We worked Borders again the nite before to a difficult audience with what I wd have to call mixed results. We certainly had mixed emotions about it. But we survived and rocked at the Knitting Factory the following nite, but, see?, I’m getting boring again.

Greg has the soundtrack to the Borders gig (the video part turned out to be a meditation on a couple of our limbs and a window, owing to misplacement of the camera), which I will get and put on here, as well as some stills when I get them. In fact, imagine my surprise, here’s one of those stills now.

This just in:  my wife says there IS video of some sort from the Borders appearance.  If it’s true I’ll get it on YouTube right away. In fact, shut ma mouf, it is true, and here they are! There are two ‘Tubies (the titles of which I carefully reversed here),  Rocky Road Blues, a Bill Monroe song (tho I don’t think he used a clarinet in his version), and  Cocaine Blues , about guess what, where we do some fancy finger-picking. Okay, plain finger-picking.  When you’re finished with these you can see a set list from the Knitting Factory show. Everything just got exciting again,  didn’t it?

This post is NOT edited or even read back by me.

Here’s another scene from the JIMMIE RODGERS Script.

SCENE XXIV – PEACHTREE HALL

EXT: Atlanta, late afternoon. Two limousines drive down Peachtree Ave. toward Peachtree Memorial Hall, downtown. In the lead car Jimmie sits beside the black driver, Edward. In the back seat are Arnel and the Bragan brothers, Cal and Ferguson, two white musicians in the band.

Cal: If they wuz rallying we’d of seen ‘em by now, Jimmie. Anything happens in this town, it starts here, at Peachtree and Ninth, right, Edward?

Edward (scrunching head down to see where sun is): Uh, maybe, maybe not, Mr. Bragan. The Klan don’t like to muster whilst there’s any sun in the sky atall. They don’t want no light around for their business.

As the cars approach the Hall we see more and more people heading toward it, too. Someone sees the mini-caravan and the word spreads like wildfire.

Fans: Hey, Jimmie! Yodel-lay-ee-oo! Jim-mie? Hey, Mister Conductor, where you takin’ this train? Jimmie, you got the blues tonite? Etc.

Jimmie (out window): Excuse me, but isn’t this Atlanta?

Fans: You bet it is, Jimmie. Where else could it be? And how. You bet your butt it is, etc.

Jimmie: Then how could I have the blues?

Fans: Hooray! You said it, Jimmie! Welcome to Atlanta, Mr. Brakeman, etc.

EXT: Alley behind Hall.

The two cars pull in. Fans, all white, cheer as the musicians get out, grab their instrument cases, make their way to stage door. Crowd lavishes its attention on Jimmie and the Bragans, treats blacks like porters, i.e., doesn’t see them. Stagehand opens door.

INT: Darkness of Hall’s backstage area.

They straggle down dark corridor single file behind Stagehand. He runs on ahead, unlocks door to rehearsal room, disappears. Cal, walking at front of line, twists around and talks over his shoulder to the others

Cal: Well, I think if we ain’t seen a flaming cross yet we ain’t gonna. They gotta be outside the Hall, that’s what the Constitution says. I been reading up on this, and–

Band chatters to each other until they get to doorway of rehearsal room, then stop dead, bunch up one behind the other, like RR cars behind a derailed locomotive.

INT: Rehearsal room is ruined. Walls, windows and floors are thickly tarred a deep brown-black, furniture hacked to pieces. Music stands are bent and twisted, grand piano is tarred and feathered, inside and out. In center of room is a single gallows with an effigy of a black man wearing a sign saying, “Niggers (& NIGER-LOVERS) Dont let this Curtan Rise on YOU!”

JR (after long silence): Looks like somebody couldn’t read the Constitution. (Beat) Boy, if there’s one thing I hate, it’s an illiterate lynch mob. (Ponders a moment, then…) Guys, why don’t you go to your dressing rooms, and we’ll just rehearse in the–

Arnel (who’s been exploring): Uh, I don’t think so, Jimmie. It looks like they used up the rest of their tar on our rooms. Jimmie, listen: Cal and Ferguson can give you all the backing you need tonight. There’s no reason for you–

JR (pointedly ignoring him): Tell you what: we’ll rehearse in one of the storage rooms. Heck, we really know our stuff by now, anyway, leastwise we should. Besides, we might not even get a chance to play a whole set, once the “cur-tan” rises on us “Niggers and Ni-ger-lovers.”

INT: Peachtree Memorial Hall.

Hall is quickly filling with quietly buzzing people. No hollering and friendly catcalls now that word has gotten out about the Klan’s message. EMCEE walks up stage stairs, touches mic to make sure it is on.

Emcee: Ladies and gentlemen… ladies and gentlemen…that includes you boys from Local 231, ha ha ha… (There is no cheering) ladies and gentlemen… The Peachtree Memorial Hall Association has a special treat tonight: besides seeing and hearing the greatest yodeling blues singer that ever lived, the one and only Jimmie Rodgers (polite, reserved applause), you’re going to hear some of the wonderful musicians that have helped Jimmie make the music y’all love to hear. Now, some of these amazing–and I do mean amazing–instrumentalists are–

Heckler: Niggers!

Emcee (ignoring shout): –amongst the foremost entertainers in the land, playing with such–

2nd Heckler: NIIIIGGERRRS!

Emcee (pausing, still trying to ignore): –highly acclaimed

recording acts as–

3rd Heckler: “Coonhead Cal and the Tar-babies.”

Crowd: Nervous titter.

Other Catcallers: “Li’l Black Sambo.” “The Nappyheads.” “Junglebunnies.” Etc.

Crowd titters some more, grows restive.

Emcee: Uh… (looks futilely offstage for help). Now, some of these here players have actually gone to academies in order to–

Catcallers (starting pseudo-African chant): “Unga-bunga, Unga-bunga, we don’t want no jungle-bunnies,” etc.

A few members of the crowd have star to pick it up as JR suddenly appears with guitar from behind curtain, nods to EMCEE, who leaves stage gratefully.

JR: Thank you, thank you, thank you, Frank Earle. What a wonderful introduction. Honest, too. In fact, that was the Frankest introduction (stage winks to audience, still restive) we’ve ever gotten. (Calls to band offstage) I’n that right boys? (Silence). I said, “Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”

Band Members (Offstage, nervous): Right, Jimmie. You said it, Boss. Uh huh, etc.

JR (gesturing toward EMCEE, who is fleeing out side door): Frankie Earle, ladies and gentlemen, the Voice of Atlanta… Radio W-A-N-T, 20,000 watts of “Peachtree Perfection,” with a 140-foot tower right in the middle of town! (Quieter, more intimate) Lordy, me, why, that’s just a hoot and holler from where we are right now, i’n it, folks? Athens of the South, isn’t that what they say?

Crowd noise levels off, catcalls less frequent. JIMMIE drags plain kitchen chair from Stage Right, sits down, lowers mic.

JR: You know, folks, on the way over I was thinkin’ ’bout what I wanted to play for you tonight (tunes guitar)… and at the same time, you know, I got another recording date comin’ up with the Victor people…(tunes) and I thought maybe I could kill two birds with one song, if ya know what I mean. Whyn’t you take a listen, tell me what you think.

Shoots a private smile to crowd, strums a few chords, works into a bass run and comps an up-tempo E7 chord, setting up a blues in A.

It’s “G” for Georgia,

“G” for “guarantee”

“G” for Georgia,

“G” for “guarantee”

They’ll treat you right in Atlanta,

You can take it straight from me.

Yodel-layeee-yaheee-layhee

Audience begins to quiet down. The curtain behind JIMMIE rises to reveal six other musicians, three white, three black, standing behind him. They join him on the second verse, and the sound is suddenly big and solid, anchored by pumping rhythm from upright bass and tuba.

JR: It’s “G” for Georgia,

“G” for gasoline

“G” for Georgia,

“G” for gasoline

Took a whole lotta drivin’,

Just to get here from Abilene

Yodel-layee-layee-layhee

Crowd gets noisy again, but mood is different from before. People yell things like, “Damn right, Jimmie,” and “Welcome to Georgia, Jimmie.” It’s a good accompaniment to the driving music.

I love your peaches

I want to shake your tree.

Love your peaches

Hope you let me shake your tree

I’m proud to play Atlanta,

And I hope you like my boys and me.

Yodel-layee-layee-layhee

Crowd belongs to the Jimmie Rodgers Entertainers. They’re clapping in rhythm to the rollicking beat of the band, and, to a man, woman and child, beaming the wide, ingenuous smile of the loving toward the beloved. JIMMIE has completely won them over.

And here’s that set list from the Knitting Factory I promised. In case you forgot how excited you were when I first told you about it.

Hugs,

Country Al

Greg and I felt very good about it, and people came up afterward to  tell us how much they like us. The guy who gets us their (Border’s) sound system (Mgr?) said we were welcome to come back anytime and we’re thinking about one more show, in mid-August (14th?), which Greg has dubbed his “swan song” of New York appearances since he’s going back to Atlanta at the end of August. Bummer. I’ll miss him.

I hope to have some pix and a link to the video soon. In the meantime, you can fixate on that set list for awhile, and maybe take a quick look at a scene, “WWNC,” from the Jimmie Rodgers screenplay.

“WWNC”

[Asheville, April, 1927. Control booth of small radio station, prob. the only one for a hundred miles in any direction. There are three or four men in the control booth chatting amiably as a trio of dowdy women, accompanied by a piano player, harmonize a mawkish ballad into a microphone on the other side of the glass. Clearly, the men in the booth are not listening to the performance; they could be at a cocktail party or church mixer; in fact, they'd rather be. All, that is, except for the Announcer seated at a low counter with headphones on, fiddling with toggles, dials and other do-dads from the early days of radio. The girls hold the last note of their dirge, as Announcer motions to the other people in the booth for silence.]

Announcer (solemnly into mic): THE PEABO SISTERS, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, FROM DEEP GAP, RIGHT HERE IN NORTH CAROLINA, NOT TWENTY MILES AWAY FROM RADIO STATION WWNC, “WONDERFUL WESTERN NORTH CAROLINA,” IN BEAUTIFUL, BUSY, DOWNTOWN ASHEVILLE. [pause] “MOTHER’S NOT DEAD, SHE’S ONLY A-SLEEPING.” I…I CAN TELL YOU-ALL, THERE ISN’T A DRY EYE IN HERE, RIGHT BOYS?

[Motions to other guys, who solemnly murmur agreement in the direction of the mic]

Various: YOU SAID IT, MR. STENTZ, I WON’T FORGET THIS PERFORMANCE, REMINDS ME OF THE POOR LITTLE FLOWER GIRL USED TO…, ETC.

Ann’r: IN FACT, I AM SO SURE THAT MR. PEER, FROM VICTOR RECORDS, IS GOING TO GIVE THEM A RECORDING CONTRACT, THAT I THINK I’M JUST GOING TO TAKE THIS OPPORTUNITY…

[One of the men in booth, well-groomed and patrician in white suit and bucks, steps to the right of the broadcaster's desk, where the glass between the studio and the control both ends and there is only wall between him and the Peabo sisters and shakes his head vigorously to the announcer, at the same time pretending to hang himself, tongue thrust out, eyes crossed.]

Ann:…TO THANK YOU THREE LOVELY LADIES, AND YOUR PIANO-PLAYING FATHER, FOR COMING ALL THE WAY DOWN TO WWNC, HERE IN ASHEVILLE, TO ENTERTAIN OUR THOUSANDS OF LISTENERS. I KNOW WE’LL BE HEARING FROM YOU REAL SOON, SO DON’T GO TOO FAR AWAY, NOW. REMEMBER, “IF YOU CAN’T GET WWNC ON YOUR RADIO, YOU’RE TOO FAR FROM HOME.  AND NOW, SPEAKING OF VICTOR RECORDS, HERE’S ONE THAT’S JUST ALL THE RAGE WITH EVERY AGE–GENE AUSTIN, WITH HIS VICTOR RECORDING HIT, “DAD GAVE MY DOG AWAY.”

[Cues up a record, hits a couple of switches, looks at a couple of meters, turns his mic off and turns to Ralph Peer]

Ann: WELL, I’LL TELL YOU, RALPH, YOU’RE A HARD ONE TO PLEASE. YOU’VE HEARD EVERYBODY’S BEEN ON THIS STATION SINCE WE OPENED. PLUS, WE HAD A REAL GOOD TURN-OUT FROM THOSE LEAFLETS WE PUT ALL AROUND TOWN. I THINK EVERYBODY IN BOONE COUNTY’D LIKE TO BE A VICTOR ARTIST. FRANKLY, I’M A LITTLE SURPRISED YOU DIDN’T LIKE THE PEABO SISTERS. THEY’RE REAL POPULAR ON OUR REGULAR THURSDAY AFTERNOON SHOW. AND THEY CAN SING IN FOUR DIFFERENT KEYS.

Peer: AND I APPRECIATE THAT, DALE, REALLY I DO. AND THEY’RE GOOD, DON’T GET ME WRONG. BUT WE HAVE A LOT OF SISTER ACTS RIGHTNOW, AND THE VICTOR PEOPLE, WELL, THEY DON’T KNOW WHAT THEY WANT, BUT THEY TELL ME THEY’LL KNOW IT WHEN THEY HEAR IT. LISTEN, WHY DON’T YOU LET HARRIS, HERE, RUN THE SHOW FOR AWHILE, AND YOU AND I GET A CUP OF COFFEE. YOU LOOK LIKE YOU NEED A BREAK.

Ann: (Looks at HARRIS, his engineer) HMMMM.

Harris: GO ‘HEAD ON, BOSS. I’LL BE FINE. AIN’T DOIN’ NOTHIN’ BUT WEARIN’ OUT THIS NEEDLE ON VERNON DAHLHART. NOTHIN’S GONNA HAPPEN WHILE YOU’RE GONE, BELIEVE ME.

[PEER and STENTZ leave the studio and the building, cross the street to a diner and go in.]

John, I just got an idea. And I mean just. We could add to the preceding scene intercuts of four guys in a beaten up old Dodge racing along country roads trying to get to the station before the talent search is over. Could be real Keystone Koppy, or Bonnie and Clyde. Lots o’ action. But with or without intercuts…

[Just as PEER and STENTZ go into the coffee shop a ratty old Dodge clanks and smokes its way up to the curb in front of the station, parks at an angle, and vomits out four dishevelled young men carrying instrument cases (guitars, uke, banjo) onto the sidewalk. They lurch to the station's front door and start pounding on it. After a few seconds a middle-aged woman opens it, and they all disappear into the building fast enough for one of them to have to hold his hat on his head.

WE SEE ALL THIS FROM THE POV OF PEER AND STENTZ DRINKING COFFEE AT A WINDOW BOOTH IN THE DINER, BUT THEY'RE TALKING TO EACH OTHER AND THEY DON'T SEE IT. IT IS NOT UNTIL THEY START HEARING WEIRD SOUNDS FROM THE RADIO STATION--THE DINER IS PLAYING WWNC FOR PATRONS TO LISTEN TO--THAT THEIR CONVERSATION FINALLY GETS SIDETRACKED.

[STENTZ listens once more to the sounds of chaos in his studio before bolting up, throwing some coins on the table, and racing across the street to the station, with PEER right behind him. They burst into the studio door, the red "ON THE AIR" flashing hysterically over it, and are greeted by a loud argument between HARRIS and the four guys who'd just piled out of the car.]

Stentz: GODALMIGHTY! WHAT’S GOING ON HERE? HARRIS, WHY IS THE MICROPHONE OPEN!? TURN THE MICROPHONE OFF, FOR GOD’S SAKE.

Harris: I’M TRYING TO, SIR, BUT THEY KEEP TURNING IT BACK ON.

Stentz (to the guys): WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THESE ARE THE PUBLIC AIRWAYS! THIS IS A SACRED TRUST GIVEN TO ME TO BROADCAST ONLY WHAT THE FEDERAL COMM…

JR: I KNOW THAT, MR. STENTZ. AND I APOLOGIZE FOR ALL OF US. BUT THIS JAMOKE KEEPS SAYING THE TALENT SEARCH’S OVER, AND ME AND MY BOYS JUST DROVE 320 MILES JUST TO SEE IF WE COULD–

Stentz: LISTEN, MISTER! IT IS OVER. AND YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO COME INTO A STUDIO WHEN IT’S ON THE AIR AND DISRUPT A PROGRAM THAT’S ALREADY–

JR: I AM SORRY, MR. STENTZ…ALTHO’ IT WAS JUST A VERNON DAHLHART RECORD YOU WAS…

Stentz: WHAT DO YOU MEAN, “JUST A VERNON DAHLHART RECORD?” LISTEN, BUD, WHEN YOU’VE SOLD 20,000 RECORDS, THEN YOU’LL HAVE A RIGHT TO…[looking more closely at JR] HEY! I KNOW YOU, DON’T I?

JR: UH, I DON’T THINK SO, MR. STENTZ. I DON’T BELIEVE WE’VE EVER–

Stentz: YES I DO! YOU WERE ON THE THURSDAY SHOW WHEN WE FIRST WENT ON THE AIR. SANG SOME…BLUISH SONG, OR SOMETHING, I HAD TO TURN YOUR MIC OFF AND GO TO A RECORD. IT’S ROBERTS OR SOMETHING?

JR: [Smiling broadly and extending his had]: RODGERS, SIR. JIMMIE RODGERS. THE BLUE YODELER. AND THIS HERE’S JACK GRANT AND HIS BRO–

Stentz: I DON’T CARE IF HE’S ULYSSES S. GRANT AND HIS BROTHER. GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! ALL OF YOU. YOU CAN’T JUST COME INTO A FEDERALLY LICENSED RADIO STATION WHENEVER YOU FEEL LIKE IT AND PUT YOUR OWN SHOW ON. ESPECIALLY YOU, ROBERTS–

JR: RODGERS, SIR.

Stentz: WHATEVER. YOUR SMUTTY LITTLE DITTIES DON’T BELONG ON THE NATIONAL AIRWAVES WHERE THEY CAN GET INTO THE HOMES OF CLEAN, RELIGIOUS FAMILIES WHO LOOK TO US FOR MORAL GUIDANCE AND SPIRITUAL LEADERSHIP. DON’T YOU THINK I’M RIGHT, MR. PEER? DON’T YOU THINK THIS KIND OF TRASH DOESN’T–

JR: (Looking back and forth from Stentz to Peer): UH, EX…EXCUSE ME, SIR, BUT ARE YOU RALPH PEER? FROM VICTOR RECORDS?

Peer (Looking sheepishly at Stentz): UH, GUILTY, I’M AFRAID.

JR: MR.PEER, WE JUST DROVE ACROSS TWO STATES TO MEET YOU. I MEAN, IF THE DARN DODGE HADN’T SPRUNG A RADIATOR LEAK–

Jack Grant: MORE LIKE A HEMMORHAGE–

Ernie Grant: AND TWO TIRES WOULDNA BLOWED OUT…

Joe Somebody: AND THE MAGNETO HADNA GOT WET–

Peer (Holds up the palms of both hands for silence and looks at Stentz. Actually, there’s lots of looking back and forth between everybody).

Stentz (after a pause): AW, RALPH, HOW CAN YOU ASK ME, AFTER THEY CAME IN HERE AND JUST ABOUT HIJACKED MY RADIO STATION? I MEAN, IT’S SO DISRESPECTFUL WHAT THEY–

Peer (taking out his wallet): HOW’S ‘BOUT A FIN FOR YOUR TROUBLE, DALE? AFTER ALL, THEY HAD THEIR NERVE TO–

Stentz: REHEARSAL ROOM, TWO DOORS DOWN ON YOUR RIGHT. BUT SHUT THE DOOR TIGHT. I DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO LISTEN TO THE FILTH THAT COMES OUT OF THEIR, ETC.

[PEER, JR and the rest of the band leave the studio thru the control booth and walk down the hall. There's some unimportant mumbling between Peer and JR about the illegality of what they just did. They get to the rehearsal room, go in, and unpack their instruments. They look dumbly at Peer.

Peer: WELL? GO ON. SHOW ME WHAT YOU JUST DROVE THRU THREE HURRICANES AND A TORNADO TO SHOW ME.

JR: (unsure of himself, to the other boys): OKAY, BOYS, LET'S DO "I'VE RANGED AND ROAMED." READY, EVERYBODY? ONE-TWO-THREE, TWO-TWO-THREE…

[It's a waltzy/schmaltzy, moralizing tear-jerker, dull as dirt)

"I'VE RANGED, I'VE ROAMED AND I'VE TRAVELLED

I'VE BEEN A NO-GOOD THEY SAY

MANY YEARS OF MY LIFE I HAVE WASTED

BUT I'VE STOPPED LEADING THAT LIFE TODAY.

"I HAD A DEAR OLD MOTHER

A DAD AND A SISTER, TOO

BUT I WAS THE YOUNGEST AND SPOILED, SOME SAY

BY MOTHER, AS MOTHERS WILL--

Peer (interrupting): UH, EXCUSE ME GUYS, BUT THAT SONG CAN'T BE THE  KIND OF FILTH STENTZ WAS TALKING ABOUT. (Starting to put on his jacket.) I WOULDN'T HAVE WASTED THAT FIVER IF I'D KNOWN YOU WERE PLANNING A CHURCH SOCIAL IN HERE. HECK, I CAN GET THAT SORT OF--

JR: WAIT! WAIT A SECOND, MR. PEER. WE, UH, WE GOT SOME OTHER STUFF. (turns to the other guys, has a brief conversation, nods his head, starts snapping his fingers.) A-ONE, A-TWO, A-ONE, TWO, THREE--

[It's jazzy, upbeat kind of blues, you could dance to it. Infectious rhythm and melody. Jimmy carries the vocals.]

“PUT OUT YOUR CAN,

HERE COME DE GARBAGE MAN.

PUT OUT YOUR CAN,

HERE COME DE GARBAGE MAN.

I’M NOT THE PLUMBER

OR THE PLUMBER’S SON

BUT I’LL PLUG THAT HOLE,

‘FORE HE COMES

PUT OUT YOUR CAN,

HERE COME DE GARBAGE MAN.

PUT OUT YOUR CAN,

HERE COME DE GARBAGE MAN.

I’M NOT THE BUTCHER

OR THE BUTCHER’S SON,

BUT I’LL HOLD THAT MEAT,

‘TIL HE COMES

PUT OUT YOUR CAN–

Peer: (interrupting again, but laughing, and maybe even grooving a little bit to beat): OKAY, OKAY, OKAY. YOU MADE YOUR POINT. DO YOU THINK YOU CAN SHOW ME SOMETHING IN-BETWEEN? MAYBE THE WCTU WOULDN’T LIKE IT, BUT I WOULDN’T GET ARRESTED IN MY OWN HOUSE? LET ME ASK YOU SOMETHING: YOU EVER WRITE ANY SONGS YOURSELVES? YOU KNOW, JUST KIND MAKE SOMETHING UP TO A MELODY YOU MIGHT ALREADY KNOW, OR…WHATEVER? I’M JUST ASKING.

Boys in the band: HMMMM. GEEE. MUMBLE MUMBLE.

[Then…]

Jack Grant: HEY, JIMMIE. WHAT ABOUT THAT “T-FOR-TEXAS?” YOU MADE THAT UP, DIDN’T YOU? I MEAN, I NEVER HEARD IT ON NO RECORD OR ANYTHING, I DON’T THINK.

Boys in the band: YEAH. GO ON, JIMMIE. THAT’S A GOOD PIECE OF MUSIC. YEAH, AND NO ONES EVER HEARD IT BEFORE, ETC.

Jr: JEEZ, I DON’T–

Jack Grant (starts singing without accomp):

“T FOR TEXAS,

T FOR TENNESSEE…”

JR: [Strums a few notes, picks up the melody himself]

“T FOR TEXAS

T FOR TENNESSEE…”

[Rest of the band starts playing with him. A wry, won't-I-ever-learn kind of country blues]

“AN’ IT’S T FOR THELMA,

THE GIRL WHO MADE A FOOL OUT OF ME.

EE-OO-LAY-HEEE, LAY-HEEE, O-LAY-HEEE.”

[Finishes the song, and lets his guitar hang loose around his neck, resting his picking hand in the hollow of the guitar's body. He looks a little wistful, but says nothing. The room is silent a long beat. Finally, Peer breaks the silence.]

Peer: UH, WAIT HERE JUST A SECOND, WOULD YOU BOYS? I NEED TO ASK SOMEONE A QUESTION. I’LL BE RIGHT BACK.

[He goes out the rehearsal room door, walks the short distance to the broadcast studio, steps in. Stentz and Harris are at the controls, talking to each other. A record is spinning on the turntable and on the air.]

Stentz: HEY, RALPH. YOU SEND ‘EM HOME, YET?

Peer: JUST ABOUT TO DO THAT, DALE. RIGHT NOW. LET ME ASK YOU SOMETHING. THIS JIMMIE RODGERS, HE COULD NEVER BE ON YOUR STATION, RIGHT? I MEAN, THERE’S NO WAY YOU’D EVER–

Stentz: NOT WHILE THE LORD SEES FIT TO LET ME RESIDE IN HIS GLORIOUS ABODE.

Peer: OKAY. JUST WANTED TO MAKE SURE. SEE YOU LATER.

[Peer leaves the studio and goes back to the rehearsal room, where Jimmie and the boys wait breathlessly. He takes a small card out of an inside pocket in his jacket, pulls a pen out of another pocket and writes something on the card. He hands it to Jimmie]

Peer: MEET ME AT THIS ADDRESS, TOMORROW MORNING, TEN A.M. SHARP. BRING YOUR INSTRUMENTS. SEE YOU THEN.

[He turns and leaves the room.]

Anyway,  it’s time for some more Jimmie Rodgers stuff. These are scenes, one worked into dialog, the other waiting to be, that were not yet included in the script outline, but I thought would yield good action and/or dialog and/or character development, once they were turned into screenplay matter.

Exchanges with and about Ralph Peer, Victor A&R man

Jimmie Rodgers is in a small recording “situation” in June of 1931. It’s the old church Victor used for a studio in the Camden. The church is dark inside, except for an intimate glow where the musicians and recordists have located, in the center of the main worship hall. The pews were long ago removed.

Camera starts with wide-angle, all-inclusive shot of whole room from elevation. Sound of the session in progress starts very faint on track, slowly gets louder as camera gradually zooms in. It is a kickass rendition of one the blue yodels, and as camera gets closer and sound louder, the pulse of the track, and Jimmie’s performance in response to it, is hot. All the musicians and recordists feel the beat and the confidence of the music. Including one man who seems to be rocking out in spite of himself. He’s a little stiff about it, but is clearly enjoying it.

The piece ends, the music is over. One of the recordists signals Jimmie and the band for a long second of quiet that they will put at the end of the recording. Everybody knows this is the take to go with.

The recordist indicates the silence is over, and Jimmie and the musicians congratulate each other on a good performance, talk about it lovingly to each other. Jimmie slowly makes his way out of the studio and into the (glassed-off) area where the engineers and the man are, walking through all the other musicians as he does. Except for Jimmie, all the musicians are black.

JR: What do you think, Ralph?

Ralph Peer: What do I think Jimmie? You know what I think without even asking me. It was a very good take. Best one of the day. And it’s a real good arrangement. Different from what you usually do, just like promised it’s be. But…

JR: But what, Ralph?

RP: You know “but what” Jimmie.

JR: Well, now, I’m not sure I do.

RP: Jimmie, we’ve talked about this. A lot. I can’t tell if you understand what I’m trying to say or not. I’m not sure you’re even listening to me.

JR: Humor me. Tell me again.

RP: Oh, let’s just forget it. We don’t list the musicians on the label, anyway. Maybe I’m making too much of it muself. I–

JR: Oh. You mean the colored musicians on the recording?

RP: Jimmie, don’t play naïve with me. It doewsn’t fit you.

JR: Ralph, I know the musical background fits for my songs. And like you say, we’re not going to put the names of the players on the label, so who cares what color they are. I don’t care. You don’t care. Mr. Victor, he don’;t really care. So who are we protecting?

RP: Well, first of all, I’m not 100% sure the Victor company doesn’t care who their artists record with. I’m just saying, you’re asking for trouble when you have Niggers in the band. Look, Jimmie, you know how much I like Nigger music. Hell, I’m going down to Atlanta next week just to record–

JR: I do know that, Ralph. I do. But what I can’;t figure out is why if they can play the music, and nobody’s gonna see em, what’s wrong with having ‘em play we me, on muy records? What difference is it going to make to anyone?

RP: [Long beat] Jimmie, I can’;t relly tell you what difference it’s going to make. I’M Just saying coloreds are not like us. They have…a different way of living. Some people don’t like that difference. A lot of folks–your fans, Jimmie–feel they lose some jobs because the Niggers’ll work for less money than we do.

JR: And do some jobs we don’t want to do. Like all the “Georges” on the Pullman cars, like plowing a field by hand. Like picking cotton…

RP: …Like accompanying you. Some of those jobs they’re taking are jobds that could go to our musicians…

JR: You mean white musicians.

RP: Jimmie, if Clayton McMichen finds out you recorded with Niggers, he won’t play with you any more. You understand that?

JR: [beat] So what do you propose, Mister recording director? Throwing these takes out and starting all over again?

RP: [beat] No, not exactly, Jimmie. But, we do have their arrangements recorded. There’s no reason why we couldn’t have Clayton and the Burke Brothers learn them, and then you’d record the sides with them. It’d be the same music, and everyone would be happy.

JR: Almost everyone.

RP: Whay do you mean, Jimmie?

JR: Well, I don’;t want to sound boastful, Ralph, but I think Earl and his boys really were proud to record with me. I think they’d b e very disappointed if they were’nt on the record they helped me arrange.

RP: Well, Jimmie, it’s not like we won’t pay ‘em. They’ll make over $75 a man. Jesus, that’s more money than any of ‘em’ll make in a–

JR: I know you’ll pay ‘em Ralph. I rtrust you that way. I just think…well, somehow, it doesn’t seem fair for them to have done all this work, and expect to have something thye could take home, show their families and friends they played with the singing Brakeman on a national record, and now all they’ll have to show for it is as musch money as they woud’ve gotten choppin’ cotton for a couple of weeks.

RP: [beat] Well, what do you want to do Jimmioe? I gave you a good alternative plan for your backup band. You havre to decide if you want to take it or not. You know what I think. But your contract with us says only that you’ll write, prepare and perform x number of songs x times a year. I can’t make you do anything, as long as you live uyp to your end of the bargain. [beat] So, what do you want to do?

RP: Take all the time you want, Jimmie. Hell, take lunch and dinner; we’re not recording again ’til tomorrow. I just hope you make the right decision.

JR: Me too, Ralph. Me too.

(Same scene as recalled by Ralph Peer in an interview 30 years later.)

RP: (Chuckling)…didn’t always know what the implications of his actions were. He wasn’t dumb. Jimmie was actually pretty clever, considering he didn’t have anything but a uyear or two of public education. But Jimmie…all he wanted to do was make friends. Didn’t much matter how he did it. Tho’ thank God one of the ways was with his music. You know, the recordings, the tours, the “impromptu” sitdowns. Wherever he was, he just wanted to be surrounded by people that loved him. Note that I’m saying they would surround HIM. That’s important. He loved people, but he did want to be the center of attention. Nothinhg wrong with that; that’s what every good entertainer has to want, or he woun;t be worth a damn to himself or anyone. You know, I remembver one time he–

Interviewer: But do you recall anything about that session, you know, the one in LouisVille, in June? I mean, about how he seemed to feel about keeping the Negro players as his backup band, or–

RP: Well, see, that’s what I’m trying to tell you about. Now, Jimmie didn’t care much about the, how would you say, the “imponderables” of the recording business. If it sounded good when we cut it, why then, that’s what he wanted to issue. Didn’t matter what we called it, didn;’t matter who played on it. Now, he understood he had to get writing credit. That he understood, thanks to me. But you know, until I showed him he couldn’t get any publixhing royalties unless he was the writer of the songs he recortded, he didn’t care. I think maybe that’s where some of the, uh, Nigra influence came in. I think he heard Nigra fellas playing and singing in the yards, you know, the railroad yards where they’d all stay over until the next connection, and he knew it was kind of catchy and mournful at the same time, and he wanted the sound for himself, and he didn’t see why he couldn’t just ghet the boys who played it to play for him.

But yes, to answer your question, he did seem to have some concern for the colored boys’ feelings. But not like your current-day integrationists, your peace marchers and your intermarriage people. I don;’t think he would have been happy at all to see Kathryun–his daughter, you know– marry a colored boy. No, he wouldn’t have gone that far.

But when it cam to the music, his music, he was color-blind. and it was hell on the rest of us. You can say he was ahead of his time, socially, I mean, but I don’t think it was that at all. it was the music, plain and simple. If he could get an alligator to plkay guitar the way he wanted it, or fill in a good washtub bass part or a big jug, why he wouldn’t care who was playing. But he wasn’t a freedom busrider. What do you call it? A civil rights activist? No way.

Int: What actually happened to the recordings from that session? The ones that had the black sidemen? Do you recall?

RP: Do I recall? Yessir, I recall. Jimmie told me later that day, after the session was over and the colored boys had gone, that it’d be alright with him to have some of our boys–

Int: You mean white musicians?

RP: Well, whatever. Actually, there was a Hawaiian player in there somewhere, a lap-slide guitar player, I don’t actually remember exactly when, tho’ I could look it up if you wanted. But yes, to answer your question, he agreed to let some white musicicans learn the parts from the colored boys’ recorded arrangements, and he’d sing along with them, with the white versions. You call them “covers” now. That’s thanks to me, too. I made up that exprtession, “covers.”

But he insisted that we issue the ones he liked the best, the versions he preferred, colored players or white players. [silence]

Int: So…

RP: So, we got the Burkes and McMichen and Joe Sdchmuck, and they listened to the arrangements Jimmie had done woth the colored bouys, and learned them well. They were all adept ;players. I thought they did real well. But…the fiddle on the clarinet part just didn’t please Jimmie for a low-down blues–that’s what he called songs like My Good Gal’s Gone Blues–”low-down.” That was his term for it. Anyway, the fiddle just didn’t go with the words, at least that’s what Jimmie said. And also the real bass, the concert bass, just didn’t sound the same as the jug. [musing resentfully] That damn jug. I hated that jug. To me, that’s what made it sound so Nigra. The jug.

Int: So you went with the black version of My Good Gal’s Gone Blues and What’s ‘It? when you issued the records?

RP: [beat] We issued Jimmie singing with the Nigra players, yes.

Mfx: Funky, driving jug band recording fades back up; maybe camera pulls back from cu of session it had originally zoomed into.

Same scene from standpoint of aging black musician being interviewed, ca. 1970.

Musician (Morgan Freeman?): Do I think it made a difference to Jimmie whether we were included or not in the recording? (chuckles).Now, you talkin’ ’bout the music or our feelings? ‘Cause if you be asking’ ’bout the music, shit, you be on a fool’s mission. The music was elementary to Jimmie Rodgers. Elementary, see. The music always come first. whatever be the best music, that be what Jimmie Rodgers wanted on his recortds. He take what he could ghet, see, what ever was the best around at the moment he was recortding. But if something was better than something else–you understand what I’m talking about?–,if something be better than something else, Jimmie always take the winner. Once he heard what the song could sound like with good musicians, musicians with the “feeling”–you understand what I’m saying here?–when he could hear the “feeling” in the music we playing, he don’;t wanta go backward. He want to keep that music with the feeling. [maybe this guy plays a lick or two on guitar--electric!--or mouth harp, amplified].

Int: And what about your heart? And the other black musicians? Do you think that mattered to him? I mean not the music, but your feelings, how you took it that some of the recording people didn’t want you to play on his records no matter how good it sounded. Did he care?

Mus’n: Well, now, I’m no mind-reader, you understand. And I just knew the man for a few days, you know, not like we grew up in the same county or anything. But I’ll tell you this: When he was in the recording [booth] arguing with Mr. Peer, I had to kind of walk through them all, ’cause I had to take a pee and the toilet was you had to walk through where the recording equipment was to get to it, I saw and heard Jimmie Rodgers arguing vociferously with Mr. Peer. Vo-ciferously. And Mr. Peer, he didn’t look all that happy ’bout the way things seemed to be going for him, and whatever he was trying to hget Jimmie to do. And Jimmie, he looked pretty worked up. I don’t know what he was saying when I didn’t hear him, but I know when I did hear him, he was asking Mr. Peer what difference it made if they weren’t going to put the names of the players on the label. He was saying what does it matter, long as the music was good?

Int: So you’re saying he really didn’t care that much about the muscicians, he just cared–

Musc’n: Well, now, whoa just a bit, Mr. Folklorist/Civil Rights man. that’s not exactly what I said. What I said was he seemed to be fighting hard for the music to be right, no matter who played it. When you ask me how he felt as a man, inside hisself, I have to tell you this: there was another guy in the band, Earl MacDonald, he played the jug. You know what that is, the jug, right? Anyway he played the jug, and he was really good, a virtuAHso, you understand what I’m saying? he could make that jug talk, and still keep the rhythm for everyone else in the band if they lost it, say.

But see, Earl–he’s the one that booked me onto the recording session–Earl knew Jimmie a long time. Earl knew Jimmie from the yards, that’s where they met, in the yuards, the rr yards, and they’d see each other all the time, on the different runs, doin’ different work, of course–colored folks and white folks didn’t do the same kind of work on the roads as each other–, but they seed each other all the time, ahd sort of followed each others’ like careers when they got around each other, or heard from other [rr workers] and asked after each other.

And anyway, what Earl said, was he didh;t ever see Jimmie mad as he seemed to be that day arguing with Mr. Peer. In fact, Earl say Jimmie had a reputation for being just as easy going like most other people in the south. You know, we just don’t get as “up tight” as you people do. Earl, he say Jimmie was campaign shoutin’ in that control booth, and it seemed to be about what’s fair and not fair as much as anything else. Earl say Jimmie tell Mr. Peer, “These boys have worked hard for me for the best part of a week, on these arrangements”–and we had, too. He got that right– “and,” Earl say Jimmie say, “it’s not fair they shouldn’t be able to play on the record, just because they was colored. Esp. since no one listening to the record was going to even see ‘em.”

Earl say Jimmie was a friend to the colored man. That he helped the colored man out whenever he could, but most especially in getting the colored man noticed for his musibility, if you understand what I’m saying.

Int: But Mr. Peer said he’d be glad to pay you guys for your services. He wasn’;t trying to rip you off financially.

Mus’n: That’s right. Mr. Peer say he pay all us boys for our trouble. Decent money, too. Almost a hundred dollars apiece. [beat] And you know what Earl say Jimmie Rodgers say to Mr. Peer when he say that?

Int: No, I don’t.

Musn: Well, I don’t think I can say it on this tape recording you’re making. I think you better turn it off, first.

Int: Well, I’ll tell you what: it’s my tape and my tape recorder, and no ones’s going to hear this that I don’t want to hear it. What’d Jimmie say to Peer?

Mus: [beat]. He said, “Fuck you. These are my musicians, and Ill record with ‘em if I want to.” That’s what he said, “Fuck you.” Earl like to died when Jimmie said that to Mr. Peer. And then Jimmie took four crisp new $100 bills out of his wallet and pushed them at Mr. Peer. “Here’s your outlay for the first session, Ralph.” Then, so everybody could hear, you know, all us colored guys in the recording studio and all the recording engineers and Mr. Peer, he says real loud, like someone just got the faith or something, “Day after tomorrow, everybody. Ten AM sharp.” That’s what he said. I heard him myself. “Everybody be here day after tomorrow”–that would be a Wednesday as I recollect–”at ten o’clock in the morning.” And then he said, “And whoever’s bringing the hootch, don’t forget it this time.” Honest to God, that’s what he said.

[If this guy had picked up a guitar or harp and hit a lick or two during the interview, I think we go out on some good, raunchy Chicago R&B, ala Howlin' Wolf or Muddy Waters, etc., and make that connection]

JUG JOINT

Smalltown RR crossing at night. Bell clangs, red lights blink, white crossingarm falls into position. Train rounds a last curve before coming into view, approaches slowly, brakes hissing and squealing. There is no reason for it to stop here, and somehow it knows it.

High atop one of the boxcars a man with a lantern traces an arms-length circle in front of him, like the outline of a shield, then pumps the lantern straight up and down. He does this every few seconds as the train gets closer and closer to the crossing. On the fourth repeat of the pattern another lantern, just outside a small shack up the track, is waved straight up and down. A whistle moans one long, three short tones and the train slows down some more. It comes into the tiny station at maybe a fast walk.

Boxcar rider scurries down the steel ladder that runs up the side of the boxcar, right next to the open doors where three men crouch. The man on the ladder climbs down to the men in the doorway and talks to them.

JR: OKAY, GENNEMENS, THIS IS IT.

One of the men jumps from slowly moving train, trots a couple of steps to equalize his own speed with that of the train. The other two men are right behind him. When the boxcar man is sure the other two are free of the tracks, he signals one more time to the Stationmaster, who is now about a hundred yards up the track. He signals back. A moment later, the whistle blows and the train starts to pick up speed, the whoofing and clacking of the engine and wheels gradually drowning everything else out as it struggles to get to a speed it is more comfortable with. The three men walk toward the small shack and the Stationmaster.

JR [to Stationmaster]: OBLIGED, SAMPSON. [Hands lantern to Stationmaster]

Stnmstr: GLAD TO HE’P, JIMMIE. [Takes lantern from Jimmie, gives the two black men the once-over, shrugs, turns back to Jimmie. WHEN YOU THINK Y'ALL BE BACK?

JR: HARD TO SAY, SAMPSON. DEPENDS ON HOW LUCKY WE GET.

Stnmstr: WELL, WE GOT THE 11:45 AND THE 1:13…

Arnel: LAWD, I HOPE WE BE LUCKIER THAN THAT.

Stnmster: TELL YOU WHAT, MISTER RODGERS: THE SILVER ROCKET'LL BE COMIN' THRU AT 5:46 IN THE MORNING. WHY DON'T I JUST ROLL IT ONTO THAT SIDETRACK AND HOLD IT FOR YOU 'TIL YOU GET HERE? I DON’T THINK THE OTHER PASSENGERS WOULD MIND ALL THAT MUCH, DO YOU ?

JR: WHY, THANK YOU, SAMPSON. THAT'S VERY KIND OF YOU.

Stnmstr: OH, THINK NOTHING OF IT, MISTER RODGERS.

JR: THINK NOTHING OF WHAT, SAMPSON? OH, AND DON’T FORGET SAMPSON: TWO MINUTE EGGS. LAST TIME THEY WERE SO HARD I THOUGHT COOK  FORGOT TO TAKE 'EM OUT OF THE SHELLS.

Stnmstr: NO, THAT WAS ME, JIMMIE. HAD 'EM MADE UP SPECIALLY MADE  FOR YOU.

JR gives famous "thumbs up" gesture to Stationmaster. Both men laugh.

Stnmstr: WELL, WHAT ARE FRIENDS FOR, JIMMIE?

Wave to each other. Jimmie and the three other men start walking along the road that crosses the tracks.

JR: WHOA, I'M HET UP, ARNEL. AREN'T YOU, OR ARE YOU TOO COOL? HOW FAR IS THIS PLACE?

Arnel: WELL, LESSEE. YOU GOT A COMPASS AND SLIDE-RULE?

Jukie: SHIT, MAN, IT'S COLORED TOWN. WHEN'S THE LAST TIME YOU SEEN COLORED TOWN MORE THAN TWO BLOCKS AWAY FROM THE RAILROAD  TRACKS?

Arnel: ANYWAY, YOU BE HEARING IT BEFORE YOU SEE IT.

At that moment a noisy, ragged jalopy turns the corner into the street they're walking along and pulls up beside them. One of the guys leans out the front window and greets them.

Rider: HEY! ARNEL! WHATCHA DOIN', BABY? HOW'S LIFE AMONG THE EM-PLOYED?

The jalopy pulls over, Arnel walks to the curb and chats with the people in it. In a second the rope that is holding both doors closed is unlooped, and Arnel is motioning Jimmie and Jukie to get in.

JR: YOU SURE YOU GOT ROOM?

Driver: SHIT, MAN, WE GOT ROOM FOR A WHALE IN THIS THING.

Arnel: GOOD, CAUSE WE GOT A WHALE IN OUR PARTY. JIMMIE, JUKIE, GET  YOUR ASSES IN HERE.

Everyone piles in, and the jalopy chugs off.

[They find a parking place and the seven men pile out and start walking down the street. It's a down-at-the-heels neighborhood, with few lights and fewer neon signs. Just over the threshold of hearing there is a pumping pulse, audible only as a low, single note line. Gradually, as the men get closer to its source, the line is joined by other, less elemental sounds. Band instruments!

The six black guys are reserved and poised as the excitement builds, but Jimmie's having trouble containing himself. He looks at Arnel, who just keeps looking cool and purposeful as he and the other guys step thru a battered, mud-silled doorway. The door is open, and music fills the room. It's a jug band, and they're cooking (see Minglewood Blues in Smith collection). Inside the Club it's a casual atmosphere, with some people dancing, some drinking at a ratty bar, some playing cards. There's a pool table across the room from the jug band, and some sharply dressed Negro men are standing around it. There are hookers in evidence, and Arnel and Jukie move directly toward a couple of them. But Jimmie just stares at the band, transfixed by the chugging rhythm of the orchestra and naked rawness of the vocalist's delivery.

"DON'T YOU NEVER LET ONNNNNE…WOMAN RULE YOUR MIND.

DON'T YOU NEVER LET ONNNNNE…WOMAN RULE YOUR MIND.

'CAUSE SHE KEEP YOU WORRIED, TROUBLED ALL THE TIME."

Gradually, some of the bar patrons become more attentive to the music. Sly observations and comments are made.

Crowd: YOU SAY IT, BROTHER, YOU SAY THE TRUTH. LAWD, YES. HE BE  SAYING THE REAL THING, YOU BELIEVE IT, ETC.

One voice, young, female and earnest, stands out amidst the general murmuring.

Thelma: BULLLLL-SHIT!

Crowd: WHOOOOEEEE! UH OH. NOW YOU DONE IT, GUS. ETC.

Vocalist: "YOU BE A MARRIED WOMAAAN…COME SEE ME SOMETIME

YOU BE A MARRIED WOMAAAN…YOU COME SEE ME SOMETIME

YOU BE A SINGLE WOMAN...I'LL SEE YOU BY AN' BY."

Thelma: YOU BE LYIN' LIKE A ROPE, GUS. YOU A SNAKE.

Gus (the vocalist) laughs and sings another verse, then tells the band to comp while he and Thelma do the Dozens. They're good at it. It's a real show. Then, finally…

Gus: YOU BE SUCH AN AUTHORITY ON MATTERS OF THE HEART, WHY'NT YOU  GET YOUR BLACK ASS AND TITTIES OVER HERE AND SING THE SONG FOR ME? COME ON, THELMA, GET ON OVER HERE.

Crowd: YEAH, GO ON, THELMA. WHOOOEEE, THELMA GONNA TELL IT LIKE IT IS.

From someplace in the shadows of the dim room, comes the owner of the voice mouthin' like Rev. Al Sharpton [I HOPE YOU GOT IN-SURANCE, GUS, 'CAUSE I'M GONNA HURT YOU, YOU UNDERSTAND? I'M GONNA CUT YOU A NEW ASSHOLE, 'CAUSE THE ONE YOU GOT, ETC. ETC.] When she finally gets into lights near the “stage” she is revealed as a young black woman, pouting and attractive, with a lewd smile. She walks over to the slightly raised platform where the band is playing, steps onto it, gives Gus a scornful onceover, and starts to sing.

Thelma: “I SEE YOU DON’T NEVER BRING YO’ BLACK SNAKE HOME

NO, YOU DON’T NEVER, EVER BRING YO’ BLACK SNAKE HOME

‘CAUSE I GOT ME A HACKSAW GONNA MAKE THAT SERPENT MOAN

The crowd hoots and hollers, and Thelma sings a couple more verses. Then Gus sings a couple more verses, before he motions to the Band to go into stop-time.

Gus: “YOU KNOW YOU–MESS WITH MY VIPER

HE GONNA GET SORE

HE GONNA BITE YO’ LITTLE COOKIE ‘TIL YOU CAN’T STAND IT NO MORE

SUCK THE MILK FROM YO’ MILK COW

TAKE THE HONEY FROM YO’ BEES

LEAVE YOU CRAWLIN’ ROUND MY BEDSIDE

SAYIN’ ‘MERCY, MERCY, PLEASE.’

[Hoots and hollers from audience]

Thelma: “YOU KNOW YOU–BRING THAT BLACK SNAKE NEAR ME HE GONNA GET STUNG

GONNA TIE HIS LITTLE BLACK CIGAR INTO A LITTLE BLACK SNAKE BUN

PULL HIS EYEBALLS THROUGH HIS ASSHOLE SQUEEZE HIS RATTLES ‘TIL THEY SQUIRM

‘CAUSE THIS BLACK SNAKE YOU BE TALKIN’ ‘BOUT

AIN’T NOTHIN’ BUT A LITTLE BROWN WORM

[Chorus-not written]

Jimmie’s glued to the to the performance coming off the humble little stage–and to at least one of the performers; so much so he doesn’t see or hear Arnel sidle up to him.

Arnel: HEY, BOY, WHAT YOU LOOKIN’ AT?

JR [surprised]: I…UH…WELL, I…

Arnel: HEY, I THOUGHT YOU JUST HERE FOR THE MUSIC.

JR: WELL, YEAH, I AM. BUT I LIKE WHERE ITS COMING FROM, TOO.

Arnel: WELL, SHIT, I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE LIKE THAT. JEEZ, THAT CLARINET PLAYER LOVES BOYS LIKE YOU. SHIT, I CAN–

JR: HEY, THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT! LISTEN, ARNEL–

Arnel: I KNOW WHAT YOU MEANT, MAN. BUT A INTRODUCTION TO THELMA GONNA COST YOU.

JR: DON’T FOOL AROUND, ARNEL.

Arnel grabs a pack of Old Golds Jimmie’s been carrying in an inside pocket of his jacket, takes him by the arm and hauls him over to the bar, where Thelma is. She is surrounded by admirers, but acknowledges Arnel. They exchange a few words, have a couple of laughs, then he pulls Jimmie up to the bar.

Arnel: THELMA, YOU GOT AN ADMIRER, HERE. MUSICIAN, TOO. PRETTY GOOD GUITAR PLAYER. I’D LIKE YOU TO MEET MY CO-WORKER AND FRIEND, MR. JAMES F. RODGERS. THE “F” IS FOR “FOOL.”

JR: I’M VERY PLEASED TO MEET YOU, THELMA. I…I DON’T THINK I’VE EVER HEARD A WOMAN…UH…DELIVER A LYRIC LIKE THAT.

Thelma: THANK YOU, MR. RODGERS. BUT YOU SHOULD KNOW RIGHT AWAY, I DON’T DELIVER.

Bar people: UH OOHHHH. THELMA BE TALKIN’ HER JIVE, ETC.

JR: WELL, THAT WORKS OUT FINE FOR ME; I’M STRICTLY A TAKE-OUT MAN, MYSELF. [Pulls a flask from inside pocket of his jacket.]

Bar People: WHOOOEEEE. NOW WE ALL IN TROUBLE, ETC.

JR [to Thelma]: BUY YOU A DRINK?

Shawn Elliott with then-girlfriend Donna Murphy and my son, Max,  ca. 1988.

Distinguished stage, film and tv actor and close friend Shawn Elliott has finally returned to his  Upper West Side digs after a week-long stay at Lenox Hill Hospital for colon blockage and related abdominal problems.  Though Elliott’s name is not a household word,  you’d probably recognize him for his portrayals of a judge and other characters in Law & Order and as a character actor in other tv venues.

Elliott’s intestinal problems, nagging him for the better part of this year, were finally cleared up after a long, uncomfortable week in the hospital, where doctors and surgeons kept a not-close-enough, in my opinion, watch over his condition and the progress, or lack of it, of their measures to ease the blockage. My wife and I visited him several times before some of the medicos’ voodoo kicked in and he was able to return home to wife Donna Murphy and five-year old daughter, Darmia. Shawn is a devoted family man and was overjoyed to get back to his household.

Besides the tv characterizations Shawn has had a noteworthy career starting in the ‘Sixties, with a cover of the reggae hit Shame and Scandal in Family that climbed the  charts  (Jason Odd, do you happen to know exactly how far up?) and got him going as a singer.  He won raves in the Off Broadway revue  “Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris,” adding acting to music for a dual metier.

Shawn has appeared in many films, including Miguel Pinero’s  Short Eyes,  the Robert Young-directed thriller, Caught, and Crossover Dreams, a salsa musical with Reuben Blades. Fans know him as a featured stage actor in the Broadway productions of City of Angels and Cyrano, where he played opposite Frank Langella. His recent portrayal of the central character in the Off Broadway show Einstein’s Gift won critical reviews. His work usually does.

In October he directed and performed in Begonya Plaza’s play,  Teresa’s Ecstasy,  “a mystical journey of change and defiance as two opposing sexually charged forces look at love, politics and religion,” produced at the INTAR  Rehearsal Studios on West 52nd Street. The work is planned to go into production later this year.

*                      *                       *                        *                         *                     *                       *                    *

Following is what seems to be a sort of script-outline for the film The Jimmie Rodgers Story with some scenes and dialog written,  some indicated TK and some noted q.v., i.e.,  already written but not included in the outline. I’m putting the outline in today, with some notes to the writer, as one long run-on sentence of a script, and add the q.v.’s in subsequent posts. Give ya a little something to look forward to.

THE JIMMIE ROGERS STORY by Allan Ross

PROLOGUE  (Included in second-to-last post,   “Clarence White, What He Knew, etc.”)

SCENE I – Contemporary Nashville Session (Included in previous post,  “Greg n’ Al’s Run for the Border(s)”)

SCENE II – Audio: YO-DE-LAY-HEE-OOO (Not written)

Sfx: Vocal synthesized and processed, expanded into “surround-sound” mix. Blues licks et al and percussion added. Crescendo to peak, then diminuendo all instmts & vocal except percussion on Wynton Marsalis “BIG TRAIN” figure (Ba-dum ba-dum… Ba-dum ba-dum…).

- Fade to -

SCENE III – Funeral Cortege (Not written)

Passing countryside (credits?) POV from inside special RR viewing car. Countryside changes as train goes from NY to Meridien. People gradually appear along tracks, mourning and otherwise paying respects. By the time train stops in Meridien, people (white, black, city-types, country-types) are in number and we can see individual faces.

SCENE IV – End of Journey (Not written)

Train comes slowly to stop. Hands and forearms reach into car and gently unload casket. Hushed voices. Casket clears doors of car. In a moment, the open slider door is closed, but not before we see Parnell, a black man in his mid-thirties, in middle distance holding something we can’t quite make out and looking on at procession.

- Fade to -

SCENE V – Jimmie Rodgers’ Last Recording Session

1930’s recording studio, POV control booth. Four men stand hunched over sound equipment, gazing apprehensively at figure on other side of soundproof glass.

JR (singing, heard thru small speaker in control booth):

“WHEN YOU SEE A SPIDER,

CLIMBIN’ UP A WALL…”

Ralph Peer (in control booth): THIS ONE’S GONNA GO RIGHT TO THE

WIRE, BOYS.

Engineer (to self): C’MON, JIMMIE, C’MON.

- Cut to -

Studio, MCU of JR singing w/guitar, sound now live and full.

JR: “WHEN YOU SEE A SPIDER,

CLIMBIN’ UP A LONESOME WALL,

YOU CAN TELL THE WORLD,

HE’S GONNA GET HIS ASHES HAULED.

YO-DE-LAYEE, -AYEE, -AYEEEE.”

Performance ends and last chord fills recording studio. JR’s eyes shut tight, face contorts, shoulders hunch and heave in silent convulsions.

- Cut to -

Control booth. Last chord still ringing, but thru monitor again. Otherwise, no sound in booth. Final chord rings a long time as each man in booth goes thru his own personal anxiety symptoms (e.g., Peer looks at clock on wall, Engr. stares at vu meters, plate-cutter stares at engineer, etc.). Finally, Engr. nods to Peer. Peer’s shoulders slump and his chin momentarily rests on his chest. He leans forward toward talkback mic next to Engr., who flicks it on.

Peer: WE GOT IT, JIMMIE.

Control Booth (gen’l): YEA! YEAH, JIMMIE, YOU GOT IT MAN! ETC.

But JR doesn’t seem to hear, possibly because of soundproofing, but mainly, it turns out, because he’s being wracked and wrenched by a coughing fit that convulses his whole body. Two male attendants and a woman rush into studio, but there’s not much they can do when they get to his side, except stand there helplessly looking on. Finally, the seizure abates enough for them to help him stand. In the meantime, the clapping in the booth dies down as Peer and the technicians start to go about their business of turning the performance into a record.

- Cut to -

SCENE V(a): Jimmie’s Dressing Room.

Jimmie is helped onto bed, sits on edge slumping and panting from the coughing seizure. He is all but motionless except for the heaving of his body as he tries to breathe.

Sfx: Clapping from control booth becomes echo-y and ethereal. Synthesized yodel from Scene 2 is reprised briefly.

- Dissolve to -

SCENE VI: Backstage at the Earle (five years earlier)

(Soundtrack cross-fades up to) Wild clapping, whooping, calls for “more” from audience out front as small knot of people gather around a younger and much healthier-looking JR backstage, congratulating and patting him on the back, etc. JR enjoys the adulation, tho’ with occasional wistful glances into middle distance.

Stage hands start to close the theatre for the night.

JR (to entourage): THANKS, EVERYBODY, ‘PPRECIATE IT, etc. HEY, WHY DON’T YOU GUYS GO ON AHEAD? I’LL BE ALONG IN A FEW MINUTES.

Elmo (man in entourage): THE “RED CABOOSE,” JIMMIE?

JR: THE SAME ONE, ELMO. THEY’RE HOLDING A TABLE FOR ME.

Elmo (as if rehearsed): HOW LONG THEY BEEN HOLDIN’ IT, JIMMIE.

JR: ALL NIGHT, ELMO.

Elmo: BOY, I BET THEY’RE TIRED.

JR: BET YOU’RE RIGHT, ELMO. WHYN’T YOU TELL ‘EM TO SET IT DOWN, AND THEN YOU DO THE SAME YOURSELVES.

Elmo: YOU BET, BOSS.

JR: AND ASK FOR “DOM.”

Elmo: “DOM” WHO, JIMMIE?

JR: DOM PERIGNON, ELMO. DON’T YOU KNOW THAT BY NOW? AND SAVE A SIP FOR ME; SINGIN’S THIRSTY WORK. I’M GONNA TALK TO MY BOYS, HERE [indicates stagehands], FOR A FEW MINUTES, THEN I’LL CATCH UP TO YOU. G’WAN, NOW, GET OUTTA HERE.

Entourage: SEE YA LATER, J.R., HURRY ON UP, NOW JIMMIE, etc.

- Exeunt Entourage -

Two stagehands pick up a big, quilted furniture blanket, snap it straight between them and lay it, tentlike, over piano. Jimmie watches absently, coughing lightly into his hand.

- Dissolve to -

SCENE VII – Sheets into Tents [q.v. but needs rewrite].

Two boys in their mid-teens, one black and one white, pinning a bedsheet into place as the last panel of a homemade bigtop. It’s the young Jimmie and Parnell.

Parnell: YOU THINK PEOPLE ARE REALLY GONNA COME, JIMMIE?

JR: LIKE MOTHS TO A FLAME, PARNELL, LIKE MOTHS TO A FLAME. C’MON, WE GOTTA GET GOING. YOU’RE MASTER OF CEREMONIES, TONIGHT.

Parnell: NOTHIN’ DOIN’, JIMMIE. THAT’S YOUR JOB.

JR: PARNELL, YOU GOTTA START GETTIN’ SOME EXPERIENCE IN THE

DIFFERENT ROLES.

[They go back and forth for a while. Finally, Jimmie says "Match! Even!" and throws out two fingers. Parnell throws out three. Jimmie will be MC. He smiles, shrugs his shoulders and curls his index finger down so that only his middle digit sticka up at Parnell. They both laugh, and make one more sign to each other, a secret one just between the two of them. Then they run into the tent to get into costume.

Almost no one comes and the show is a complete flop. Just before they decide to strike the "tent," the sky darkens, wind blows up and flattens it. At the same time there is the sound of a lonesome train whistle blowing not far away, carried even closer by the low pressure of the weather. The sound of the train itself gets closer.

- Cut or dissolve to -

SCENE VIII - Aunt Dora's (to be written)

Middle aged, kindly woman looks at muddied and probably ruined sheets.

Dora: I KNOW HOW MUCH YOU WANT TO BE AN ENTERTAINER, JIMMIE,

BUT… etc. etc.

Jimmie hugs Aunt Dora and agrees to quit pipe dreaming. But we see in his face over her shoulder that he is mentally crossing his fingers when he makes this promise.

Dora (to camera): Y'KNOW, JIMMIE ALWAYS HAD THESE BIG PLANS TO MAKE

A NAME FOR HIMSELF, BUT WE WERE LIVING IN TOUGH TIMES, ETC. ETC.

- Cut to -

Scene IX - Tent Rep Show (to be written)

Actress weeps melodramatically. Jimmie, several years older than in last scene, watches appreciatively. The drama ends and the [intermission] band plays. (This might be a white string band, and may even be the reason he’s at show in the first place.)

- Fade to -

Scene X Trainz-a-poppin’

Train footage and lots of music as RR guys are shown going high in bad weather, working the brakes, scampering over cars and up and down ladders at night, etc. (May be an interesting time to show what contribution Blacks made to the trains running well, on time, and luxuriously. ["Oh George, would you plump up my pillow for me, and then get me a glass of water? Step lively now, George," etc, "George," as in George Pullman, being the generic name for all black train valets.])

- Resolve to -

Scene XI(a) Jimmie in Train Yard (not written)

Last train in Scene X rolls into roundhouse yard in Durham. Weary, begrimed man climbs down boxcar ladder, walks heavily across yard, stops at caboose to drop off something, picks up lunchpale at roundhouse. Couple of light exchanges with other workers. Continues diagonally across yard toward a neat row of small cottages. Just as he reaches them he hears a distant, raucous noise from somewhere toward the far end of the yard. He stops in front of one of the little bungalows, looks back and forth from it to where the sound seems to be coming from, then changes course and walks toward hubbub. We see it is coming from the long, unpainted barracks that serve as the dormitory for colored workers. Jimmie reaches the weatherbeaten wooden shack, pauses at door, then lifts the 2×4 across it and walks in.

Scene XI(b) “The Lounge” (not written)

Sees Parnell talking with short, dark-skinned man while he absently noodles on old guitar. Jimmie and Parnell acknowledge each other almost imperceptibly across the noisy, smoke-filled room. After a few seconds chatting up the other men in the dorm, Jimmie makes his way over to Parnell. The two have some quick repartee, for the “fans,” Jimmie would say, then gets down to the always uncomfortable business of borrowing someone’s musical instrument. Jimmie has an “audition set” to play that night, and he recently pawned his guitar.

It’s been a rough year for Jimmie, cold, with little RR work. He hasn’t been able to send any money home, even did a little hospital time [coughs], but assures Parnell it’s nothing serious.

He borrows the guitar, agrees to return it to the club where Parnell’s playing that night. He thanks him, takes the guitar and leaves.

[Parnell may turn to camera and comment on JR's talent (or, what Parnell feels is lack of it.]

- Cut to -

Scene XII – Hambly’s Lodge (white folks’ bar) [not written]

JR and band playing. Camera slowly isolates on Jimmie. His singing and playing are heartfelt and slightly melancholy. He’s been in some heavy weather over the last few years, and the easy strength and directness of his performance reflect this, even if one in the tiny audience gives a shit. After this song he turns to his sidemen, mumbles something, and walks off the six-inch high platform that serves as a bandstand. As he goes out the door to return the guitar to Parnell, his sidemen start to play “Lookin’ for a New Mama Blues.” We hear it fade into the distance as Jimmie walks away.

- Cut to -

Scene XIII – JUG JOINT/RAVEN’S REST [q.v.]

There is a black band playing on stage. A thin, light-skinned man with a pencil mustache is playing trumpet, Parnell is on banjo, and the rhythm section is cooking behind them. They’re playing “Lookin’ for a New Mama Blues,” same piece Jimmie’s sidemen were playing when he left Hambly’s, and although the melody and construction are the same, that’s about all that is. The difference between the white band’s version and the black group’s is all too apparent. In a word, one is jazzy and the other isn’t.

Thelma and Jimmie spend some time getting to re-know each other. They remember each other from early in their childhoods when she came down from Harlem to spend a summer with her cousin, Parnell.

She is an exotic, light-skinned Afro cast in the style of the time, i.e., late flapper. He learns that she is following a music/show business career up north, and things are starting to get going for her. She’s got some gigs in the black clubs in Harlem, Philadelphia, Newark, and sometimes goes on the chitlin’ circuit. That’s why she’s here, seeing Parnell; she had a job in Atlanta, and had a few days layover before returning to the Apple.

She asks how it’s going with him, he says “great,” but they both know he’s lying. They are comfortable with each other. They talk easily and familiarly with apparent mutual fondness and respect. They acknowledge what each has gone thru and will probably continue to have to go thru. They marvel at how different and similar they can be at the same time, and get to talking about genealogy, and esp. genealogy in the South. Altho’ they haven’t seen each other in 14 years, electricity arcs between them.

- Cut to -

SCENE XIV – A Railroader’s Life (not written)

Interior of one-room flat. The furniture is spare, the room is grimly plain. JR is in bed with a relapse of his lung problems, and Carrie is trying to minister to him and getting nothing but resistance. He is stubborn to the point of pig-headedness about needing to go back to work, no matter that he is coughing and feverish. Furthermore, no woman’s going to tell him what to do.

He leaps out of bed, grabs his engineers’ hat and light denim jacket and heads for door. At the last second he catches sight of his worried three-year-old(?) daughter, Anita, and, melting, embraces her. After they mumble daddy-daughter things for a few seconds he turns to Carrie and reminds her, almost tearfully, that he hasn’t worked in three weeks, there’s no money coming in, etc. They make up, he gets some heavier clothes on him, and leaves. It’s a bittersweet moment. Carrie waves him down the street, then turns to camera.

Carrie (to camera): HOW HE LOVED THAT BABY. I SWEAR, HE WOULD HAVE SHOVELED COAL WITH HIS TONGUE IF SHE’D OF ASKED HIM. JIMMIE ALWAYS TRIED HARD TO BE A GOOD PROVIDER TO US, WORKIN’ ON THE RAILS AND SUCH. BUT HE ALWAYS SEEMED TO BE, I DON’T KNOW, DISTRACTED OR SOMETHING BY WANTING TO BE IN “THE BUSINESS.” HE DIDN’T SAY “SHOW BUSINESS,” JUST “THE BUSINESS,” AS IF THE WORK OTHER PEOPLE DID WAS SOMETHING BESIDES BUSINESS.

I’LL TELL YOU ONE THING. I DON’T THINK HE EVER APPRECIATED THE CONTRIBUTION I MADE TO HIS CAREER. WE MUSTA LIVED IN EVERY ROAD CAMP FROM ATLANTA TO ALBUQUERQUE, AND NONE OF ‘EM FOR MORE THAN SEVEN DAYS AT A TIME. I LEARNED TO PACK UP AN ENTIRE HOUSEHOLD AND BE ON THE ROAD IN LESS THAN AN HOUR. DON’T TELL ME ABOUT “BUSINESS.” I KNOW ALL ABOUT IT.

ANYWAY, JIMMIE CAME BACK LATER THAT DAY. HIS EYES WERE BRIGHT–I DON’T HOW MUCH OF THAT WAS THE FEVER OR EXCITEMENT AT GETTING WORK. HE HAD A JOB, ALRIGHT. HE ALSO HAD THE BURKE BROTHERS AND THEIR BANJOS AND UKELELES OR WHATEVER THEY PLAYED ON WITH HIM. HE SAID THE JOB WAS IN ASHEVILLE, AND 45 MINUTES LATER THE FIVE OF US WERE ON THE ROAD DRIVING HELL-FOR-LEATHER (EXCUSE MY FRENCH) FOR THE NEXT TWELVE HOURS STRAIGHT. WE HARDLY EVEN STOPPED TO…RELIEVE OURSELVES, IF YOU GET MY MEANING. I COULDN’T UNDERSTAND WHY JIMMIE WAS SO ANXIOUS TO RIDE STEEL. BEING A BRAKEMAN’S JUST ABOUT THE HARDEST JOB IN THE WORLD. I GOT MY ANSWER WHEN WE GOT TO ASHEVILLE.

Sfx: Audio of the Peaboe Sisters’ radio audition slowly fading up in BG.

- Cut to -

SCENE XV – WWNC AUDITION

At end of scene Peer turns to JR and the others…

Peer: CAN YOU GUYS BE IN NEW JERSEY BY TUESDAY OF NEXT

WEEK?

Later, JR and Carrie in one room apt. in town.

JR: LOOKS LIKE WE’RE FINALLY ON OUR WAY, COOKIE. SEE? THAT WASN’T TOO HARD, WAS IT?

[Fade as he starts a monster, prolonged coughing fit]

- Dissolve to -

SCENE XVI(a) – Carrie in Diner (not written)

Carrie is hanging up waitress’ apron and saying goodbyes to fellow workers.

- Cut or dissolve to -

SCENE XVI(b) – Invisible Royalty Check

Carrie walks into their grim New Jersey apt. to find Jimmie just getting off the phone, and looking a bit guilty or ashamed. They have an exchange about no money coming in (from him) except a discouragingly small royalty check from his first recordings months before, in Asheville. Finally, he says he’s decided to do something about it. He calls (or seems to call) Peer, and announces he’s coming up to the city on the 12:35, and will see Peer then. Hurriedly packs a few things in a small canvas duffel bag, puts his guitar in the case, and tells Carrie he’s going to do whatever it takes to make this thing work, and that he will see her in a day or so. Kisses her and Anita and leaves.

SCENE XVI(c) – Jimmie on Train to NY (not written)

Train montage and music.

- Cut or dissolve to -

SCENE XVII – PEER’S OFFICE – See OBERSCENE

Peer sets up meeting w/Oberstein for following day.

- Cut or dissolve to -

SCENE XVIII – Tryst with Thelma (not written)

SCENE XIX – OBERSCENE (cont’d)

SCENE XX – Camden Recording Session – [q.v.]

SCENE XXI – Thelma’s Apartment, New York – (not written)

Jimmie plays a test pressing from the session for her. She loves it, but, knowing the risks he is taking by recording with colored folks, tells him to go slow, not get himself in trouble. He tells her he is running out of time. And notices that she might be in trouble herself when they embrace and he sees tracks on her arm. When they unclench she asks him if he’s coming to see her show that nite, and he says he wouldn’t miss it for anything. She is glad, pours him a drink, and tells him to wait while she adjusts her makeup. She returns in a few minutes, comes back with eyes sparkling a little too brightly, spirits a little too high.

- Cut or dissolve to -

SCENE XXII – Club Nocturne, Harlem – (Not written)

He sees her act, and it’s smashing. Jazzy, hip, exciting. Towards the end, in an unannounced tribute to him, she does a little bit of yodeling and the crowd is delighted. She lools directly at him, at his table, when she does. Later, he goes away with many ideas for his own music. One riff in particular remains stuck in his unconscious, and we fade out on it.

- Cut or dissolve to -

SCENE XXIII – Fancy Recording Session – (Not written)

Peer walks into recording studio. It’s empty except for Jimmie and open instrument cases all over, music stands and folding chairs haphazardly placed around the floor. The sidemen are out on a “five.” Peer walks around, as if attending to small chores while Jimmie pretends to concentrate on some music on a stand in front of him. Finally, they shy up to each other, exchange a few words, Ralph mumbling something about why he was late. Jimmie tells the recordist to play the test pressing for the producer. He tells the engineer…

JR: …UH, START AT THE BEGINNING OF THE SECOND CHORUS, WOULD YOU? YOU KNOW WHERE I MEAN.

The recordist nods, and starts the record in the middle, fading up the sound like a pro. They all listen ’til the end of the performance.

Peer: YOU CHANGED THE ENTIRE CHORUS ON THE SECOND “GO ‘ROUND?”

JR: YEAH. I THOUGHT IT NEEDED A LITTLE SOMETHING TO GO OUT ON, YOU KNOW?

Peer: YOU’RE RIGHT, IT DID. SOUNDS A LOT BETTER NOW.

Just then Jimmie is called outside the control room. He excuses himself to Ralph and leaves, coughing.

Peer (to camera): EVER SINCE THOSE LOUISVILLE SESSIONS, YOU KNOW, WHERE WE CROSSED HORNS ON THE PERSONNEL, I’VE GIVEN JIMMIE HIS HEAD WITH PLAYERS, CHARTS…HELL, ALL THE MUSIC, WHEN IT COMES DOWN TO IT. I DON’T KNOW…HE BREAKS ALL THE RULES: CAN’T READ MUSIC, CAN’T COUNT, BRINGS IN WHATEVER INSTRUMENTATION HE WANTS. WRITES THE SONGS WITH HIS SISTER-IN-LAW THE NIGHT BEFORE THE SESSION… BUT WE’RE SELLING A HELLUVA LOT OF RECORDS.

Players troop back from their “five.” They run down the next chart a few times, then do a take. This is a big session, with eight players, individual mics for each player, a recording booth for Jimmie. He’s in the big time, and revels in it. He sings his ass off on Blue Yodel #7 for Ralph, and Ralph smiles appreciatively, a big sign of approval for him.

JR and Band: “I WAS A STRANGER, PASSING THRU YOUR TOWN,

I WAS A STRANGER, PASSING THRU YOUR TOWN,

WHEN I ASKED YOU A FAVOR, GOOD GAL YOU TURNED

ME DOWN

…

I LIKE MISSISSIPPI, FOOL ABOUT TENNESSEE

I LIKE MISSISSIPPI, FOOL ABOUT TENNESSEE

BUT THESE TEXAS WOMEN, ‘BOUT GOT THE BEST OF ME.

YODE-LAY-EE, LAY-EE, LAY-EEEE.”

Audio: Reprise yodel with effects and echo.

YODE-LAY-EE, LAY-EE, LAY-EEEE.

SCENE ??? – TORN TWENTY

SCENE ??? – GENE AUSTIN’S YACHT

SCENE XXIV – PEACHTREE HALL (q.v.)

SCENE XXV- ENTER: THE MOVIES (q.v.)

SCENE XXVI – BACKSTAGE AT THE PALACE (q.v.)

SCENE XXVII – RODGERS & ROGERS (q.v.)

SCENE XXVIII – ON THE ROAD AGAIN (q.v.)

Don’t know why I hide almost all my current, mid-2010, real-time performing efforts under a bushel, but I  do. Here’s one I almost forgot.

Greg Connors and I played a gig two Saturday nites ago at the Borders in Mt. Kisco to a small but enthusiastic audience. It wasn’t our very first performance together but the first  one on command,  in that Greg was asked by Borders to perform and then called me to play with him.

It turned out to be a musically rich nite, two sets well played, as they should have been what with our many rehearsals, including the one here that included Full Moon Flashlight. I also wood-shedded a lot on my own when Greg wasn’t looking.  But it paid off. We hit our marks crisply, as if we’d been playing together for awhile, but with spontaneity and a sense of discovery that, as I was later  told, seemed to keep me on my toes,  as if alert to Greg’s penchant for on-site  stylistic variations and arrangement initiatives.  The performance seemed to more than satisfy an appreciative audience. The sets included, but were not limited to the following pieces, almost all of them originals by Greg:

Day Inn Day Out

Full Moon Flashlight (Title song from Greg’s last CD)

She’s Talented

I’m a Masakist (sic)

Hallelujah (Leonard Cohen)

Where is My Windfall

Enemy of a Whole

Pretend

Long Way to Atlanta (Words: Greg, Music: Al)

Cocaine Blues

We’ll be playing there again on the last Saturday of this month (July). The actual date? You do the math.

More on the Jimmie Rogers screenplay from ten years ago.

SCENE I  (assuming scene in previous post, with Jason and his garage band, is back-story introductory material).

_________________________________

Much intercutting between Nashville recording studio and JR’s RR funeral cortege.

Soundtrack is Nashville recording studio in pre-take moments, musicians bantering and trading licks. Prob. two electric guitars, one acoustic guitar, steel guitar, keyboard, electic bass, fiddle, drums, percussion. Most of the players can’t see each other because they are sitting between head-high baffles, but they hear each others’ instruments and voices via a rough mix in their headsets. And that’s what we hear, too, as the camera cuts or pans from one musician to the other, each player in his own splendid isolation, always at a remove from direct visual contact with everyone else, but nevertheless hard-wired into each other by the babel coming thru the ‘phones.

At first the licks and chatter are random, as they tune, adjust sound levels, talk to the engineer, etc. But you can hear they are responsive to each other’s noodlings and begin to copy and trade fragments of what each other is playing. Gradually, two musical “voices” emerge louder and more present in the mix, and we realize the two are having a little musical showdown.

They trade with and mock each other musically and seem to be well matched in technique and musicality… until one of them plays something that they (and we) hear as being subtly but clearly different in tonality than what they’d been playing up ’til then. The mood of the music has changed. It’s going in another direction. The second musician follows it for a while, they continue to trade licks, but eventually the first musician, the mood-changer, proves to be more of a master of this style than the other guy, and the latter drops out of the contest.

There’s laughter, light applause and comments from the other musicians, who’d stopped their own tuning and noodling, to listen.

[J: Here is where I know we have to do some recording studio research, because I can't quite get the pitch of Nasville studio musician banter. In the meantime, this is the idea, altho' drawn neither long nor finely enough.]

Somebody–could be any one of the disembodied instrumentalists–says something.

Voice 1: HEY, BUBBA, THAT’S SOME TAN YOU GOT YOUR ASS THERE.

Other voices [in mock Black dialect]: YEAH! SHEEIT, MAN.

GET DOWN, MAN. YO’ MAMA. CHILL, DUDE. HURT YOURSELF, etc.

Voice 1: [good naturedly]: MAN, YOU CAN’T PICK THAT SHIT HERE!

Voice 2: YEAH! WHATCHA DOIN, MAN?

Voice 3: AW, HE’S JUST BEIN’ POLITICALLY KO-RECT, MAN. YOU

GOT ANYTHING WRONG WITH SOMEONE BEING POLITICALLY KO-RECT,

OR DO I HAVE TO REPORT YOUR ASS TO THE NAACP OR SOMETHING.

Everybody: LAUGHTER.

New Voice: NAACP AND JESSE JACKSON CAN’T HELP YOU HERE, MAN.

Efx: Voices are silent, but musical noodling and control booth

sounds hover in BG]

Voice 3 [beat]: UH HUH. WHY YOU SAY THAT, BOY?

New Voice: ‘CAUSE IT AIN’T COLORED, THAT’S WHY, BOY.

Voice 3: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

New Voice. THE LICK, MAN. IT AIN’T SOUL.

Voice 3: WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU, ROLLING STONE? THEN IT’S FUNK. OR

HIP-HOP. OR WHATEVER IT’S CALLED THIS MORNING.

New Voice: IT AIN’T CALLED ANYTHING.

Voice 2: THEN WHERE’D IT COME FROM? WHERE’D YOU GET IT, BOY.

Voice 3: WATCH OUT WHO YOU CALLIN’ “BOY,” BOY.

Voice 2: THEN TELL ME WHERE YOU GOT IT?

New Voice [beat]: JIMMY RODGERS.

[Voices silent, studio sounds hum in BG]

Voice 2: RIGHT, MAN. JIMMY RODGERS, THE YODELIN’ CLOCKMAKER.

Everybody: Hoots, hollers and yodels, self-consciously talk to

each other in hillbilly lingo, play some corny licks

for emphasis.

[It dies down.]

New Voice: YOU ASKED ME, I TOLD YOU.

Efx: Several voices continue to diss JR, but always with an

undertone of embarrassment at what they, as professional country pickers, know is the real truth–that JR invented the music they make their livings playing, and that he’d added content to other kinds of music, and made sure lots and lots of people heard him, whatever he was doing.

In the meantime, on the soundtrack we have begun isolating a lick in an old JR recording and matching it with what the first musician was doing. Eventually, the two licks come into registration, perhaps signaling a take is about to start. [That would be the super-hot Dolly Parton performance of "T-for-Tennessee" you're going to get for us.]

But…not before the camera, in its continued panning and/or cutting from musician to musician, reveals that the player of the lick (who is NOT the guy that verbally defends JR) is black. In fact, several of the players in the studio today are Black.

The music coming from this mixed group is molten. The excitement of the groove they’ve slipped into makes ethnomusicological observations irrelevant.

We can fade out of this scene and into the next one, or stay to the end of the take, and go someplace with a casual discussion that leads to JR’S impact on ALL American vernacular music after 1935, or…?

He came into it in 1963, when I was still in Berkeley, playing Bluegrass and trying to stay in school while being almost completely consumed by the music. My then-BF Dave Cohen had spent the summer of 1962 with me and Lonnie Feiner in our 2-rm shack right next to a defunct RR spur line in the Berkeley flats.

David, resident folk music guru and school founder at the Ash Grove, LA’s premier folk-roots club of the late ‘Fifties, throughout the ‘60’s and into the ‘70’s, kept talking about two guitarists who were giving him shit-fits where he lived (at the Club). One of them he wished that a “a train would run over his hands” (not really. Well, maybe really. He certainly did later). That was Ry Cooder. The other he said was simply a young genius, and there was nothing he or anyone could do about it. That was Clarence White.

When I came back to LA, in June of ’63, I witnessed the two guitarists for myself, and agreed with David: Ry, at 16, six years younger than Dave and me, was everything Dave said, a great finger-and-flat-picker and with deep musicality, at least to my ears.

Clarence, at 19, three years younger than Dave and me, was simply off the charts. I’d never heard any guitarist like that. It wasn’t technique, which he had up the geez. It was concept and inclusion. He seemed to be incorporating music he must have heard as a child, but had nothing to do with country music or, for that matter, guitar.

Tho’ he might be playing something that would seem to be in the Bluegrass canon, like, say, Under the Double Eagle, you’d suddenly hear something that came out of contemporary jazz or Latin or a movie soundtrack. It would be so fleeting you’d think you hadn’t heard it, but he tended to play the piece the same way every time, like Charlie Parker, and you’d realize the reference was intentional. It might not have been consciously identifiable to Clarence, tho’ I’m pretty sure he was conscious of putting it in the music. And here is the musical question of the day, for me, at least, for the last 47 years: did Clarence White know he was a genius, whatever the hell that would mean?

I mean, he spelled one of the Country Boyss songs “Prity Poly” on a set list; he encouraged his brother, Roland, to buy my 1956 Chrysler New Yorker, which I even warned him was a wreck; and he somehow failed, in a couple of shows, to give Doc Watson proper credit for using some of Doc’s song arrangements and exerting profound influence on him, choosing, instead, to credit a made-up character, “Cluny Rakestraw,” as his the source of his licks. There will be a whole post devoted to this incident soon; now is not the time or place to get into that, but it deeply wounded Doc, and I was there when the shit hit the fan.

Of course, none of these things have anything to do with genius, an intellectual characteristic that seems to be independent of other psycho-cerebral properties in the individual that is blessed–or cursed–with having it.

And I’ll tell you this: Clarence was dull as dirt in conversation. He didn’t seem able to talk about music at all, tho’ he was completely open about showing licks to people who asked him to. But his way of telling you how he came up with them was something like, “Yeah, Roger (Roger Bush, the Country Boys’ bass player and co-lead singer with Roland White) and Billy (Billy Ray, their banjo player) and my brother and I were messing around last Saturday with Billy’s car and…”(you finish the sentence; Clarence never did).

But, like spelling and used car judgment, lack of verbal clarity is no sign genius is not present. And genius was alive and well with Clarence White. Check out this morsel of Sally Goodin’ from probably 1964 or ‘65 recorded by me off the stage of the Ash Grove during a Country Boys set. And, no, they were not the Kentucky Colonels, yet. It was still a year or two before that became whut she rote. And, no, Clarence wasn’t playing any electric yet,  either,  let alone co-inventing a steel guitar resembulator. That was also for the fast-approaching future. This is just straight, acoustic flattop country pickin’,  albeit capo’d at the 2nd fret and played in open G position. I apologize for the rude cutoff of Roland’s last solo. I didn’t have the whole thing and didn’t have time to fade it. Remind me, and I will. Sorry, Roland.

Anyway, I’m going to have to leave the question of Clarence’s self-awareness for the moment, in order to get this post in before the end of the month, which is tonite at 12.  Maybe I’ll catch it when I talk about his seeming rip-off of Doc Watson’s material in 1964. Then, again, maybe not.

Meanwhile—and lucky you—I found some scenes from a putative screenplay about the legendary Jimmy Rogers, the Singing Brakeman of last Century’s Great Depression. I won’t apologize. It’s some of my better writing, and the empty cavern of cyberspace deserves it.

[This is the opening crawl of the film, starting just after the credits and running and playing over something visuals and audio I haven’t figured out, yet.]

Jimmie & the Kid – Prologue

This is a film about learning how to look inside yourself for answers. Actually, it’s a film about a guy who comes into peoples’ lives (particularly the life of a young, talented musician) and connects them with their goals. He’s done this before, for Elvis, BB King, Ray Charles and the Beatles. And not in some cornball, symbolic way. He mentors people, one-on-one, in the art and discipline of believing in themselves.

His contact with them is, and has been, made possible thru technological innovations in communications–breakthroughs such as records, radio, TV and the Web–which he was able to turn into feedback loops, in certain circumstances, like when he and Elvis met in 1952 across a seven-inch Hallicrafter’s VistaVision TV Receiver …but we can do that later. First things first.

“Jimmie & the Kid”

SCENE I – THIS BAND SUCKS.

INT: Dark, nearly-empty bar. Youthful, garage-type band is finishing set. We hear ragged cut-off of final chord, unenthusiastic applause of two or three people. Dispirited band shuts off amps and puts instruments away.

Band Member #1: …because we suck, that’s why. Why do you think, dickhead?

Member #2: Jesus, chill dude. I was just critiquing our performance.

Member #1: It’s a dumb question, “Why don’t we have better audiences?” We don’t give anybody with two ears any reason to come, that’s why.

Band Leader: Okay, guys, that’s it for the negative energy. This is nothing but a numbers game, okay? We’ll hit the right combination one of these nights, and all of a sudden, from out of nowhere, we’ll be recording for SONY and playing on Saturday Nite Live. And the only way to do that is to be ready, okay? So I want everybody to learn “Purple Haze” for rehearsal tomorrow. You can get it off the Web. JIMI.COM. Anyway, that’s the deal. “Purple Haze” by tomorrow. Everybody got it?

Most of the others groan their “OK’s, Yeahs, See you tomorrows” and file out bandroom door and into street. But one of them is relunctant to go.

Leader: Whazzup, Ben? You got a problem with something I said?

Ben: Just the usual, Wolf. We never spend any time trying to find our own way. We copy other peoples’ music, don’t play it as well as them, and then we wonder why we don’t go anywhere. I think we should–

Leader: I know. You think we should do your songs.

Ben: No. All our songs. I think we have to at least try to create our own sound by seeing what we have to offer each other, and building on that.

Leader: Right. Good thinking, Ben. Just sit around, like, ’til our juices flow together–you know, like, gel, right?–and then pick up our money. Listen, Leonardo: you don’t get seen if you don’t have a following. And you don’t get a following if you don’t do the standards. That’s our meal ticket. That’s the only way we’re gonna get the freedom to, like, find ourselves, okay? Trust me, I know this business. Now: you with us, or not? I got no room for rebels.

Ben: Meaning?

Leader: Meaning, are you going to learn the guitar part to “Purple Haze,” or are we going to have guitar auditions tomorrow?

Ben: [Pauses a beat. Then, trying to be "up" and a team player] Uh, okay, Wolf. I’ll work on it tonite. I should have some of the stuff down by tomorrow.

Leader: Why, thank you, Ben, I really appreciate that.

Ben: Sure, Wolf, don’t mention it.

He finishes packing up his Fender Stratocaster guitar, turns to leave bandroom. But a girl, LIVVY, stands in his way. She’s been trying to get his attention for a while. Finally…

Livvy: Ben…

Ben: Livvy. I didn’t know you were here. God, you didn’t see that carnage, did you?

Livvy: You mean your set? Ben, I heard what you said, I mean about you guys finding your own sound, and I think you’re right. But… I don’t know…this band is running so scared, maybe they can’t. And having Count Dracula for a bandleader… (Takes a step closer to him). Have you ever thought about doing your own thing? You’re good enough to.

Ben: Livvy, thanks for the vote of confidence, but I don’t think that’s the right way to go, for me at least. I like playing with these guys, I just don’t like playing other peoples’ music with ‘em.

Livvy: [moving a little closer now]: Would you like playing music with me? I know I’d appreciate your contributions.

Ben: Livvy, Livvy… you’re wonderful. And I love being with you. But maybe not now, not tonight. I gotta–

Livvy: I know, I know. You gotta work. But…look, Ben, this thing, this obsession with [whatever] is eating you up, and now it’s starting to go for me. Call me when you’ve made some decisions, okay? Gotta go. [Gives him peck on cheek] See you…when I see you.

Ben: Livvy, wait a second.

But she’s gone. He stands there, holding his guitar, and looking down at the open case. His body slumps in disappointment.

- Dissolve to -

SCENE II – BEN’S BEDROOM

INT: BEN’S bedroom in his parents’ house. He’s booting up to get the “Purple Haze” video. Flying fingers go thru a welter of computer commands until he gets to a place where he should have been seeing the video by now. Instead, he keeps getting a message saying “Website cannot be displayed at this time. Try [XYZ].”

Ben: Shit.

Goes thru search the old-fahioned way: Singer/songwriter, 20th Century, guitarist, American, dead before 35, slept in RR cars, first name Jimi, etc. Right then the phone rings. He picks it up, and, after listening for a moment gently blows off the telemarketer. But camera stays on computer screen, with its ten-second “Default to closest spelling” message pulsing rhythmically. We watch as BEN’S accidentally-inputed “JIMMI” corrects itself to “JIMMIE,” so that when he returns to his screen it is not JIMI HENDRIX that he sees on it, but JIMMIE RODGERS, the legendary father of Country Music and originator of the blue yodel. For a long minute BEN just sits there, gaping at the friendly face with the crisp conductor’s cap perched above it. And then, in a matter-of-fact, this-ain’t-gettin’-us-nowhere tone of voice, the picture talks.

Jimmie: What’s the problem, Ben? Never seen a hillbilly before?

Ben is stone silent.

Jimmie: Well?

Ben: [Beat]. Uh, not talking to me from my own computer, I haven’t. How…how do you know this is me? I mean…my name?

Jimmie: C’mon, Ben, this is low-end hacker stuff. Ask me a hard one.

Ben: [Long beat] Okay. How are you talking to me from that side of the–what’s going on here? Wait a minute. I’ve seen you before. You were famous, or something. What did you say your name was?

Jimmie: Well, they gave me a bunch of different ones: the “Singing Brakeman” was one. “Blue Yodeler” was another. But most people knew me as just “Jimmie.” Jimmie Rodgers.

Ben: (looking at him carefully): Right. Okay. Wow, you go back a long ways, don’t you?

Jimmie: [Does some quick mental math] Seventy five years. Your great-grandfather’s time. In fact, I knew him. I used to stay at his house whenever I was–[Suddenly notices Ben's guitar leaning against the computer tower] Hey, is that a pre-’Sixty-three Strat?

Ben: Yeah. It is. But…wait a minute! They didn’t even have electric guitars when you…

Jimmie: Dude, chill. Might as well try to figure out how we’re having this conversation in the first place.

Ben: You’re right about that.

Jimmie: Listen, Ben: you’ve cleared a reverse pathway into this computer screen to talk to me; that’s how bad you want this band to happen. Problem is, the band’s looking outside of themselves for the way to make it happen. That’s bassackwards. It’s always an inside job. Always. And it isn’t making it happen, it’s letting it happen. But you already know all this. Pick?

Ben: [After long beat] Beg your pardon?

Jimmie:[Spells it out] Do-you-want-to-play-some-music? (Jesus.)

Ben: I don’t–

JIMMIE dematerializes on computer screen, appears in a chair on the other side of the room, railroad overalls and all. He tunes a 1925 Martin 00-28 guitar, and starts strumming an E Seventh chord and playing punchy bass runs to set up a blues in A. He’s also humming (or singing) some generic blues to himself, e.g.: (OPTY)

“You never miss your water

’til your well runs dry

You never miss your water

’til your well runs dry

You never miss your woman,

‘Til she says ‘Goodbye’ etc.”

BEN tentatively picks up Strat, starts playing along. It takes a few moments for them to get used to each other, but by the time they hit the third chorus they’re grooving. JIMMIE motions to BEN to take a solo. He does, starting out simply and sparsely, working up to some real solid, authoritative blues licks. He finishes in a burst of minor-blues arabesques, sad and pretty. JIMMIE acknowledges, goes on singing…

Jimmie: “Well it’s–”What’d you say the name of your band was?”

Ben: Band Name (OPTY)

“Well, it’s ‘B’ for Band Name,

‘B’ for Bumblebee.

‘B’ for Band Name,

‘B’ for Bumblebee.

And it’s ‘B’ for something

You got my guarantee

Lee-oh-lay-hee, yay-hee, yay-hee

At the last “line” BEN’S head jerks up, but Jimmie just keeps playing and singing, as if a real yodel was something you hear every day. But he does slip Ben a little grin.

Jimmie: You gotta take risks in this business.

JIMMIE sings one more chorus, goes out with final, plaintive yodel. There’s a moment of silence after the last chord rings out. Then…

Ben: Wow! That was great! You really… I don’t know, Mr. Rodgers–

Jimnmie: Jimmie.

Ben: Jimmie. Right. Okay. Ummm, what do I…? I mean, you said maybe you could get us some kind of–

Jimmie: Uh uh. Uh UH! I said maybe I could help you get your band headed in the right direction. “Moving to customers,” we call it. (Altho’, I’ll tell you: that’s a mixed blessing. None of my business, of course. Just, don’t say I didn’t tell you.)

Ben: God–I don’t–just tell me what to do. That’s all. I’ll do it, whatever it is. Hey, maybe you could come to one of our rehears–

Jimmie: Whoa, whoa. Dude, you are, like, not listening to me? I don’t tell people what to do. I just…visit. Try to get somebody to play a little music with me, like I just did with you. That way, I keep my hand in, they get some face with a genuine cultural icon. There’s really no secret. But if it makes you feel any better, if you need symbolism or something, I’ll do you an incantation.

Ben: God, yes!

Jimmie: Okay. Here, gimme your hands.

Puts guitar down, grabs Ben’s hands in two-handed, cross-armed grip, right hand to right hand, left to left. He purses his lips, closes his eyes, takes a wheezy, unwell breath, and chants:

“Band be on,

Band be hot.

Believe in yourselves,

Or Band be not.”

Ben (a little haltingly, with JIMMIE’s help):

“Band be on,

Band be hot.

Believe in yourselves,

Or Band be not.”

Jimmie: Good. [Starts to gather himself up to leave. Extends hand to BEN] Ben, it’s been awesome. But I gotta go.

Ben: Hey. Wait! Jimmie, how do I stay in touch with you? I mean, do I just punch in–wait a minute, I don’t even know what to punch in. How can I–

Jimmie: Dude, lighten up. I’ll see you again if it’s meant to be. But I can’t promise anything. Try the mantra. Couldn’t hurt. See you around.

Starts to dematerialize, maybe we see him going back into computer screen. Then, just before going non-interactive…

Uh, by the way…that song you were playing this afternoon, right before rehearsal? You know what I’m talking about?

Ben: How do you know what–

Jimmie (a little testily): Do you know which song I’m talking about?

Ben: You mean (some Nirvana hit)?

Jimmie: No, no. something about a woman? Lili, maybe? My memory sucks.

Ben: You mean “Livvy?” That’s not really a song; that’s just something I was fooling around with on my own time. You know, just–

Jimmie: Well, whatever. That’s your business. I gotta go. Carbolic acid. [Starts to rematerialize as dead, still artwork on computer screen].

Ben: Huh?

Jimmie: That’s goodbye in any language. (I knew Groucho.)

JIMMIE disappears in computer-screen explosion. BEN sits there, dumbly trying to digest what just happened. In a minute he picks up the Strat, plays the ten or so notes everybody knows from “Purple Haze,” quickly puts guitar down, picks it up again, starts playing around with lyrical minor blues. He picks up momentum, and when we leave him he is just starting to commit something to music paper. He seems revitalized, if only for the moment.

- Dissolve to -

SCENE III – ???

Over next few meetings JIMMIE puts BEN (and maybe whole band) thru paces: riding the rails, doing tent rep shows, auditioning in radio station, recording while vomiting blood, riding the rails, making and losing real money, hanging out with Will Rogers, riding the rails, yodeling, etc. We will also see Elvis looking preppie, BB King trying to play Bebop, Elton John playing accordion. Etc.

It was the closest up I’d ever gotten to a great practitioner in the American blues tradition, one that goes back probably to Reconstruction and is paved with the bottlenecks, picks and 78rpm records of all the usual suspects like Blind Lemon Jefferson and Robert Johnson, and less well-known barnburners like Bukka White, Sleepy John Estes, Son House and Lightnin’ Hopkins.

Btw, these are the guys that ultimately gave us Rock ‘n Roll. “That’s our love child, man. We gave birth to that baby,” one of them once said. Albert King, no relation to BB, was part of that tradition.

Like many of them, Albert was from the One-note Opener school, where a player steps out onto the stage following his introduction and drills you in your seat with a single note. Yeah, no shit, one note. But, oh, what a note.

Albert had a way of starting the set that promised little show but tremendous musical excitement. The band would be on stage setting themselves up, having already fine-tuned Albert’s amplifier to specific, pre-arranged levels, before they started a quiet, rhythmic vamp, drum and bass guitar on the bottom, keyboard or second guitar or both over that. Then Albert would come out, pick up the guitar lying somewhere on stage if he wasn’t already wearing it, put the strap over his head, all the time looking at some point in the middle distance just above the audience’s heads. Then he’d step forward, dig in and play that single, stinging authoritative note that let you know you were going to be in good hands for at least the next hour or so.

It’s hard to explain what that note sounded like. It would be the tonic, i.e., the starting note of the key he was in, played up the neck for richness and hit hard with a vibrato you can only get by fretting the string with your ring finger with the rest of your fingers on the same string behind it, like a loose fist, for control and strength. The amp would be set to just the right amount of reverb and equalization to jump out over the rest of the band like the backfire of a car. I will not do a further meditation on that note.

For the rest of the set he didn’t talk much, and when he did it was in short, pungent bursts of content, like his music. “And now I’d like to play you a medley of my hit,” he’d say before launching into “Born Under a Bad Sign,” his lone chartbuster up to that point. Then he would hit it with a ton of verve and fresh-seeming inflections, aural and visual, considering he’d probably played it a thousand times since its release.

Between shows we’d sit in the Whiskey’s deafening “relaxation” room over the stage, awash in the floor-to-ceiling throb of ‘Sixties overdriven bass guitars and over-miked drum kits and he’d let me watch his hands, which was cool, since I could hardly hear a note he played.

In fact, I don’t know how I ever learned a thing from Albert, since we had to yell to hear each other to make any oral contact at all, but I did. And we always lived to talk about it later at Hamburger Hamlet, a bistro just up the street, where we’d go after the show. No chance of being bothered by our “public” there. It was 1968; we looked just like them and vice versa.

Nevertheless, one nite we started talking to two women there. They acted as tho’ they knew we were performers of some sort and maybe even wanted to “entertain” (Albert’s word) with us. To my astonishment, we made headway. I guess they thought we were players because this was the hottest stretch on Strip, with the Whiskey on that block and several more clubs within a furlong or two from there.

Anyway, we scored. The chicks, who were not prostitutes by the way, said they wouldn’t mind going home with us, “for a drink, but no more; I’m off the pill right now,” said one of them; probably a lie, I thought, but part of the one-nite stand courtship ritual. “Okay,” we said, “just a drink.” No matter how you looked at it, it sounded pretty good for logging a little entertainment for the evening, and if not that nite, maybe some other one.

One little problem, and here it was: “So, where are we going?” said the short, spikey-haired brunette with no bra under the peace sign on her tank top. The other one, a tall, dirty/stringy-blond in elephant bells, also bra-less, looked at us blankly, which I took to mean, “Yeah, me, too; where you gonna take us?”

I lived far away and Albert, instead of sleeping in the band bus, was being quartered by the Whiskey in the “special performers’ suite,” a tiny, single room in the back of the building (the Whiskey was once a bank, so the room was probably once an office) overlooking the parking lot.

I was just about to lay the problem on Albert when he said, “Hey, ladies, tell y’all what: why don’t you let me and Mr. Al (this was the first time he ever called me that) show you the bus, right Mr. Al?” It seemed like a good idea at the time, so I said, “Right on, Mr. Al” (“right back atcha,” as we would say forty years later).

The bus was parked in the Whisky’s lot. It was a converted Greyhound with flat panels screwed on over the company’s trademark corrugation and “Albert King – The Velvet Bulldozer,” painted in three-foot-high iridescent psychedelic letters on the side.

Some of the lights were on. “Shit,” I said to Albert, “looks like some of your guys are in for the nite, Mr. Al.” I glanced back at the two women. They were still looking at the sign, and seemed to be talking to each other about it.

“What’re we gonna do with them, auction them off to the highest-bidding sideman?” I said.

“Easy, there, Sparky,” he said. “I gave the boys the rest of the nite off,” he said.

“But what if they come back early?” I whined. “What if they score, too, and come back early.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Al,” he said, delivering “Mr. Al” with a leer, “I leave one light on when I’m entertaining. We call it the “smokin’ lamp.” If the smokin’ lamp is lit, I’m smokin’, and they know to split. But even if they did come back with pussy, it’s cool, Mr. Al. The Velvet Bus sleeps six, fucks twelve.”

“Ok,” I said, “Then, I guess I’m down with that.”

“Beautiful, man, ‘specially for you,” He said, “because if they did happen to score, you be the one S.O.L., because the bus does most definitely NOT fuck fourteen.”

“I can dig it, Mr. Al,” I said. Which was fly (his word), because by that time the girls had stopped ogling the sign and the four of us were standing in a purple velvet and velour version of what I guessed would be the interior of Hugh Hefner’s yacht.

Anyway, things went OK. The guys in the band didn’t come back ‘til late that nite, long after Albert and I’d finished entertaining and dropped the two girls back at their crib (again, his word, not mine).

As we were leaving the lot one of the chicks looked again at the big letters emblazoned on the side of the bus, glanced back and forth from Albert to me several times and finally said, “Which one of you is Albert King?” As one, Albert and I pointed to each other.

Albert and I celebrated our good fortune at Leo’s Barbecue on Crenshaw and the Do Drop Inn [look up Selico’s club], in what later would become infamous as South Central, for after-hours shmoozing. Goes without saying they knew which one Al

Meanwhile…

KILLER SWAN

by Allan Ross

[Part 1 of 2]

See, you’re laughing already, just from the title. But then, usually when I tell the story I make it funny, and after it’s all done I’ll say something about how scared I really was, and sometimes someone in the group knows something about swans and they confirm that there’s a much darker version of the story than the one I’m about to tell you.

Anyway, around mid-spring of this year, a day or so before Memorial Day, I decided it was time for our first semi-familymy wife somehow never ends up on these nature-type excursions with us—canoe outing of the season. I got my two sons, Max and Ben, remembered to get the paddles from under the house, and walked down to the shore of the lake we share with 22 other families to our canoe.

As we approached the docking pier we could see the canoe had been “borrowed,” the lock on the chain that usually secures it to a tree trunk broken, and one of its cane seats partially burned. I was a little angry, but figured I was lucky it had been returned, and decided not to let it spoil our afternoon. No omens here, I decided.

I put the boys in the front and middle of the boat, pushed it out a yard or so into the water, got in myself, and paddled the short distance across and down the lake to an inlet was that connects our lake with two others. There was a rope loosely stretched across the inlet’s entrance, tied on either end to wooden poles about as thick as broomstick handles stuck in the shallow lake bottom. No sign or anything, just the rope slung across these poles a couple of times. It was so casual an arrangement you could almost imagine the wind blew the elements together into a sort of chance assemblage, not meant for anyone to pay any attention to, so I didn’t. I poled us under or around it, I don’t remember, and then it was Dark Continent time.

OPENING TO KILLER SWAN INLET IN HAPPIER TIMES

Going through the inlet that leads from our lake to the lake in the next community is one of the quiet joys of my life. The whole channel can’t be more than a quarter mile long nor is it really wildI mean, it does run through a culvert under a street in a New York City suburbbut it always makes me feel like Bogart in the “African Queen.” It’s a narrow meandering waterway where thick vines and dense bushes with berries and stumpy trees go right down to and over the edges of the banks so that the canal seems almost like a ragged tear in the earth. Forest creatures also come right down to the edges of the inlet, as if their lives, too, were disrupted by the tear. They chirp and call and scream, and make sudden, scurrying movements, and dive into the water almost before you notice them.

There is so much to see and hear that I keep forgetting to steer, so I’m constantly running into some overhanging bush or fallen limb, which intensifies the animal activity which distracts me even further, until it settles back into stasis. I have to admit, it sort of thrilled me to interrupt, and then be accepted, by the fauna of the little preserve; the last time (before the swan incident) I did the inlet I went home and subscribed to National Geographic.

Anyway, we’re slowly, very slowly, poling our way along the channel, stopping frequently, pretending our reveries are important, or at least scientifically significant in an age of shrinking rain forests and disappearing ozone layers, when one of the swans that was in the lake just outside the inlet entrance starts following us.

At a distance it seems to be just a casual reconnaissance on still one more boatload of dumb nature lovers, but as he comes further down the inlet, I see his is a more purposeful mission, and it soon becomes clear he is making right for us. The same thing happened last year: the swan followed the boat into the inlet, hung around it until we had passed a place which had some special significance to him, and then he returned to the lake, so I wasn’t particularly worried.

But this time the swan came very close to the canoe, paddled past it, and posted himself on our starboard side, moving only as fast or as slow as we did.

I figured he was guarding a nesting mate, and in a few more yards I saw the object of his protection: another swan sitting on top of a mound-shaped cone of sticks and twigs that rose out of a small cove created by a twist in the canal’s path—a miniature Sugar Loaf Mountain with a nesting bird for a tophat. We stopped as we came abreast of the roost, and so did the swan, positioning himself about halfway between us and it, and I told the kids that this is what his militancy was all about, and wasn’t it wonderful how nature worked, and how these very same instincts that get mommy and daddy out of bed each day to grouse at each other then go into the workplace, blah, blah, blah. When we were all bored enough with that, we began to paddle on, past the nesting swan and her guardian-mate, to resume our journey into darkest Lewisboro.

The sentry swan seemed to be content that we weren’t going to bother his family. He escorted us a few more yards, then turned around and started to paddle back in the opposite direction. But then, suddenly, he changed his mind.

He wheeled around, and came straight for the canoe, in a move that was faster than I than I had ever imagined a swan could be. And there was nothing casual about it. I had that sinking feeling I used to get on my paper route when a new dog spotted me and started running towards me. Would he stop short and make this a ritual how-de-do, with plenty of growling and barking, but nothing more? Or would this be time I was going to get bitten? Were rabies shots in my future? Would the crazed beast just make it simple and tear me to shreds, making shots and stitches academic?

[THE PHOTO HERE IS OF MAX AND BEN, MY SONS, SHORTLY AFTER THE KILLER SWAN INCIDENT. NOTICE HOW SHAKEN THEY APPEAR TO BE]

The swan came right up to the stern of the boat, where moments before I had been paddling and steering but was now frozen with surprise. He reared up out of the water and began beating the air with his wings and whipping his head and neck around like a short, fat snake.

My breath left me like the last puff of air in a balloon.

I didn’t know anything about swans that had prepared me for this. Also, I had my two little boys with me, and I

never knew exactly how I was supposed to behave in front of them. Do I act like I’m in control when I’m not? Do I try to act like I’m not scared shitless when I am? How do I protect them if the swan decides to go for them, instead of me, because they’re in the other end of the boat which will tip over if I try to get to them without using the delicate place-changing maneuver prior to capsizing a canoe?

The swan had backed off a couple, three feet, but was keeping pace with us paddle-foot for oar-stroke, mirroring our boat’s every little move with his own counter-moves. But at least he wasn’t attacking.

Now, in case you’re thinking, “Well, after all, it is a swan; how dangerous could he really be?” please know that he is now working himself into a frenzy, goaded by the threat to his family we must have posed and is in the water, where he’s at home. Think about being trapped in a small room with an average sized tomcat, agile and sinewy, fortified with rage; or on the sand with a seagull bent on pecking your eyes out (seagulls are much, much larger than you think when they are two or three feet away). It’s the strength that suddenly endows the all-instincts creature, the promise that they will battle far beyond their normal powers, that makes you realize all bets are off if you think your size or ability to reason is any advantage. I remember once being confronted in the kitchen of a club where I worked by a dishwasher who had overheard me call him a violent psychoticwhich he was. I remember his eyes, white with rage, the veins and tendons in his neck standing out like a lizard’s, and he had a meat cleaver in his hand. That’s scary. It’s the sudden threat of violence that you simply can’t talk your way out of, can’t buy or beg out of, and the weirdness, the bad-dreamness, that disorients you, makes you realize you’re in trouble because you thought you couldn’t possibly be in trouble.

I moved one of the paddles to port arms to be ready to defend us in case of real trouble, and my glasses went flying into the water. Now I would have to try to protect my family from an unfamiliar enemy I could hardly see. I remember wondering if this was really an object lesson in respecting other families’ privacy by seeing how I felt having a trespasser with unknown intentions sidling up to my offspring to have a look-see and maybe cause a little mayhem. I was desperately praying he would know that I did simply want to look and not touch. Would he know that? Was there any reason to try to tell him that in some way? What did I used to do with the dogs that chased me? Did I ever find a way to deal with them? I didn’t remember that I had.

Could I yell to anyone for help? Would anybody be close enough to hear me, let alone help? This one I knew the answer to: No. There wasn’t anyone within a mile or so who could hear or help. And underlying it all: this was a swan, for Chrissakes. A beautiful, silent, graceful, ornamental animal associated with tranquility and peace. I was kneeling in a canoe, holding a paddle like a baseball bat, defending self and kin against a swan!

Now he was back again, almost seeming to sense the advantage he gained when I lost my glasses. I was already sweating from panic, confusion, and the prospect of looking like a coward to my kids, two Koreans to whom macho and bravado were very important. Don’t hero fathers ever have fear for themselves?

Or are they only just afraid for their children? Well, I was afraid for all of us, and I couldn’t tell you who I was afraid for more: my kids or me.

The swan was at my right shoulder now as I twisted to try to pole the boat away from him and still be in some sort of defense posture. I was lightheaded with confusion and disbelief: this can’t be happening. It’s all going to stop in a second, isn’t it, and/or turn out to be a dream.

He was bobbing and weaving, like a boxer looking for an opening. Strictly short term thinking and breathing for me now. Very clear pictures of tearing flesh, pecked-out eyes leaving empty sockets, blood all over the place, and other swans hearing the screams and coming to watch or help, getting even for all the atrocities committed against them by treehuggers and other Upper Westside phonies.

Newspaper photographs of us drowning. And being pecked to death while we fight to stay afloat. And my wife’s voice, hysterical, screeching, “What were you doing going into a prohibited area with two little boys? And

what do you mean, wild swan? What kind of man are you, anyway?”

Now he was arching up out of the water again, beating the air, causing a bitter fluid to boil up inside my chest, like hot mercury in a thermometer. I thought I was going to vomit. He was so close I could see the wild-horse fury in his eyes, and he opened his mouth and whipped his head back like a python ready to strike. He was huge. With us low in the boat, me on my knees holding a paddle in front of me, he seemed to tower over me, and when he spread his wings, literally blocking out the sun, I knew I was no match for him at all. Him in the water, fluid, supple, and stable: me in the canoe, awkward and foolish and on the defensive.

He arched his neck once again, reared back and opened his beak, big, strong and bent back at the tip like a claw—I half expected teeth—and I guessed this was it: the way swans do it. They freeze you in fear and your own clumsiness and incredulity, then tear your flesh off with sharp, hooked beaks. It had become a full-scale death dream, the kind I always imagined people had as they were drowning or about to be in a terrible car crash, everything slowed down to one frame at a time. That I couldn’t run, couldn’t maneuver, could only twist and jump in the canoe like a hooked fish was just like all those trapped-in-slow-motion dreams that make you wake up in a sweat and ruin your night and the following day and make you wonder what’s the matter with you.

And then, suddenly, it was over.

Maybe I had crossed over some invisible line that took me out of the area of threat to his brood; or maybe he just figured I was scared enough. But he abruptly, though gracefully, turned away, as if from some game he was tired of playing and paddled off in the direction of the inlet’s entrance. I waited with my boys about a half an hour and slowly, very slowly, went back the two or three yards to get my glasses out of the shallow water.

It wasn’t until I actually had them on that I felt a modicum of control return, along with the realization that I was now going to have to make a choice: go back the way we came in, i.e., around the swan, maybe or maybe not giving him wide enough berth to ignore us, or go on to the other end of the inlet, which emptied into a neighboring lake, and portage home from there.

Portage is such an ugly word.

[End o' Part 1]

Me on location under the Geo. Washington Bridge

Anyway, I thought I did my job really well, and they seemed to think so, too. The task was to sync up the words I was saying…aah, how many different ways can I say it? You do the math. Frankly, they’d been doing it the wrong way: they were trying to get relatively inexperienced actors to watch the film and lip-sync with  themselves on the fly.  Very difficult to do even for pros.

The way you do it is to look a few times at a short clip–from 3 to 10 seconds long– LISTENING to the lines you see yourself saying, then FORGET the visuals and record the lines as you remember they sounded.  It’s not hard.  And if you don’t sync up every single word it’s no real problem,  because the editor can advance or retard the film to fit around the gaps you didn’t quite duplicate.

I think Jay and Blue Arees,  auteur and editor,  respectively,  were blown away by how quickly the job went when they did it the time-tested way.

No biggie, but I was pleased they were happy with the page out of my half-century-backed book o’ performing tricks and treats. I think this film is for Jay’s Master’s in filmmaking, and I hope he’s successful. I’ve enjoyed getting my feet wet with a whole new generation of filmmakers, and I hope they’ve liked working with me enough to consider me a future resource  on either side of the camera.

*                          *                             *                                *                               *                           *                         *

This is a piece I wrote almost 25 yrs ago when the brothers Kim–Ming Gook and Dai Young; last names come first in Korea–deplaned to start their long sentences as our sons.

The picture here is of the four of us, Marion & myself, Max & Ben going into our first winter together.

Fender Mustang, ca 1964

The next time I saw Jerry after the truck op I told you about (see “Truckin’ with Jerry,” four posts back) was at his dump somewhere in LA. He and the rest of the Grateful Dead were renting a big old wood frame in a seedy part of the city, but that’s  about all the location and architecture information I can remember. This would have been sometime in 1965.

Someone else besides the band members rented rooms—or should I say labs?—in the house: Stanley Owsley, at that time the biggest name in LSD r&d, production and distribution, at least in So. Cal). I did not know it at the time, and it wouldn’t have made a difference if I did; I was already and acid freak.

Again it was my friend Lonnie Feiner who greased the skids for this little visit with Jerry, tho’ I didn’t realize yet there were skids to be greased; the Dead seemed still in pupal stage, tho’ sliding ever closer, and faster, toward adulthood. But Jerry was a nice, unpretentious guy, and he seemed glad to hang with Lonnie and me. I don’t remember a whole lot from that nite, tho’ Lonnie tickled my memory a bit in our last phone conversation.

I remember bringing my guitar (it might have been a Fender Mustang, but now I’m not sure. You’ll learn more about this later, and if you happen to know what the model was called, please tell me: ross.alp@verizon.net) with me. I’d just gotten it  fresh out of the window of Eagle Loan, a pawnshop in downtown LA, and I’d become proud of it. I thought I’d wanted a red Strat (Fender Stratocaster), but the pawnbroker didn’t have one right then and convinced me that the beige instrument he did have exuded more quiet confidence and understated power than the garish, flamboyant one I’d thought I wanted. So, beige it was.

Anyway, it’s the axe I took to the Dead’s hovel that nite, and the one I would use with the Fender Super Reverb amp I’d also just bought and was now schlepping up some stairs with difficulty. Super Reverbs had four speakers and sounded great but were very heavy and clumsy, as I would learn more about later, when I had my own band.

We plugged in, Jerry, Lonnie and me, tuned, fired up a joint and started playing a 12-bar blues, the musical form everybody knows, and loosens up with.

The tempo Jerry set was a little slow for me, but we played continuously for at least twenty minutes. I now see it was a harbinger of Dead jams to come. For me it was a soul-satisfying session in a meandering, [mesmerizing] sort of way. We ended the usual way:  a closing chord signaled by one of the jammers (me, in this case) by slowing down,  then stopping,  now awash in the hiss and crackle of cranked-up tube amps,  and nodding gravely to each other in agreement  that it was a successful effort.  Hard behind that was a new joint making the rounds.

I’d noticed that Jerry’s tone seemed to be cleaner and clearer than mine, and I mentioned it.  “I sound like hammered shit,” is what I actually said. He said he’d also noticed that.

Let me see your guitar, man,” he said. He took it, gave it the quickest once over I’d ever seen and handed it back to me. “Country Al,” he said, “you may be the first guy ever to try to play Bluegrass on an electric guitar.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Your strings, man,” he said. “You’re using jumbo brass strings.”

“So? I said.

“Man, bronze doesn’t conduct the way steel does,” he said. “You’ll never get the output you need to drive an amp with bronze strings.” He took a long toke on the joint and handed it to me, index finger to index finger style. It was getting short. “Why you doing that? With the strings, I mean? Still think it’s macho?”

I‘m sure I blushed, because I totally knew what he was talking about. In Bluegrass you use a big acoustic guitar with high action and string it with jumbo bronze strings for maximum volume and tone. The downside is that this makes it hard to play. (One of the reasons Doc Watson, my mentor, is as good as he is that he’s big and strong.)

Part of why I put the big strings on the Fender electric guitar was that I already had them. But at the same time I had to acknowledge, at least to myself, that I actually knew better, that Ernie Ball Super Slinky strings was where it was really at, you dig? I didn’t say anything, just took a really deep drag on the joint.

“Also, man,” he said, “you can’t bend heavy-gauge strings.” [Sidenote: although he could do it, Jerry didn’t string-bend much; he was more into scale steps and hammer-ons, but that’s neither here nor there]

Bending strings, i.e., changing the pitch of a note by stretching the string, is a signature sound of rock and roll. He handed me his guitar, which I don’t remember anything about, including the make and model. “Check it out, man. Wow (another word for bend) the third string as much as you can.”

I did and he was absolutely right. Of course he was. I already knew he was. But something had prevented me from doing the right thing for the guitar before then: changing to light strings with an unwound third (don’t ask).

I know now that it was about my reluctance to accept that I was going to have to learn a new music, Rock ‘n Roll, and in some ways start all over again in an idiom that scared the shit out of me. Why it did is another whole story; for now I just knew I was being confronted with the threat and opportunity of doing it right there.

With his guitar I  immediately starting playing licks I’d heard forever, but had never played before. They were coming to me almost automatically. With the right strings your hands seem to go to the right notes on their own.

It was strange not having to mash strings down behind the frets ‘til my fingers ached. But–big but–it sounded like Rock n’ Roll. Not enough to make Chuck Berry, Lonnie Mack or George Harrison tremble in their boots, but definitely the sound that would send your parents flying into your bedroom crying, “No way, not in here, you don’t,” as you tuned up.

“Try THAT with your trans-Atlantic-cables,” he said, as he started to hand me back my Mustang, then changed his mind. “There’s something else funny about that guitar,” he wheezed out between tokes. “Lemme see it again.”

“You’re already holding it,” I said. “Far out,” he said, and started inspecting it closely. Then he put it up against his own, guitar-face to guitar-face, fingerboards kissing. “Dig, man,” he said, nodding at the necks. “Look at the difference between the two fingerboards. In fact, the whole guitars.”

He didn’t have to say any more. The neck on my guitar was at least two inches shorter than his, nut to saddle. My whole guitar was almost a hand’s width smaller than his.

“So, what does that mean?” I said, not getting it yet.

“So, it’s a three-quarter guitar, man,” he said. “You’ll never get the sound you want—you do want to play rock, don’t you?—with this.” I probably nodded, but if I did it was with tight lips; I was smarting from all of this. “This is a shortened scale,” he went on. “The pickups won’t resonate right with the strings or something unless the scale is right. I don’t understand it, but I know it’s right. Ask anyone.” He paused and took a deep, non-toking breath. “Man, I think they sold you a learner’s guitar.”

“A what?” I whined, starting to feel how out of his league I really was.

“It’s made for kids. Or pygmies or something,” he said. He looked at Lonnie’s hand. “You gonna hold that J forever?”

“So, what you’re saying, man,” I said, “is that my guitar’s too small, it’s made for girls, my strings are too thick and they’re made of the wrong metal. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Let me see your flatpick.” He took it and handed it right back. “What the fuck is that, tortoise shell?”

“No, it’s goose quill,” I said. He knew it was tortoise, since that’s what we all used when we played Bluegrass. Or imitation tortoise. And, of course, that’s where Jerry and I knew each other from: playing Bluegrass.

“You need a thin flatpick, like this,” he said, showing me a wafer no stiffer than a matchbook cover, “so you can, you know, flog the strings like a whip.” He showed me on his guitar.

I was impressed. You can’t play full chords really fast with Bluegrass pick. “Sounds like flamenco,” I said lamely.

“Hey,” he said softly, almost to himself, staring off into a corner of the room,  “I wonder what that would sound like? Flamenco rock, I mean. I’m gonna write something in flamenco rock.” Then, to me: “Thanks, man. Mucho obbligato. Here, man, take this pick. You can keep it.” I took it. It had “Grateful Dead” on it. “Tell you what,” he said, with a quick nod and little smile that seemed kind of intimate to me. And maybe a little sympathetic.

He got up and went to a bunch of cases on the floor, opened a couple and came back with a Martin D-28 (your top-of-the-line Bluegrass guitar) and a gleaming Gibson banjo. (Btw, if your wondering where Lonnie was in all of this he had fallen asleep right after the jam; pot did that to him).  Jerry handed me the Martin. “Wanna pick?” he said, Bluegrass talk for “let’s play.”

We picked for at least another hour, him on five-string banjo, me on his Dreadnought guitar. He was a little sloppy, a little out of practice, I’m sure, but authentic and exciting, nevertheless.  He was always pretty good at your basic hard-charging Earl Scruggs three-finger linear torrent of notes. You could tell he’d once put in the time and work necessary to master that technique, and in his case with the added challenge of the missing finger.

And God knows, he had the right axe: a Gibson Mastertone [model #?], probably from the late ‘Forties, with a raised tone ring and [?? strings]. Ya think it might have been the right length, too?

*                               *                             *                                  *                                  *                                 *

And now, a little something about my late mother, Florence.

Mom  (“Flosie”)