Reflections

Music.
I've sung it, played it, written it, arranged it, listened to it, studied it, lived it and breathed it. I've relished and despised the appurtenances thereunto. I've long since outlived my reputation. What I'm sitting on is something less than laurels. The crummy vanity records, the endless nights in gin-mills preserved forever on cheap tape, the washed-out Polaroids of beer-joint combos -- all of these scream out at me what I knew all along: I was never any great shakes. Still, I look upon it all with some satisfaction. Music has been the one thing that I have really understood. The only thing that made any sense. So that's what I did. Today,I go to my computer and command it to reproduce the sounds I fell in love with. The sounds that came from that little tow-headed boy's record player many years ago. It is as a soothing balm. The voices of dead singers echo into a digital infinity. I have made the journey, all the way from the old days into the future, and back again. I smile wistfully. "We used to play that song..."

Zoomer's Edits!

The Lady Is A Tramp - Tommy Dorsey & His Clambake 7  

[minus Edythe Wright's vocal refrain and signature closing line, "My, my!"]

You're No Good - Bob Dylan
[An introductory edit piece called "Connecticut Cowboy" was recorded for this song but not used. I found it on a bootleg, adjusted the pitch and EQ, and tacked it onto the mono version of the record.]

The Stars and Stripes Forever - Sousa's Band
[Musicians who actually worked with Sousa said they would play faster in the studio to shoehorn a piece into the confines of a 78rpm record. I slowed this side down 10% to more closely approximate the concert tempo. The pitch remains the same.]

I'm Counting On You - Elvis Presley
[An edit of take 2, sans the Jordanaires' "bah-bah-bah-bah."]

Hold Me Tight - The Beatles
[In its officially released form, "Hold Me Tight" gets my vote for absolute crummiest Beatles record. Using an outtake (take 21), I tuned up Paul's vocal with Melodyne pitch control, excised about 16 bars, and mixed it to mono. Is it an improvement? Maybe not, but it's different.]

Hold Your Cotton-Pickin' Tongue!

My folks grew up in a rural part of East Texas in the 1920s. They both picked cotton in their youth, and neither of them ever had anything good to say about it. They used the term "cotton-pickin' " as an adjective all their lives, as in, "Get your cotton-pickin' hands off of me!" Country singers used it, too. Johnny Cash, who picked cotton as a sharecropper's son in Arkansas, used to sing, "I'm a cotton pickin' man, and these are cotton pickin' hands..." They also sang about "Them Old Cottonfields Back Home." There were references to "snatchin' and grabbin' " -- the method by which cotton was hand-picked. "Fair to middlin' " -- a term used to describe a cotton crop -- was a stock answer to "How are you?" long after its meaning was forgotten. In fact, "cotton-pickin' " had lost its meaning. It was an empty modifier, much like the timeless "fuckin'."

 So when, in the recent elections, a white candidate in a southern state used the term "cotton-pickin' " when speaking of his African-American opponent, I thought nothing of it. But a lot of people did. It was "racially tinged," or some such, apparently referencing slavery. I never know these things are offensive until somebody gets called out for saying them. Fortunately, only a few dozen people hear or read any of my words, so I'm reasonably insulated, but public speaking is a minefield of potential [insert simile here].

Single Pigeon

Today we drove out to Northeast to get our affairs in order. We've been kicking this particular can down the road for thirty years, but the shadows are beginning to lengthen. On the way home we saw two pigeons on the steaming asphalt of Hondo Pass. One was dead. The other stood close to the body -- motionless -- and didn't flutter out of the path of our car until the last possible moment. Both of us knew immediately that they were mates. It was heartbreaking. We didn't say much the rest of the drive home. Not about projected scenarios of our deaths or about those two poor birds. But a line from an old Hank Williams song keeps going through my mind: "Like a bird that's lost its mate in flight / I'm alone and oh, so blue tonight..."

22 July 2018

God Bless the NRA (Massacre In Vegas)

...and I'm proud to be *pew* *pew* *pew* *ka-ZING* [gack! oof!] an American *ratatatatatatata*  *blooey* [arrgghhh! screech!] where at least I know *pop* *pop* *pop* *pow* *pow* [gurgle! groan! spurt! spew!] I'm free *BLAM!!!!!!!!* [thud! croak!]...

3 October 2017

Hallowe'en Prank

One Hallowe'en, after my friend John and I got too old to go trick-or-treating, we made a dummy out of old clothes and rags. We tied a rope around its "head" and threw the rope over a limb on the tree that grew by the walkway to his front door. Hoisting it up and out of sight, we hid and waited for little kids to come up the walk. When they did, we dropped the dummy down so it dangled in front of them and yelled, "Boo!" I don't recall us keeping that up for long. Either the dummy fell apart, or his mom told us to cut it out, or we got bored. Not much of a story -- just an old snapshot memory...

Residual Effects of the Civil War

As far as can be ascertained, my people were Southerners. Farmers, mostly. They've been traced back to Georgia, Tennessee, Arkansas, and Alabama. By the end of the Civil War, much of that had been laid to waste. Those whose reproductive equipment hadn't been blown off straggled back home and begat a generation which, when it reached its majority, got the hell out of there. Destination: Texas. Much of their posterity is still here.

I grew up watching "The Gray Ghost" (based on Confederate Major John Singleton Mosby) and Nick Adams' Brando-esque portrayal of Johnny Yuma on "The Rebel." Johnny Cash sang the theme song:

He was panther quick and leather tough,

And he figgered that he'd been pushed enough!

The Rebel! Johnny Yuma!

It became a hit record. Johnny Horton sang "You fought all the way, Johnny Reb." Another country singer was named Stonewall Jackson. I attended Robert E. Lee School. I knew all the words to "Dixie." Confederate flags were everywhere. My brother told me the Civil War was about states' rights, and I believed him.

None of this offended me. Why should it? My humanity was never in question. The war wasn't fought over whether I should be a free man or a piece of farm equipment. People who looked like me didn't have their babies tugged from their arms and sold like livestock. We weren't whipped mercilessly. Jim Crow laws didn't pertain to us. We weren't being dragged out of our shacks to be hanged or burned alive. We didn't have dogs and fire hoses turned on us when we tried to vote.

I used to look at the Confederate flag and see nothing. It might as well have said "Drink Coca-Cola." It's not so benign now. It's being waved by people who want to return to antebellum days and ways. It's being waved in tandem with the Nazi flag. By a segment of our population that wants to suppress another segment. A segment that despises the concept of equality. A segment that ferments hate by the barrel. By a kid who is welcomed to a Bible study by a group of African-American Christians, then shoots them because he is "superior."

If all of us aren't free and equal, none of us are. Whatever the relics of the Confederacy may have symbolized in 1865 -- or 1965 -- they represent something else now. Something harsh and dark and evil and fearful.

Away! Away!

Away he rode!

The Rebel! Johnny Yuma!

Let him ride. We have our own battles to fight.

Zoomer Roberts
22 August 2017

And as for the White Supremacists...

Some cultures stay the same from one generation to the next. Ours is not one of them. We change. We absorb and expand. We amend and append. We adjust and we fine-tune. We go forward.
There are no u-turns on this road.

Homage to Hemorrhage

Homage to Hemorrhage 
For Jimmie Rodgers
24 May 2017

I'd rather be in Missisippi, drinkin' whiskey from a jug
I'd rather be in Missisippi, drinkin' whiskey from a jug
Than to be in New York City, dyin' on an old fire plug
Yodeladee *HACK* *KOFF* *RETCH* odeeyodel *HOCK HOCK HOCK* odeleedo *GASP* *WHEEZE* *GURGLE* Tell 'em 'bout me!

I'm coughin' up bloody corruption, it's all over my shoes
I'm coughin' up corruption, got it on both of my shoes
I woish this ol' fire hydrant would wash away the putrid ooze!
Hey, sweet mama! *SPEW* *SPURT* *HACK*

Lower left: the fire hydrant Jimmie Rodgers collapsed against on 25 May 1933. Thanks to Jim Kalafus.

Power Outage

With a startlingly loud popping sound, the power went out. No radio nor television, no internet nor telephone, and no air conditioning. I adjusted quickly enough, opening a book and settling into my chair, sipping from a glass of cool water. The faintest of breezes wafted through the back door and softly brushed my skin as it made its way through the room and out into the front yard. I had experienced this before: the quiet stillness of old houses in old days in small West Texas towns. I closed my eyes and let myself be carried away to other times and places. I was a boy in Seagraves. I was young man spending a summer day in the isolation that is Valentine. I was a 19th-century El Pasoan in the days of adobe houses on the lush banks of the mighty Rio Grande. Long ago faces appeared to me, and voices long silent spoke again. All was normal. All was as it should be. I relished every slowly creeping moment. Then the electricity came back on...

Zoomer Roberts
28 June 2016

On Turning 65

It's hard to believe I'm 65 years old, but I'm "every damn day of it," as Daddy used to say.  My siblings didn't live this long. I sang at their funerals. The doctors said I would die at the age of 40. I didn't. For years, I did some trashy living that would have done me in if I had kept it up. But instead I got married, got religion, cleaned up, got rid of some baggage, and set to mending a calloused heart and an imbalanced brain. When my musical career collapsed, I built a new one, guided by the words of Carl Perkins: "It's not what you lose in life. It's what you've got left, and what you do with it." I have a big family of cousins and in-laws, a church family I treasure, friendships that have lasted decades, and some residual respect in the music community. Monica and I have dodged and danced around the land mines of life and managed to stay on our feet. We've picked up some shrapnel, of course -- life is full of shrapnel -- but we've got each other, our own roof, food on the table, and two nickels to rub together. We're on our fifth dog and we still laugh. Thank you, Lord, for all the sunrises.

14 June 2016

On Selective Mourning

I've never been to France, but I know something about it. It figured prominently in the two world wars we fought in. It gave us the Statue of Liberty. It gave us Edith Piaf. It gave us Les Miz. The Mona Lisa hangs there in the Louvre. Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli birthed "le jazz hot" there. Josephine Baker got naked there. Rick and Ilsa will always have it. The Beatles' recording of "All You Need Is Love" began with a few bars of La Marseillaise. It's one of the Western hemisphere's major cultural centers, and I relate to it on that level. I always dreamed of being an expatriate there in the 1930s, discussing philosophy and smoking French cigarettes. It's an affinity I don't have for Lebanon, Kenya, or the South Pole. When Paris was attacked, I reacted. In writing. On Facebook. I don't do that every time something horrid takes place in the world, but tragedy hurts more when it strikes people and places we know. It's personal. End of rant.

17 November 2015

Thumper the Dog

And Killer the Dog dwelt in the land in those days. And he wandered afar. We sought after him and found him not. Each day we did journey to the pound and asked of those there: Hast thou seen our dog? And they sayeth: We have not. And we were sore aggrieved in our hearts,  and tore our clothing. And the days we searched for Killer the Dog were one score and ten.

And it came to pass that we did search that part of the pound in which were caged the lame, and the crippled, and the infirm, and the halt; and these ones were to die. And their cages were of polished steel, and shone brightly. And behold, a wretched young red dog did seek to gain our attention. And he was weak, and sick, and mute, and he smelleth. But his tail was as strong as an hundred dogs. And he did beat his tail against the side of his cage, and the sound was like unto a kettle drum. And we marveled at what we had seen and heard, and we spake one unto another, saying: Let us go even unto our house, and take with us this dog. And his named shall be called Thumper the Dog; Thump; Li'l Fump; Kuala Thumpur; Thump Doggy Dogg. For we hath heard him thump in the bowels of the prison of damned dogs.

And so it was that we did return home with the dog. And we gave unto him food, and drink, and a bed. And we tieth a knot into a sock, and it was his toy. And we gave unto him a yard, where he did run and void his offal. And we bathed him muchly, for he smelleth. And we gave unto him treats. And the dog did grow in strength and stature, and the multitudes were in awe of him, for he was the best little red dog ever. 

And Thumper the Dog opened his mouth and spake, saying:

Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!

And it was good. For many years, it was good.

Until at last the countenance of the dog grew ashen, and his eyes groweth dim. And his legs did move as he slept, but he runneth not, for he was growing lame. And he spurneth food, for there was no pleasure in it. And we didst force opiates into his gigantic maw, for he was in pain; but he clenched his aged teeth against them. And the postman cometh up the pathway, but the dog barketh not, for he had grown weary. And he was deaf, and heareth not squat, and didst cease his singing. For lo, the hour is nigh, as it is written...

LaTuna Prison ~ November 1969

From left: Zoomer Roberts, Patti Allen, Charlie McDonald, Ted Taylor

On Robin Williams and the Falling of Stars

Beloved entertainers touch us on a personal level. They make us laugh and cry. They accompany us through the highs and lows of our lives, and they have a special place in our cherished memories. No, they don't know us, but we feel that we know them. So when one of them leaves us, it is a personal loss, and we grieve. And because they are loved by millions, their passing takes precedent over the hard news of the day, which -- although it may be more critical in the scheme of things -- usually involves persons with whom we have not emotionally bonded. That's why you're hearing so much about Robin Williams today. His was a death in many families. Requiescat in pace.

Zoomer Roberts
12 August 2014