms. It's really better that way, friends, especially when you're out here by yourself.
Clouds this morning. Can't seem to sleep late, despite having no good reason to do otherwise. Gig tonight down the street at Blind Willie's, and a wide-open day til then. Feels great. Feels lucky. I try to use my time wisely in these situations, though sometimes the wisest use of the time is just to allow yourself to do nothing, to worry about nothing, for just a little while.
Came into town yesterday morning and played on a radio show on WRFG, Atlanta's Radio Free Georgia. Found the station okay, though walked in on a Church of God service (in the same building) in the process. Run, sinner, run for your life! My new friend and program host Marian was very kind and helpful; we completely winged the interview and did just fine. As for my performance, well, some things should not be attempted on only one cup of coffee. Operating heavy machinery, and live performance on a 100,000 watt station. It was okay—but not my finest. Them's the breaks, I guess. You just hope something you said or sang or played might encourage one more person willing to pay the minimal cover charge to come out on a Monday night and hear a wayfaring stranger who hasn't entered this county in years. I used to come down here and play guitar in a band—a couple who'd moved here from Little Rock, the "Delta Angels"—and man, did we have fun. Add to the mixture one Keith Christopher on bass (the closest thing to Keith Richards that Atlanta has ever produced), and you'd have many many ways in which to blow your sobriety or good sense right out of the holy river of prudence. So driving through Five Points yesterday was like bouncing the shiny silver coin of the present tense off of a long blurred memory—"oh yeah, I got drunk THERE", etc. Not exactly stuff to be proud of, except for the fact that I survived. Kept it sane last night (it was Sunday, after all)—walked down to Manuel's and sat at the bar and ate a blackened tuna sandwich and the largest side salad I've ever encountered. A mere two pints of Stella and went back to the room.
One thing very different from that little Paris hotel—a TV mounted hospital-room-style, on a wall bracket up in the corner. I really don't like television, but will admit that the maniacal din of sound and color sometimes does stave off the lonesome vibe that I get sometimes when I'm out solo and it's really quiet for too long. Among other things (suddenly Rev. Jeremiah Wright is everywhere!; did he hire a publicist?) I watched an episode of that so-called reality show, "The Girls Next Door"(?)---Hugh Hefner and three or four women who'd been pictured in his magazine, all ridiculously young and blond, flying all over Europe, sauntering around the streets, eating fabulous meals, riding in limousines. Interesting in a weird way—because of how uninteresting it was. Not sexual, not provocative, kinda boring really. How many times can you be fascinated by a Playmate's finding the British food icky and recoiling in disgust? Or saying that the éclair looked like a _____?(well, you know what she said) That the photo they all took together with the Eiffel Tower in the background was something they'll remember for the rest of their lives? (Yawn . . .). Feeling my brain start to dissolve, I turned it off and did some reading.
After the interview yesterday morning Marian and I found me a good cup of coffee and then walked over to the Inman Park festival—an annual event thrown by the neighborhood—Atlanta's first suburb (though it's right in the middle of town now), beautiful old houses and thousands of tall green trees. Lush, baby. Hundreds of vendors—art, food, and three stages of music. We caught the first half of Dante Harmon's set—a great practitioner of the African-American "sacred steel" guitar tradition (like Florida's Campbell Brothers, or, more famously, Robert Randolph). I loved Dante's playing because it was tastefully understated (a very rare quality these days), and didn't suffer the rigormortis of taking itself too seriously. He was having fun and it was easy to tell. He was in the music, instead of walking on top of it. Praise God; hell yeah.
Walked down to another stage and saw some of Kristin Markiton's set, who, if I remember correctly, has also been singing with local phenom Delta Moon. It would be predictable for me to say I fell in love immediately, so I won't. I just won't. I get cranky with my own shallow infatuations—they ain't fair to anybody. But that's another chapter of another book. She was great—she and her band covered a Bill Sheffield song in a very cool way. Loved the upright bass.
I drifted back to the station to get the van, after getting lost somehow, and being recognized by an Atlanta fan I had not seen in years. Talk about shallow—but it is reassuring when you're wandering around somewhere feeling like a total stranger and somebody calls your name out right there on the street. I found my way back to the van while talking on the phone with Boo and the kids, who were suggesting I find the Ikea store, or go the High. I didn't have it in me, family. Found this little room, and sat here by the window, and played guitar for a long, long time.
Posted a bunch of photos today--some that date back to last year, others from recent trips to Texas and Belfast. Also, on the player you’ll now find a live version of Casino Road, recorded in November 2005 at the XM studios in Washington DC. More on the way . . . also, for those of you into the Facebook thing, I just put up a KG music page today--so, "fan" me, if you please . . .
Arkansas Times review of Little Rock show
Category: Music
Here’s a review by Jason Weinheimer of our recent show at the White Water Tavern, Little Rock, (see first blog posted today, below)published in the Arkansas Times on 3/21:
"The recent death of the alt-country bible "No Depression" is due, in part, to the lack of depth of the genre the rag served to further. So much of alt-country, Americana (or "genericana" as Kevin Kerby calls it) is long on rootsy posturing and short on substance, both musically and lyrically. Rather than encourage creativity and new ideas, the genre tends to celebrate mimicry. Think of how many Steve Earle, Townes Van Zant and Graham Parsons imitations we’ve suffered in the last 10 years.
But while East Nashville songwriter Kevin Gordon has solid "No Depression" credentials (duet with Lucinda Williams, songs cut by Keith Richards, etc), it does a disservice to his songwriting to lump him in with the rest. Gordon is a true original voice and his last album, "O Come Look at the Burning," introduced an entirely new vernacular into the Americana language. Loaded with dark themes and driven by a band that rumbles and creeps, it set a very high bar for future Kevin Gordon albums.
On a run to SXSW, Gordon brought his band to White Water to play songs from his back catalog, as well as work out some new material. The stripped back trio created perfect atmospheres for Gordon’s songs, filled with images and characters on the margins of the South. Think Larry Brown, if Brown was a songwriter who also earned an MFA in poetry from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.
White Water is notoriously difficult to play quietly. And just about impossible to play solo. The same rowdy crowd that makes the room so fun on a packed night makes it downright miserable for a singer armed with nothing but a guitar against the noise. So when Gordon excused his rhythm section halfway through his set to play a few new songs, I cringed for him. But he did something I’ve not seen in over 15 years of frequenting White Water. He hushed the late-night audience. And with songs, in varying states of completion, they’d never heard before. The highlight was a meditation on a singular event from his past — marching in a parade with a junior high band and facing down the KKK — that manages to weave in references to Ted Nugent and KC and Sunshine Band (or was it Kool and the Gang?) and be incredibly funny and poignant.
Gordon plans to begin work on a religious-themed EP and another full length album in the coming months, and if the set at the White Water Tavern is any indication, the new releases will be every bit as compelling as the last."
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