It began with a man from Minnesota. He had a Johnny Cash cassette that the whole dang squad wanted to listen to. 21 years old and i had just discovered Social Distortion. It was not clear to me yet who Cash was or what he meant to so many people. At age 21 Hellbilly, Hillbilly, Cowpunk, and Rockabilly were not metal. They were not Rage Against The Machine or 311. Psychobilly was not Slayer and therefore it made no sense to me.
It continued with Social Distortion and from Mike Ness' solo albums i understood that country rebels and Orange County punks were of a similar spirit and that the middle finger, when raised, meant the same thing without regard to what music you played onstage. You have a man with a guitar, and his stories to tell. Stories from other men and tales from days long gone often permeate the music we hear, and the nature of songwriting began to shape my musical tastes. When 'At San Quentin' came to me on CD, it changed shape.
After i moved home a client turned me onto James McMurtry, Steve Earle, The Black Keys. I remembered that in the Corps, a kid from New Jersey told me about Hank Williams III. A kid from Ohio told me what a Sick Boy was. Old pirate drinkin' songs and cuttin' cards took on new meaning. Chewing tobacco and shootin' guns was more fun. Late nights talking about honky tonkin' and hootin' n' hollerin' held more appeal than Hangar 18 and Hell Awaits.
Johnny Cash's 'American Recordings' sealed it. The revival of a busted Nashville star in the hipster Los Angeles clubs caught on tape told me that a raised middle finger was a raised middle finger, and the stories told were more important than the finite nature of heavy, head banging music. The old west and the deep south were built on the broken backs and cemeteries of dark skinned families and captives, and i knew that, but i'll be dipped in shit if that music doesn't just call to me.
Hank III is coming. To a venue i swore i'd never go back to. Last time i was there, i decimated some dude with three lighting quick right hands and was choked out by a bouncer. Today, an RKC, fine as all get out and of dark hair and eyes, called me to ask me if i was going to the Social D concert tonight.
"I went Sunday" i says.
"Have you ever been to [the place they're playing tonight]?"
"Nope. I missed Hank Williams III there last summer and i will never forgive myself".
Tonight, i took myself out to dinner at Fogo De Chao. A glass of Malbec, three pounds of meat, and a solitary seat at the table. I wept quietly when i thought of her across the table from me. After 6 weeks of radio silence i called her last week. She rejected the call. I left no message. Her message was clear. I may never, ever see her again. And if i believe that i am where i am supposed to be, all the time, then i must also associate that the decisions i make upon realizing that are what are of paramount importance. I finished my wine and left the joint. I smoked and stared up at St. John The Evangelist church. I watched strangers pass and i thought of my heart. The home of the blues, the temple of my life. The place where i make my decisions from. My command post. I am where i am.
When i got home, my concert email alert notified me that Hank III was coming to Allentown, PA. I did not hesitate. I bought three tickets and cranked up a song.
To use a word i don't even understand, i think this was a serendipitous situation for your Uncle Willy.
She loves you, big river, more than me.
Hank III & His Damn Band - Thrown Out Of The Bar from Jole Aron on Vimeo.
This post is art. A mutual friend, the redoubtable Ms. Tom, told me I should read your latest post on leaving the RKC. But I'd stumbled upon this one a week or so earlier. It resonated, as fine writing does, more than a little bit. Whatever you do, keep writing about it. You got the art and touch. Cheers.
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