Goin’ to Oklahoma

“Strap them kids in, give ‘em a little bit of vodka in a cherry coke. We’re goin’ to Oklahoma” the first line of James McMurty’’s song Choctaw Bingo rings out over the crowd from my PA. That opening line always catches the attention of the families eating BBQ in Stephenville, TX. A couple weeks ago I’m playing at the OG Hard Eight, the stage walls behind me adorned with photos of Cross Canadian Ragweed, Casey Donahew Miranda Lambert and the like. Miranda’s photo comes down off the nail in the wall and I use the big bulky frame to prop open the window. There’s no air condition on the patio. It’s a great gig, big open space, but any amount of ventilation helps.

The photos are all autographed and are what appear to be promo photos sent through the U.S. mail at a time before the internet or email. A time, that though it may not seem like it, was just a short while ago. I’ve been inspired each time I play there to bring back those mailers, and I have. I don’t get much comment on them or see any establishment rushing to find a frame to hang up the post card like 8x10s sent through the mail. I did send one to my brother at the spot he manages and he said one night, “The owners saw that post card you mailed and asked me why didn’t you just hand it over. I told them that’s just how you are.”

Some people in the artistic world are recognized as being before their time, seemingly the highest honor and compliment a serious artist could receive. I, unfortunately, seem to have come after mine. Really not as flattering, and as you can see, causes confusion. I imagine a manager of a place I play regularly receiving a hand written thank you note and scratching their head puzzled thinking what to do next. I do wish they will take a picture of it and post it to their social media accounts and at the very least serve me with my dopamine inducing likes and page hits I so rightfully deserve.

But it really is the thought that counts. I don’t expect anything from it. Sometimes I imagine that I’ll eventually at least send out enough mailers, cards, stickers, and promo material that when the apocalypse comes I’ll be remembered in scattered pamphlets with burnt edges just like all the other mass mailers out there.

Today, I’m headed up to Altus, OK and then over to Lawton tomorrow. I don’t really enjoy staying out over night, but on this one it just makes sense. Next weekend me and the band are headed down to Houston and over to San Antonio to perform Johnny Cash Covers in my version of a tribute band called Fast Cash.

My weeks seem to rush by in a blur and I haven’t made much progress with the shed, however during all the driving I’ve finished a couple more audio books that I def recommend. No One Gets Out of Here Alive and How Music Works by David Byrne. They are both super cool and different in their own way. The Jim Morrison story is short and to the point and is told by members of the band. It can be depressing as you go along all the ironic and self defeating runs from the bands point of view. I mean in the end, they were the ones left without a job anymore. And the book doesn’t go into any more clarity about how Morrison died. It’s still a mystery and it was covered up by his girlfriend with the help of some French authorities. It’s pretty clear that they were paid off and the book says when the manager got to France, Jim was already in a casket. Seems to me people like Jim Morrison want to die, and that is the main reason they do. When you hear the story of a tragic death like this from the point of view of people who dealt with the personality on the regular, you see how much pain someone like Jim was already inflicting on those around him.

Now, if you’ve ever watched the movie True Stories, the book How Music Works, read by Byrne, is essentially this same documentary style narrative but this time about David’s life and how that informs his understanding of how music works. He gets down to the nitty gritty with the industry and goes into detail with actual numbers of sales and expenses before the digital age and now during it. Released in 2014, its relevancy is quickly waning, however if you like David Byrne’s work, this will be a read that can last well into the ages.

On this Oklahoma trip, I’ll likely finish listening to The Storyteller which just topped the NY Times best seller list today. Dave Grohl is a great writer and it’s nice to listen to him read his own work. Last night pulling in from my gig, I finished the chapter about Kurt Cobain’s death. Another tragic ending. The part I didn’t know is just a month before the actual death Kurt had overdosed and was thought dead. Calls were made only to have it be a false alarm. It was hard to listen to Grohl talk about the death of someone so close to him, and as he put it, someone who had become the sun which they all revolved around.

In all I’ll spend about 10 -12 hours in the car this weekend driving. I may even sleep in there, but things are going pretty well and if I find a last minute deal on an Air bnb, that might be the option. Long gone are the days of trying to meet a group of people and party all night only to sleep on their floor after no woman would take me to her bed. I don’t have the stamina, and getting drunk and out of control on the road with strangers becomes more dangerous the more I have to lose. Hell, even hitting on women and trying to hook up pose a great threat on the road. I don’t see how it’s done, especially in the small towns. If a woman in a small town bar or honky tonk is talking to you and flirting with you, better just get her to buy a shirt and move on. You’ll see her bring her man over to pay for the merch and that’s that. You save yourself an ass kickin. Most of the time these small town girls don’t want to leave their man, they just want some attention. The quickest way to get it sometimes is making them jealous. Robert Johnson learned the hard way. So did a few others and it continues to happen to day. I won’t be killed in a small town and I ain’t fighting my way out of anything. I can’t fight anymore. If I break a hand, I can’t play. And the moral of Jail House Rock isn’t lost on me.

My last fight was 2018, I was “34 and drinking in a Honky Tonk”. I’d say it was a draw, but after tackling a marine into a concrete wall and busting his head open, the realities of accidently killing someone became more apparent. Up to that point I really only pictured that happening from a lucky punch to the face. Now I see how that U.S. Marine could have accidently been killed hitting his head against the wall. Anyway, I shouldn’t been fighting ever really, but I got a mouth on me. I think I get wittier as I drink, but I just really get mean and surly. And a smart elec drunk is an ass kickin waiting to happen.