Drinking With Strangers

Wednesday, actually this whole week, was a runaway roller coaster from hell, which in truth isn’t all that uncommon (or for that matter all that troubling really).  In my profession, days sometimes tend to take on an uncontrollable life of their own and just keeping your head above water long enough is sufficient to win the day.  That’s the most difficult and simultaneously exhilarating part of my job though. It’s all about avoiding the big suck (which sounds like a seminar or a book I will teach or write some day). IF one can accomplish that on the regular? – That’s a true measure of success in my opinion.  These untamed days are often born of something as benign as a missed alarm clock or an uncooperative morning dog but they quickly, almost Gremlin-like morph into a wild mythical beast that refuses to be broken, devolve into a smoldering retarded fire full of nonsense fuel.  When I see the first telltale signs, I almost literally hold my breath until I’m sure.  That morning, I walked into my office to a ringing telephone harboring a frantic client’s expectation of urgent (unrealistic) requests (demands) and I exhaled, and quietly braced for the inevitable impact of the fall, knowing that today was going to be one of those aforementioned days.   Dot, dot, dot, when the car coasted into the gate at the end of the ride, my soul was sore.

So hectic was the day that I didn’t realize that I had received a package I had been waiting for.  If you’ve read this blog before you know how important and necessary the anticipation of the package is to me.  If you know me at all, you know that the package was full of books and music.  You also probably know that I believe that there is no ill this dynamic duo cannot cure.  And further, you most likely are acutely aware of the unavoidable fact that I’m about to tell you all about the contents of said package in excruciating detail and how it saved that day.  If any of the above is true then you would be right!

A few sleepless midnights back, I stumbled across a program on a television network, neither of which I had seen prior.  The show was Live From Daryl’s House on Palladia. Unbeknownst to me, this little jewel began as a web-based offering in 2007.  As I am decidedly less than digital, I’ve remained in the dark all this time.  I was jolted from my pre-dawn zombie channel surf into a heightened awareness when I heard Bodegas and Blood.  As I voyeuristically peered into their night, three questions bounced around inside my head in no particular order: How can I get invited to what seems to be the coolest house jam ever, Why does Daryl Hall suddenly seem less like a tool and Who the hell is Butch Walker?  Bodegas and Blood was the first track on the first CD I pulled out of the box when I got in the truck and if ever there was a more perfect antidote to break the fever I was in right then, I’m not sure what it is. 

As I listened to Butch Walker and the Black Widows’ latest CD Spade, I was bombarded with hyperactive glimpses of my musical memory.  At points his music sounds like what Mott the Hoople would have released if they’d been around now and not back then.  And then the next second reveals the obvious underpinnings of his southern roots, The Outlaws, Lynyrd Skynyrd et al, with an unmistakable wink and a nod to Electric Light Orchestra, Roy Orbison.  I was reminded of some of my ‘90s faves, Fastball and later Rooney, Everclear without all of Art Alexakis’ bitching about his childhood.  It’s like Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes strained through a North Georgia filter – like Georgia Satellites spun through West Hollywood knowledge. There are tones of Otis Redding and Jackie Wilson and Curtis Mayfield sprinkled in.  Don McLean, Jim Croce, Buddy Holly.  Department of Youth-like Alice Cooper riffs. Irreverent as Dash Rip Rock and as peaceful and intentioned as Taj Mahal with a Johnny Cash sense of humor to knock off the edge. There’s even an endearing Evan Dando smarminess to parts of the delivery. It’s every good bar band you’ve ever seen stumble through a set elevated to somewhere you’ve never been. It’s garagey and soulful, jangly and ordered.  There are Ramones-esque sing-a-longs and dare I say, Dixie Chicks-like Pop Country hooks and yet it’s not written with an agenda.  It doesn’t even feel like it was written so much as it feels like it just happened or maybe has always been there.  And that’s what makes it rock.  It’s Foghat meets Al Green meets KISS meets Jan and Dean meets Springsteen meets…whatever the hell Butch feels like.  There is a seamless merging of what he grew up on and what is happening now and it never crosses either line, it never feels contrived.  It’s genuine and exists only because it does. It exists perfectly.

I listened to his ’09 album I Liked It Better When You Had No Heart next and was equally as blown away.  This one’s different through the first few tracks at least, more contemplative.  The songs would be at home on Elvis Costello’s 1977 classic My Aim is True and yet they don’t feel dated.  So far my favorite is Trash Day, his scathing indictment of suburban hypocrisy.  The irony here is that I walked right past Criminal Records in Little Five when he was doing this in-store on my way to a They Might Be Giants show at the Variety Playhouse, with my head apparently buried in the sand.  But hey, at least I know now, right?

In an effort to remain in balance I’d also ordered a replacement copy of Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. I’ve had several through the years and I’ve worn them all completely out.  It’s one of those books that holds an eye-level rank on the shelves.  It sits chill next to Cool Hand Luke and A Peoples History of the United States and Manufacturing Consent and Live from Death Row and Steal This Book and On The Road and The Doors of Perception and it belongs there.   Dee Brown paints a more specific picture than anyone else ever has about the true nature of our American dream.  He tells the story that the History Channel leaves out, that we don’t really want to hear – he recounts through first-hand interviews with those on the other side, what it was like on the other side as our country established its heritage.  It’s the story of our ancestors’ systematic destruction of a vast and incredibly diverse network of cultures, original gangsta’ Americans, right?  It’s what happened before it was cool to be a patriot.  I’m not about to step up to a stump and decry the manner in which we acquired the land upon which we reside, but it is important that we are all aware of that purchase.  It’s important that we understand that as lambs’ wool clean as we like to think we are, that we are not.  It’s convenient and appropriate for us to laud the sacrifices our soldiers are making today, but hard to acknowledge the blood that spilled to even give us a “land of the free” for them to protect.  You can’t profess to be an American without understanding the value of this book, without accepting the truth therein.  Knowing our origins forces the question, are we really who we think we are?  I guess that’s a rant for another day and certainly way too heavy for a Friday night conversation.

I hold a belief that all good and meaningful Heavy Metal is dead.  The first time I heard Volbeat’s Still Counting on the radio, that conviction was utterly disproven.  What a joy it has been to discover this song and this band.  The song is probably about an ex-girlfriend I surmise, but these exact thoughts have raced through my brain sitting in myriad conference rooms around the way.  “Counting all the assholes in the room, I’m definitely not alone”, that is pure insight – into one’s self and their surroundings.  It’s a song I can sing along with (at the top of my lungs) and it sounds awesome.  The louder I sing the better I sound!  The music is akin to Metallica in its rhythm and drive, but there are not so subtle undertones of Clash-like ska chording.  The Living End come to mind, even some Billy Bragg records oddly.  There are multiple time and tempo changes in a single song ala Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath.  But what carries the band is the vocal – it’s incredible, it sounds like he is harmonizing with himself.  Glen Danzig powerful, Sully Erna in some respects: reminiscent of ‘70s metal greats – Saxon and Diamond Head, but not as dark.  Everything about it is exactly as it should be.  I’m well aware of Denmark’s still thriving Punk scene but who knew the Danes were such rockers?  I love it. \m/

Let me take a moment to celebrate my affection for a little Amazon ruse they call, “People who bought this item, also bought this…”  That modest tag has resulted in more purchases of questionable product than I care to admit, but it’s absolute marketing genius really.  The only reason I mention it is that all of the items in my Wednesday box were found through a search for a Tattoo magazine subscription that was rumored to be cheaper through Amazon – I wasn’t looking for music or books; I wasn’t really looking for anything.  But, there is a common thread woven through all of these items that I haven’t yet uncovered, but I am intrigued.  I’m intrigued especially by the fact that Pimp by Iceberg Slim appeared as I perused.  This is a book I’ve heard about nearly my whole life.  And who hasn’t heard a reference to Iceberg Slim in a rap song?  The back flap describes it as, “What Sun Tzu’s Art of War was to Ancient China, Pimp is to the streets”.  Really?  That’s an obvious must-read in my opinion.  I’ll let you know how it turns out.

Due to a brutal roll-over crash at Lenox and Chipper’s last Friday night at Turner Field, I had time to read the first few pages of Walker’s book Drinking with Strangers while sitting in traffic tonight.  I quickly realized that the dry sense of humor I’d heard in his lyric is prevalent in his writing as well.  There’s something about it that resonates with me.  It might be that he grew up around here even though I didn’t.  Growing up in small towns in the south is different for some people, people who don’t belong I guess.  The funny thing is that the ones who “don’t belong” actually seem to love it the most and that comes through crystal clear in his writing and his music.  I dig that.  I identify with that.  I thumbed through the black and whites at center spine and wasn’t all that surprised to see that his senior picture “rock star” hair was as ridiculous as mine had been.  I haven’t yet read the book and I already get it.  His self-proclaimed “rise to the middle” is certainly unlike my path but I’m sure we share similar stories with different names.  I love that title by the way, Drinking with Strangers.  I love it as the metaphor for a life it may or may not be intended to be, I love it as a simple statement of fact.

So, if you’re not familiar with anything that is italicized above I suggest you make yourself thus.  It’s important, plus there will be a test at some point (I’m almost sure of it [maybe]).  Meantime, I’m heading out to my local to have a drink or two with strangers and to shake off the sticky residue of this week.