. . .a soaked and miserable Poul
scuttled in widening circles, plucking papers from cornstalk leaves,
tree limbs and mudholes.” (From chapter 5)
When I was a kid, I didn’t know
I was a Baby Boomer. I did know I was a child on a farm on a dirt
road, far away from everything. There were three channels on our
black and white TV. The phone hung on the wall and if you wanted
to call someone, you called Central and the woman on the other end
would dial the number.
I listened to country music because my parents had a country band.
They played covers – Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, Ernest Tubb.
But I also listened to Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Elvis, Jerry
Lee Lewis and all the wild, testosterone-driven southern guys who
infused sex and machismo into their gospel passion. “I Got
A Rocket In My Pocket! Yes! It’s ready to shoot off! Heading
into the dark reaches of her inner space!
I, like millions of other Baby Boomers, listened to all kinds of
music – country, pop, and the persistently exploding rock.
Elvis was everywhere, loved, hated and so influential he literally
changed culture. No small feat for poor white southern kid with a
high school education. He was born in a two room shack and earned
the title of Entertainer of the 20th century. And this was a century
that gave birth to some of the greatest entertainers in recorded
history.
I started as a child playing accordion, then piano. I fooled
around with the guitar, then returned to the piano. One year,
I think when I was 14, I spent 12 hours a day studying music,
playing songs, teaching myself to read music, but also fine-tuning
my ability to play by ear. Every country artist knew how to
play by ear. The best of them that I knew could listen to a song
once and play it. One of the best musicians I’ve ever known was my cousin Jim. He could hear
a song once, know what key it was played in, and play it note-for-note.
He was a wild, silly genius and great showman who danced through
life looking for easy ways to make money. He was always “scheming”to
make a big, easy buck.
His dad, my father’s oldest brother, was like that. “I
got me a scheme,” he’d say to Dad. That was always his
opening. Then he describe some wild, convoluted plan that involved
work by everyone but him. None of his plans ever developed and he
died without a nickel.
My uncle’s scheming was the inspiration for that part of Poul’s
character.
Cousin Jim is somewhere in the south—Mississippi? -- still playing, I think,
and still broke, I’m sure. His is a long, crazy story littered with music,
women, self-published books, booze, and pills, lots of pills.
But we had some moments on stage that were incredible.
