Navy #14 June 18-22, 1999 Salerno, Italy

More reposting celebrating the 10 year anniversary of my last major deployment in the US Navy
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June 18-22, 1999
Salerno, Italy


After leaving Barcelona, Spain, we were at sea nearly two whole days before pulling onto port again. One of those days was spent completely out of sight of land and we got really scared. Thankfully, we didn't get eaten by sea monsters or fall off the edge of the earth.

Two days at sea is not enough time between liberty ports. That doesn't give you nearly enough time to entirely sober up before being forced to go out and drink again. Yes, forced is the correct word. We are the flagship for Standing Naval Forces Mediterranean, a NATO command. In our little flotilla, we have a Dutch ship, as well as a Spanish, German, Greek, Turkish, British, and Italian ship with us. The United States Navy is one of the few in the world that does not serve some type of alcohol onboard. All these other ships feel sorry for us because of that fact. We have been encouraged to spend as much time with our NATO counterparts as possible and to get to know one another. Our NATO allies interpret this to mean, "Get the Americans hammered". Visiting one of the other NATO ships, or hanging out with our NATO allies can be very hazardous to ones health, especially the next morning.

Two days after leaving Barcelona, we were ordered to pull into port again. This time our destination was Salerno, Italy. Salerno is a small city about 45 minutes south of Napoli (Naples, to you ex-sailors who have been here before). The main industry here seems to be fishing. It sits right on the coast (which is always an added benefit if your main industry happens to be fishing) and is surrounded by mountains on all sides. Being in Italy it has the mandatory old castles, Catholic Cathedrals, and cool ancient architecture that each town is issued as soon as it incorporates. The people were friendly, the place was gorgeous, and nobody got killed (especially me) so overall, I enjoyed the place.

The first night in port I had duty. I was assigned to the Beach Guard watch. From 2100 (that's 9pm for you lubbers) until the last liberty boat returned to the ship at 0430 (that's dark-thirty for you old salts) I was required to stand on the pier and ensure good order and discipline. Like I have any good order or discipline my ownself. All of our NATO friends were able to tie up pierside while our big ass ship had to anchor outside the harbor. This really sucks because most of our NATO allies are driving our old ships. The place looked like Honest Uncle Sam's Used Boat Works.

I am proud to say that no one stole any beach while I was standing Beach Guard.

Beach Guard didn't suck as bad as I thought it was going to. I got to hear all about Salerno from the people who were returning from liberty. The large majority didn't really care for the place. There were no Tattoo parlors, no hookers, and no discos. When you are 20 years old, a town without hookers, disco's, and tattoo parlors really sucks I guess.

The worst thing about standing the Beach Guard watch were the drunks. I have a low tolerance for obnoxious drunks. In fact, I have a low tolerance for drunks period. I couldn't wait for the Liberty Boat to get back and pick these people up. A few of them, I was tempted to point the ship out to, then heave them off the end of the pier and tell them to start swimming. Don't take this to mean that I am anti-drinking. I'm not. I don't have a problem with those people who are able to drink responsibly. I don't mind people going out and getting a buzz on. I don't even care if you want to sit in your hotel room, living room, or house trailer with a fifth of George Dickel and Reverend Ernest on the television and get right with Jesus. I've been there and done that myself. But overseas, we might be the only exposure a lot of these people ever get of America, besides the Jerry Springer show that is, and I would like for them to think well of us. That way when we bomb the shit out of them, they will at least think that the Yankee Imperialist Aggressors are polite folks.

The cool thing about standing the Beach Guard was getting to meet a bunch of Italian fishermen. It was really fun trying to talk to each other when neither one of us had a clue as to what the other one was saying. Billy, the kid I was standing watch with has an Italian grandmother. That made him my unofficial interpreter. Of course having eaten at Olive Garden several times, my Italian is about equivalent with his. Basically, what I understood was this: The fishing sucked because all the big fish had gone to France for the Cannes Film Festival to check out the movie stars and the women with big breasts. And that one guy's uncle lived in Boston and was getting rich making Formica tops for tables. Actually he could have been telling me that I have a small pecker and that I sleep with goats for all I know. Our communication consisted mostly of a lot of smiles and hand gestures anyway. We both seemed to enjoy talking to each other a lot and that's all that matters.

The second day we were inport, My first day of liberty, a few of us decided to go to Napoli to the Navy Base there. I was able to call my wife. She said she missed me and wanted to know if I was behaving. How could I not behave? She has all my money and my pecker is in a pickle jar on top of the refrigerator. (It's a really big pickle jar.)
 

My liberty buddy and I decided to go check out the downtown area so we could do some shopping and maybe get mugged. We grabbed a cab that Mario Andretti just happened to be driving now that he's retired from Formula One racing and made it to the train station. Having barely cheated death yet again, I bought a train ticket and headed up to the platform. While waiting for the train, just like Jimmy Rodgers but without the annoying cough, I pulled out my mandolin and started to pick some before the train. A gentleman came up to us and nodded hello and watched me. At first I thought he was a music critic who had planned to throw me under the wheels of the train as it came by, but instead I found out that he was more interested in my mandolin. He asked me about it and he then told us that the worlds first mandolin had been made in Napoli by a guy named Lloyd Loaretti. He also told us that Leonardo Fendori made the world's first guitar in Napoli as well. At least that's what I think he was saying. He spoke absolutely no English and all I can say in Italian is "Thank You", "Excuse me", and "Lets Get Drunk and Party with the Goats." That's all you really need anyway. We all got on the train together and I started playing some fiddle tunes rather badly. Actually, I was just chopping out rhythm because I can't really play mandolin. As I stumbled through Lonesome Fiddle Blues, Blackberry Blossom, Wheel Hoss, and With Care from Someone. I noticed the fellow's was tapping his foot keeping time. At least one of was able to keep time. He had a big smile on his face so I guess he dug it. Score one for the home team.

After we got off of the Metro train in Downtown Napoli, we wandered around the main square. I observed a game of "Guess Which Shell the Pea Is Hidden Under, You Big, Dumb, Goofy Looking, American Tourist" going on and stopped to watch. I guess they saw that big SUCKER sign that was tattooed on my forehead at birth. One of the players, a guy I'll call Junior, who seemed to be winning big, tried to get me to play along. He stuck a hundred thousand Lire note in my hand (about $50 US) but when I tried to walk away with the cash, I found that Junior had a pretty good grip on it. "No, No, you play, Joe. You play." I may look like I just rode in on a Turnip truck, but that SUCKER sign on my forehead is an old one and is slowly fading away. I told Junior that I was broke, that I had no money whatsoever and they suddenly lost interest in me. One thing I learned early on, Never try to beat a man at his own game.

The different regions of Italy are as different as the different regions of the United States. Mt Vesuvius sits right outside of Napoli. In fact Pompeii is a suburb of Napoli, much like the town of Madison, Tennessee is a suburb of Nashville. Back in 0000 or so, Caesar popped a cap in Mr. Jesus's ass. Seventy-nine years later, the mountain blew up and buried most of the area in Lava and mud. Coincidence? I don't know. Jerry Falwell says not. Of course he thinks one of the Tele-Tubbies is gay too. In 1944, the mountain gave a pretty good hiccup and there was a whole lot of shaking going on. Since then it's just been sitting there waiting...and watching. All it needs is an excuse.

As a result of living a lifetime underneath a Volcano that might at any moment make your 401K plan null and void, Napoli is a city unlike any other in Italy. The preferred method of driving here is to point the vehicle in the direction in which you wish to travel, close your eyes, and stomp on the gas. Seeing as how this is the Plastic Jesus capitol of the world, all automobiles are protected. If you are unlucky enough not to have a glow in the dark plastic statue of Mr. Jesus or a picture of the Blessed Virgin in your automobile, then your ass is grass. Napolutians (I made that name up, but it sounds cool), also don't wait in lines and never get in a hurry about anything. It's a lot like Alabama but with more teeth and without that sorry ass Crimson Tide football team.

There are two methods of shopping in Italy. There are the stores that are much like stores anywhere, with the hottest looking mannequins you've ever seen, they all have nice chests with erect nipples, then there are the "Hey Joe's". The "Hey Joe's" get their name from their constant salutations of "Hey Joe" to any American they see. Americans are known world wide as being rich, stupid, and an easy touch. The "Hey Joe's" here have been known to sell you a VCR on the street and when you get home and take it out of the package, you find that you have just bought a beautiful hand carved wood VCR. Too bad beautiful hand carved wood VCR's don't play tapes very well. You can also get just about anything you desire from the street-side vendors as well. Purses, ball-caps, switchblades, Rolex's, wood carvings, cigarettes, puppies, fruit, lighters, artwork, etc, etc, etc.

After spending a little money on my wife and kids, and avoiding being robbed, We took the big train back to Salerno. It was cool. I felt just like I was in a James Bond movie. I kept waiting for Scatman Caruthers to come take my ticket. The train had all those little six man compartments just like you see in the movies. I wasn't able to sip a martini and say "The names Bond, James Bond" and there was no conductor to come take our ticket, but we did see some of the Carabinari.

The Carabinari are the badasses of Italian law enforcement. They make the Tennessee Highway Patrol look like pussies. These guys always carry submachine guns and wear body armor. They also don't play. The Carabinari aren't subject to any of the oversight committees that are used to monitor our police force's actions. If you piss these guys off, they will either beat your skull in or just shoot you. If anyone asks them why, all they have to say is that you are a terrorist. If you smile at them and wave though, they will usually smile and wave back. In fact, a smile and a wave will get you further in Europe than just about any Berlitz language guide.

The guys I was with had this weird penchant for hanging their heads out the window of the train to see where we were going. When your train is speeding along at better than 100 kilometers an hour, this is not necessarily a good idea. When there are other trains heading toward you on the adjacent track at 100 kilometers an hour, this becomes even less of a wise idea. I was going to say something, but then realized that none of these people ever used their heads anyway so they probably wouldn't miss them.

The next day, I got up early with the intention of taking my guitar to the beach. I promised my wife, that I would try and get her some sand from every port we visited. It's not my fault that the beaches are topless. I also have to make sure I get just the right kind of sand. That usually takes a lot of searching to find just the perfect sand to send home to her. I can't just send her any old ordinary plain sand, it has to be special. That alone can take most of the day. It's this kind of dedication, concern and attention to detail that makes marriages last. Too bad it was raining, so instead, we headed off to explore downtown Salerno.

Have you ever visited a small Italian town on a Sunday when it's raining? The experience will make you think that they evacuated the city and someone forgot to tell you. In Italy, Sunday is a time for going to church with your family, then eating together and spending the rest of the day enjoying each other's company. I can only guess that Italian families are nothing like my family. I love them all passionately, but if I were forced to spend every Sunday with everyone in my family, I would truly have some good stuff for confession.

On Sunday in Salerno, nothing is open, and no one is out. The good part about all of this is that it allowed us to walk the streets without the fear of becoming an armadillo pizza. The architecture here is wonderful, as it is in all Italy. Everywhere you go in this country, there are Castles. Around here, the Bourbon Kings built most of them. That was before they all packed up their stills and immigrated to Kentucky. After they left, their Castles were turned into Apartment Houses, Museums, and Barns. Lots of the older buildings have been put to modern use. One of the people on my ship was commenting on how this was a Third World nation and that all of these people lived in squalor. Not true. You can't judge the insides of these buildings by what the outsides look like. Italy is a curious mix of the ancient with the modern. There are ancient Roman aqueducts running through Salerno. A house or apartment building here is likely to have been built in 0099, 1178, 1330, 1510, 1776, 1944, and 1996. Title searches must take decades. While exploring the streets, I happened to be able to see inside a few of the open windows well below street level. Every room I saw was furnished with modern appointments and was just as nice as a similar residence would be back in the States. Why is it that if a culture is somehow different than your own, then it must suck? What a moronic point of view (except when applied to Yankees).

Words of advice, when walking around Italy wear good stout shoes. More than half the roads are still cobblestone and are hell on your ankles. It's easy to imagine that the roads have been here since Caesar. There is not a lot of concrete. What concrete there is, is used more for plaster on the sides of buildings than as the main structure or foundation. The majority of buildings, at least the older ones, seem to be made with stone or marble.

It rained off and on throughout the day. At one time I found myself standing in an ancient partially covered alleyway/staircase picking my guitar waiting for the rain to stop. The acoustics in ancient partially covered alleyway/staircases during a rainstorm in Italy are phenomenal by the way. After the rain let up, we went and found the local McDonalds and had us a McRoyal. The McDonalds here is housed inside of what used to be an old Monastery. It's the oldest McDonald's building in the world. The food still sucks but the shakes weren't bad. The Italians now build their Monasteries on the sides of rugged mountains. Once you decide to check in, you can never leave, unless you sprout wings or something. I love Jesus just as much as anybody else does, but having to go without cable or internet access is just a little to much to ask in order to prove my faith. Can't I try that walking on fire stuff instead?

Afterward we choked down a McCrapwich, while my partners were on the telephone lying to their wives about how good they're being. As they were telling their wives that the only thing they have had to drink the entire trip is communion wine blessed by the Pope himself, and so forth, I sat down on the sidewalk and began to play my guitar. An Italian gentleman walked up to me and started a conversation. He had a Robert Johnson book in his hand and asked me if I was familiar with him. Sure I was, The writer of Crossroads, Traveling Riverside Blues, Love in Vain, etc. Originally from Mississippi, he supposedly sold his soul to the devil, recorded a handful of tunes that are now rock classics, then a woman poisoned him to death. We talked about Johnson and his songs for a bit. I found out that this guy was very much into Country Blues. We talked about an Italian flat-picker named Beppe Gambeto, as well as Ry Cooder, James Burton, and other great pickers. Turned out that he was a local Blues picker. He complimented me on my picking and then had to run off to meet the train.

The fourth day we were in port, I wanted to go to Pompeii. I had arranged with some people to go back to Napoli to the Navy Base so that they could buy socks and underwear and we would then take the train from there to Pompeii and see where Mt Vesuvius made popcorn of the ancient Romans. A problem arose when it was discovered that six packs of Icehouse beer in longneck bottles sold for $3 at the base Mini-Mart. I suddenly couldn't find anyone that was interested in seeing a bunch of crispy crittered Romans. So while everyone else was sucking down longnecks, I was started listening to some Hank Sr. and started working on this travelogue.

There you have it. That's my visit to Salerno. I would have liked to have been able to get inside of some of the castles, but it was a relaxing visit none the less. Right now, we are at sea again. We don't know where we're going, but we're not lost. Our Captain wants to continue our wine and cheese tour of Europe, especially the places with topless beaches and cheap beer. The Grand Poobah in charge of our flotilla of debauchery isn't sure yet if we are going to pull in somewhere I can't name tomorrow morning, or if we are just going to head back to where we were sailing around in circles for thirty-eight straight days off the coast of the country we can't mention.

NAVY #13 June 8-16, 1999 BARCELONA, SPAIN

This blog entry was originally an email sent out to a few friends at the conclusion of a port visit made to Barcelona back when I was in the Navy. In celebration of my being retired from the Navy for almost 10 years without shooting myself or anyone else, I have decided to archive it here.


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June 8-16, 1999 BARCELONA, SPAIN


Barcelona, Spain is an ancient city in Spain, which was once surrounded by a big wall to keep all the riff-raff out. This was before it was discovered that the riff-raff had a lot of disposable income and were interested in their statues of famous dead folks, castles, and artists who took way too many cheap drugs. Once it was discovered that this riff-raff, now more commonly known as tourists, were willing to depart with their Dollars, Pounds, Lira, DeutchMarks, and various other bits of coinage, the city expanded out past the original walls.
Back a long time ago, the Spaniards had themselves a little religious celebration that they called the Inquisition but this was discovered to be bad for the tourism industry so they canceled it. (The Inquisition is still happening today, but now it is performed at Bingo Halls and Country Clubs instead.) They also had a Civil War or two but that was killing off all the young people needed for the service industry so they stopped that stuff as well.

In 1492, this drunken sailor named Christopher Columbus showed up in town. He was trying to convince some of the rich folks that the world was really round and that he knew a shortcut to India where they had a lot of the really good drugs. For proof he showed them statues of people with elephant heads and fourteen arms, it takes good drugs to think of cool stuff like that.

Now anyone who has ever walked a mile or two or sailed upon a ship, already knew that the world was round. That left out all the rich folks. These rich folks were long on cash but short on smarts. Remember that Royalty in this era had been inbreeding so long that they made Jesse Helms look somewhat normal. Queen Isabella thought Columbus was kind of cute so she gave him a bunch of money and told him to pick her up a couple of kilos of the good stuff and a copy of the Kama Sutra.

Columbus is credited with the start of several of new occupations and traditions in Barcelona, as well as the rest of Spain. One is that of begging. They have invented more ways to part the riff-raff, I mean tourists, from their money than Reverend Ernest Angley has. The biggest beggars you will find are those who claim to practice the profession of artist.

There is an extensive art scene in Barcelona. That's because this was the home of Pablo Picasso and Gaudi. As a result there are a lot of people here who are extremely talented. There are also a lot of people here who aren't, but think that they are. I know I shouldn't judge another man's art. As a picker, I know that in comparison to most of my picking buddies, I suck. But I have to call things the way I see them. Anyway, art is in the eye of the beholder. Let me tell you about the art I saw.

They have these guys called Living Statues. What they do is spray paint themselves all over and stand really still on a box for a long time without moving so that you will give them money. Some were kind of cool, but most were pretty lame. If you happen to get short of cash while in Barcelona, all you need is a coffee can and your Count Chocula Halloween Costume and damn if you aren't suddenly a starving artist instead of just some ordinary winehead bumming quarters. 

There are a lot of street performers here too, everything from the very talented, to those people who truly suck. I saw Spanish Guitarists whose fingers sparkled with fire, piano players pushing their piano from cafe to cafT, magicians, flamenco dancers, and people who juggled fire. Then I saw an extremely obese, elderly, drunken belly dancer, a kazoo player, people playing out of tune guitars, a washboard player and everything in between. Some you tip because they are talented, some you tip just so they will go the hell away. Especially elderly, obese, drunken, half-naked belly dancers. There are also the people here who just plain beg. These beggars, in the tradition of Christopher Columbus, don't just sit passively by and wait for the generous to contribute. Instead they get up in people's faces, make eye contact and refuse to leave until they get paid, a lot like Television Evangelists.

Christopher Columbus also did a lot more than make begging an Olympic Sport. Besides discovering the New World and killing off most of the native people for Jesus, he also brought public displays of sexuality back with him. All those half-naked little Indian girls running up and down the beach dodging bullets and drunken Spanish sailors were a definite hit. So Columbus brought topless beaches back to Spain. That's a good thing, A really good thing. He should get more credit for that than getting lost and finding Santa Domingo.

Europeans are much more sexually open-minded than the prudish Americans are. Europeans also don't eat as much of a fat and protein enriched diet, nor do they continuously sit upon their fat lard asses watching cable television. Instead Europeans are actually forced to get out of their houses daily and interact in their communities. No wonder they are such losers. But they look damn good on the beach. All the women were firm and perky and all the men were well hung. Not that I was paying particularly close attention or anything, but what clothing was worn on the beaches here wouldn't even make a good Band-Aid.

Being a history buff and wanting to experience as much Spanish culture as I possibly could during my visit here, I, of course, was forced to visit the beach during my stay. As I was walking down the boardwalk, praising God and Mr. Jesus for their good work, (Jesus, would you look at her? Good job God!) I watched what, at the time, I thought was a unique beach game that I had never seen anywhere else before.
I watched two kids playing sand tennis. Each had a wooden paddle and they were hitting a rubber ball back and forth. When one of the kids missed the ball, and it went over his head, they instead started hitting a rubber stick looking object back and forth in its place. The shape of this thing made for some pretty unpredictable bounces and therefore took a little more skill to keep in the air that the plain rubber ball did. They kept this up for a few minutes before it too was hit over one of the kid's head, where it just so happened to land at my feet. They immediately went back to the rubber ball and I reached down to throw the stick thing back. As I bent over to pick it up, I noticed that it was really a large rubber dildo they had been hitting back and forth. I decided to just let it lie there.

Since all of the beaches are topless and a lot of the women wear thong bikinis, there are no strip clubs in Barcelona. With that type of competition, why bother? Instead of strip clubs, there are live sex shows that feature audience participation. I didn't attend any of these, I swear. I heard enough about it from a shipmate to ensure that I didn't want to. My shipmate had been out drinking with a bunch of Spanish and Turkish sailors and walked into a club that advertised itself as a disco. It turned out that this disco was actually a live sex show. There were about a half of a dozen tired looking women up on stage in various stages of undress. I was told that when the show started, they asked for a volunteer from the audience to come up on stage with them. They selected a young Turkish sailor from the audience, and drug him up on stage. Once they got him up on the stage, they quickly undressed him, and sat him down in a chair. Then one of the women spent about 30-45 seconds in foreplay before wrapping him in a condom, then jumping on him and riding him like a mechanical pony out in front of Walmart. After being on stage for less than a minute, he's done his job for God and Country, and is ready for his post-coital cigarette. His Objet d'amour jumps up, yanks off the condom, quickly ties a knot in the end, and starts swinging it around her head like a lariat and wahooing like she's watching Jeff Gordon wiping out in the third turn at Taladega.

First and foremost, I'm not really sure I would trust her knot-tying ability, much less her grip on that young sailor's lust filled balloon. I would surely hate for her to lose her grip and have that thing come flying across the stage to nail me right in the forehead. I want nothing to do with whatever is inside that zeppelin of love, much less whatever is coating the outside of the thing.

Another thing I would have a problem with would be performance anxiety. How does a man do something like this? It's bad enough at home trying to hold off so the wife can at least pretend to enjoy it too. But how does one do this in front of an audience of drunken tourists and rowdy sailors who are screaming out suggestions, critiquing performance, and making disparaging remarks about your endowment? If by some miracle I could have gotten it up, It wouldn't have stayed that way for long. Not that I would have had the opportunity anyway, My wife made me leave my pecker at home before I started this trip.

Barcelona is not really the best place to go if you want to experience Spanish Culture. I don't think I actually met anyone who was originally from Spain. Barcelona seems to be more akin to New York City than anything else. Every language but English is spoken here. I was unable to find a single Spanish restaurant, however I did find a lot of McDonalds, Burger Kings, Pizza Huts, KFCs, and Chi-Chi's restaurants. The city also had its share of hookers, indifferent cops, and tattoo parlors. Like everywhere else in Europe, you take your life in your hands trying to cross the street. Since Barcelona is a major tourist city, there are lot's of pickpockets here too. Seven people from my ship were either mugged or had their pocket picked. One of our guys was trying to get himself a piece of ass and instead got his throat cut. It wasn't serious, he only required four or five stitches, but they took all of his money and he ended up restricted to the ship because he had gotten separated from his liberty buddy. Even though he didn't get that piece of ass, he still got screwed.

The United States Navy has in place a program where in order to leave the ship in a foreign port, you have to have a liberty buddy. Yes, I said liberty buddy. You have to sign out with this individual and sign back in with them. Never mind that I am 38 years old and I have been in the Navy almost 20 years with twelve of that being at sea. I also have absolutely no desire to mess around on the wife (I talk in my sleep and she's a redhead, a very dangerous combination), and I don't drink. Instead I would rather get off the beaten track, meet some of the locals, and check out all the museums and monuments to famous dead folks. Then at night I would like to sit at a sidewalk cafe and play music until the sun comes up. None of this sounds very interesting to any of my 20 something year old shipmates who are instead more interested in seeing how many tattoo's they can get, how many times they can get laid, and how much alcohol they can get down before passing out. If that was all I had wanted to do, I could have just stayed home and gone to see Willie Nelson.

Don't think for a minute that I didn't get out there and play some music. I grabbed Rick, the Chief Petty Officer that I work for, and took his John Cougar Mellonhead loving ass out to play some music. The first night we went out together, Chief Rob, and Chief John also accompanied us. (I'm not using last names here. Hopefully that will keep the death squads at bay) The nice thing about this is that for once, I wasn't the oldest person of the group.

Rob is originally from Monahans, Texas and lived in Austin during the late 60s and early 70s. The cool thing is that we are both big fans of era Austin music. We sat down at a sidewalk cafT and Rick and I started picking. I immediately started preaching to the infidels from the gospels of both St. Buck and St. Hag. I think I might have lead a few toward the righteous path. At least I saw a few muttering Jesus' name as they walked away.
Europeans are big fans of Country Music. But they only know the really good country stars like Kenny Rogers and John Denver. Being ignorant, I didn't know any of these songs so instead, I ended up playing lots of Buck Owens, Merle Haggard, and Johnny Cash tunes. The fellows I was with invented a new game called
'Lets Stump Wall" by seeing how many Johnny Cash tunes they could name, and see whether or not I knew the tunes. I wish we had been playing for money. They picked the wrong game and the wrong artist. I might not of been able to play the entire song, but I could at least get through the chorus of every Johnny Cash tune they could name.

Rob and I started talking about the Austin music scene. As we sat there talking about Rusty Weir, Willis Alan Ramsey, Jerry Jeff Walker, Guy Clark, and Ray Wylie Hubbard, everyone else looked at us like we were speaking a foreign language. At the mention of the Great Cowboy Twinkie himself, Rob asked me if I could play "Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother". I'm glad neither Jerry Jeff nor Ray Wylie were there to hear it, but I must say I did it right. With each spelling out of M-O-T-H-E-R, I changed what each letter stood for. The fun part was making up new bumper stickers each time. If you're not sure of what I'm talking about, go listen to Jerry Jeff Walker's great album "A Man Must Carry On"

Most of the people we met were British, Dutch, Swiss, Peruvian, and from every place in the world other than Spain. We ran across a bunch of Scots wearing their Kilts. Following the example of young French women, Scots don't wear anything underneath their Kilts, or so the rumor goes. I really have no desire to verify it, at least not the Scots part. The French part on the other hand...

The Scots were a rowdy bunch. When you realize that beer in Barcelona is served in one liter mugs you can imagine how bad things got. When the Scots saw that we were picking guitars, they came up and sat around to sing with us. Right in the middle of a song, one of the Scots fell out of his chair and did a nose- dive for the pavement. He thumped on the ground pretty good but managed to never spill his beer. I was impressed. I always admire a professional. As he was lying there stunned, one of his mates took his beer and poured it over his head. He didn't appreciate this at all. Things started to get really ugly then. Where I was sitting, I was trapped between a wall of drunken Scots and a large concrete column. I handed my guitar back to one of the Chief's I was with and told him if a fight broke out, to please save the guitar. Broken bones heal, broken guitars do not.

Luckily the Scots kissed and made up, but then they started pouring beer over top of each other. One of the Scots came up and grabbed one of the beers from our table and threw it on one of his mates. This was not an idea that was well received by the beer owner. Rob exploded. Rob is a pretty big old boy, and being from Monahans, Texas, he is very experienced in the art of taking an asswhipping. This overly large Scot came up and emptied his beer in Rob's mug by way of apology. Rob just looked him in the eye and called him a "Fat Freaky Fuck". I thought I had left all this excitement behind when I quit drinking.

After the Scots bought a couple of rounds for everybody (including two Cokes for me) everyone was lovey-dovey again. Thank you Mr. Jesus. By the way, It's true that Scots wear nothing under their kilts, but a fat, drunken, hairy, Scots' ass is not the thing you really want to see at three am.

The ship had set up a few tours for the crew of things that they thought we might find interesting. The wine tasting tour didn't look very appealing to me, as I had no desire to get arrested or fall off a mountain. Again. I mean, once is enough for either of those events. There was a bullfight tour but I had no desire to watch a bunch of folks kill a bull to prove their machismo. If they really want to make it interesting put the bullfighter out there with a Buck knife and let him and the bull go at it. No helpers on horseback jabbing the bull in the ass with spears unless they also jab a few into the bullfighter. We have Bullfights in the States too. We take a leather strap, wrap it around the bull's balls, and then some dumbass crawls on top of the bull and tries to stay on for 8 seconds without getting his head stomped into pudding. Some people, including me, would say that the inside of a bullrider's head was already filled with pudding. Bulls don't die from American bullfighting although sometimes the riders do. After the fight, the bulls get fed and then are let out in the pasture with a couple of really cute Holsteins. If the cowboy is lucky and didn't land too hard on his balls, he might find him a cute heifer too. In the end, everyone is happy. In Spain they just keep sticking the poor critter until he's dead. And since no one in this country has a damn clue how to properly cook a steak, it just seems like a waste of cow to me.

There was a historical tour that I was planning to take but was unable to. Here's why. Back in March, I extended my enlistment by another year. Insanity runs in my family. I left with this ship for a six-month deployment in April and in May I was discharged from the Navy, but they forgot to tell me. I found out when I didn't get paid on June 1st. Since I didn't get paid, my wife didn't get paid either. This is not the way to keep Mama happy. By the time I got it all straightened out, I was due a couple of hundred bucks in back pay. My wife was due a bunch more than that but she doesn't allow me to have money because I always spend it on foolish things like food and rent. I had two hundred dollars that my Mother had sent me to pick her up some stuff in Italy, and I had a little bit saved that the wife didn't know about as well. The day before we pulled into Barcelona, I had a total of $610. I was planning on using this money to buy my fifteen year old son a really cool birthday present, maybe a sword, a bottle of Sangria, and a couple of cute Spanish chicks. That's what I wanted when I was fifteen. My wife and Mama have the same birthday as each other. Recently they both turned 28. I was planning on picking them up a little something as well, maybe a couple of swords, some Sangria, and a couple of cute bullfighters. Anyway, I had all of this money and I put it into my wallet, buried it under a bunch of stuff in my locker and locked it all up.

The next morning, we pulled into Barcelona. As soon as the Sea and Anchor detail was over, I ran to my locker to get my money. It was gone. At no time do I remember ever leaving my locker unlocked, but I must of turned my back long enough for one of my shipmates to rob me. Either that or Houdini has returned from the dead.

I share a berthing compartment with 85 people. The racks are stacked three high. There is three feet of aisle space between me, and the guy next to me. Such close living quarters allows you to get to know each other, often much better than you would like. How come I never get to sleep across from the really hot looking guys? When I first came into the Navy, Shipmate was a special term. Ity meant that although I might not like you personally, I felt a level of responsibility for you. We watched each others back, we helped each other move, we drank with each other, we cried on each others shoulders, we stole each others girlfriends, and took each other home to meet the parents. Being a shipmate is at times as close a bond as marriage is, or being in a band together. One thing you would never, never do to a shipmate is steal from them. Sure, you might steal a screwdriver, a television, food or anything else purchased by the Navy from one workcenter or ship, for your workcenter or ship, but you never took personal belongings and you never ever took anything for personal gain. One of the guys had a carton of cigarettes stolen. Another guy had a package that his wife had sent him sitting out on his rack. Someone went through it, took out all of his cigarettes except one pack, and all of the phone cards his wife had sent.

There is a special level of Hell reserved for shipmates who steal from shipmates. And the person who took my kids birthday money is destined to end up there. I hate a thief worse than anything on earth. What's done is done and I can't change it now, but remember buddy, what goes around comes around, and if I catch you, you better be able to tread water for a long time and it might be difficult with a couple of broken arms.
Since I had no cash, I was unable to take any of the organized tours. But I wasn't broke. I had snuck out of the house with my ATM card and I found out that it worked in the ATM's over here. I called the wife and begged her to let me take out a little bit of money. It took some hard negotiating on my part, but she finally relented, but I have to provide itemized receipts for every nickel spent. Since I couldn't take of the real tours that the ship offered, I just decided to make up my own tour.

One of the most impressive things about Europe is the architecture of the churches. Those Catholics sure knew how to build a mighty impressive church. I don't know where they found the time between all of the Crusades, Inquisitions, and all the exploring that they were busing doing. A Catholic church is a mighty impressive place, but you haven't seen anything until you see these really old European Cathedrals. These places are so huge, I don't know how they are able to conduct Sunday Services. If you were to accidentally drop a snake, you wouldn't have time to find him before next week's services. Buying replacement snakes could get awfully expensive, but I guess the Pope can afford it.

One of the most famous of the Spanish architects is a man named Gaudi. No, really, that's his name. Look it up. Gaudi did not subscribe to the less-is-more theory of design. Gaudi was gaudy. In fact I wouldn't be surprised to find out that gaudy was named after Gaudi. One of the most impressive of Gaudi's works is The Holy Family, a cathedral here in Barcelona. The place is huge. There is not a square inch that is not carved in some way. Every instant of Jesus' life is depicted in bias relief. It's like a New Testament for the illiterate. It's very impressive even though it is pretty tacky in that West Virginia road/folk art kind of way.

As I mentioned before, Pablo Ruiz Picasso is from around here.. Born here in 1881 and dead in 1973. Pablo is probably most well known for painting pictures of people with all the eyes and appendages on the same side of their head so that everyone looks a bit like a flounder. There is a Picasso museum here and I had to go, being the artsy, fartsy, sensitive 90's kind of guy that I am. It was some kind of impressive, let me tell you.
The museum is in what I suppose used to be Pablo's house or estate. You go walking up a bunch of narrow alleys praying that you don't get mugged and suddenly there it is. Admission is 700 posadas, we call them potatoes, It works out to about $5 US. Selling fucked up looking art must be pretty profitable because the Picasso museum is huge. Too bad it was all in Spanish so I had no idea what the plaques said, but I'm pretty smart for a hillbilly kid though and I think I figured it out. I'll explain it to you.

When you pay your admission, you walk up a flight of stairs to the beginning of the tour. After you enter in the building through the foyer, there is a large photo of Pablo along with a plaque that tells what a great artist he was and how he got laid a lot because of it. Next you walk into a room that is just full of little scraps of artwork. Pablo doodled on anything he found laying around. There are even a couple of his schoolbooks on display with a lot of doodling in the margins. I call this room the Refrigerator Room. These were all done when Pablo was a young child. All these small works are the perfect size to hang on your refrigerator at home. Even though Picasso was just a little shit in short pants, he was quite the talented little shit. This early refrigerator period is quite impressive. I don't know anything about art but I know it when I like something.

Picasso's early work demonstrates that the man was nothing less than a genius when it came to art. His use of lines, and shadow, is amazing. Some of his work is so detailed that you had to look closely to make sure that it wasn't a photograph. During this period, my favorite, he used pen and ink, pencil, charcoal, and oil. He didn't quite have the grasp of colors down yet, but he was still shitting yellow so I guess he deserves a break.

In another room, you can see wear Mom and Dad bought him a paint-by- numbers kit and Pablo took to oil like an armadillo takes to Buicks. There is the most amazing oil portrait that he did when he was only 15 years old. In the next room you can see that he had been studying those blind ass French Impressionists like Monet and some of the others who didn't have a Lenscrafters anywhere near. Inside there is a portrait of what I assume to be his Mama and Daddy, with his Mama on her deathbed. Up close, it looks like one of those impressionist paintings, but when you back away about 15-20 feet, all the colors blend to produce the most amazing definition and shading. Pablo was still only 15.

Like starving artists everywhere, Pablo picked up work where he could. He illustrated some menus for a local restaurant, copied a few famous works of art to sell on the street and did some portraits. Because I couldn't understand Spanish worth a damn, I have not a clue as to what the old boy was doing up until about 1957. That's when he got famous.

The longhairs in California are credited with inventing LSD or Acid. I think Picasso might have beaten them to the punch. He was the first practitioner of Modern Art. That is art that doesn't make any damn sense. About 1957, Pablo got into a Cubist phase. That is everything he painted was in cube shape. Cube heads, cube arms, cube houses, cube eyeballs, etc. Then later on, during a fishing trip he saw his first flounder. This flounder was grossly mutated as a result of some illegal French nuclear testing. The fact that the fish had both eyes on the same side of his head intrigued him and he wondered what people would look like if he painted them that way. He found out that they looked pretty damn stupid, but along about this time the Hippie counterculture scene was just starting to bloom in Europe. Picasso found that these doped up longhairs actually preferred paintings of women with their nose stuck behind their ear and an eye upon their forehead, so he started doing a lot more of them. As a result, Pablo got laid a lot and made a filthy amount of money.

While getting laid a lot and making a filthy amount of money is cool for awhile, Picasso was in his 70's by this time. Getting laid is a lot of work when you're seventy. Besides, Viagra hadn't been invented yet. Pablo decided he had gotten laid enough and had enough money so that around 1971 he put the oils away and started doing pen and ink work again. This is my second favorite period of Picassos work. I call it the Dirty Old Man phase.

By this time, Pablo is 90 years old. He's still a stud, but more so in mind than in body. His pen and ink drawings seem to reflect this. All are portraits of people. All have women included. Their eyes and noses and other body parts are back where they are supposed to be. There is a simplicity, yet also a complexity about these drawings that is intriguing. Another thing that draws the viewer in is the fact that every single drawing, the woman is showing off her vagina. Not a demure showing, we're talking legs spread, Hustler centerfold, things only your OB/GYN should ever see, showing off of the nether regions. I guess if you can't do it, you can still think about it and draw it.

Picasso died in 1973 and then decided to give up art for a while. He was a man that was constantly reinventing himself and his work and he didn't have to do something stupid like cut off his damned ear to prove it.

The main drag in Barcelona, or at least the main tourista drag is called The Ramblas. Ramblas is a Spanish word that means "walk your ass off". It's a long street where the center walkway is bordered on each side by one way streets. Just about anything you are interested in can be accessed from the Ramblas. This is the area where the street performers hang out, as well as the hookers, restaurants, live sex shows, souvenir shops, millions of people, and stores of every description.

Cigarettes here are about $3 a pack. Wine and beer are cheap, cheaper than soda in fact. Cuban Cigars run anywhere from $1-$5 a piece. Fidel still makes some good cigars. Too bad my wife won't let me smoke them at home. She says they smell like burning goat turds. There are open-air flower merchants, open-air pet stores selling fish, birds, and lizards. A wonderful open-air vegetable, fish, and meat market. More than enough shoe stores to keep all the women folk happy for a long, long time. This is the area that contains all of the American Fast Food restaurants, as well as the Hard Rock Cafe, and there are lots of open-air cafe's. These are a wonderful place to sit and watch people as well as meet new folks. One of the things I am sad to report is that the only impression most people have of America is from what they see on Television. The Jerry Springer Show is shown everywhere in Europe. I can't count the number of times that show was mentioned to me. "America? Ahà. Jerry Springer!! Is all of America like Jerry Springer?" "No, just Kentucky." It's kind of sad that the image we project to foreign shores is of Monica Lewinsky, Jerry Springer, and Ronald McDonald.
I enjoy watching people. All people, not just the women. Okay, mostly the women, but what can I say? For those of you who are interested, here's the Jeff Wall fashion report from Spain.

• - Red Hair is in. The brighter and more shocking red the better.
• - Platform shoes are in, the taller the better.

These are two trends I can live without. Retro is not always a good thing. I lived through the era of Bellbottoms, platform shoes, and polyester Leisure suits. My mama has the pictures to prove it. They're locked in a safety deposit box so she can show them to my kids later. Mama's get mean as they get older.

• Hiphuggers are also back in. Skintight hiphuggers. YES!! Lets hear it for Retro!
• Underwear is out as are bra's. If you absolutely must wear underwear, it is the thong type. I'm not making this up, come over here and see for yourself! 75 year old grandmas wearing hiphuggers and thongs. It can be downright scary.

For those of you who have too short of an attention span to have read this whole thing, here comes the summary.

Spain is pretty. Don't bring cash, use American Express instead. A Pitbull won't hurt any either. Go on a diet and hit the gym before venturing out to the beaches (unless you are just a natural born stud like I am). Be careful of the nightclubs you go into as you might be asked to participate in the festivities. If you do, tie your own knots. The place is expensive but the art and architecture are worth it as are the beaches. Sign up for the tours, and try to show the world that not all Americans have appeared on the Jerry Springer show. Hostels are abundant and much cheaper than hotel rooms. Bring plenty of Guitar strings and picks as I have not found a decent music store in all of Europe.

And finally,

Large breasted European women dig Hillbilly singers and Buck Owens songs really get them hot.

Americana Music Association wrapup

Americana Music Festival/Conference
Nashville, Tenn.
September 16-19, 2009

NOTICE: CLICK ON PICTURES TO SEE THEM FULL SIZE

The Americana Music Association held their 10th annual Conference/Music Festival a couple of weeks ago. It has taken me this long to be able to catch up on my sleep and recover enough to be able to write about it. Face it, I'm getting old. So far, I have been fortunate enough to have been able to attend each and every one of these AMA things and they just keep getting better. I have watched the AMA grow and change and evolve. Some of those changes I haven't cared for, some I have. Americana now has a Grammy category. Americana just had it's charts published in Billboard. I have people pushing their records describing their music to me as Americana, and these are people who know nothing about the AMA. The Association has busted it's ass in the last 10 years to expand the footprint of Americana and to make it a more widely recognized format and I have to say they have succeeded.

I also have to say that if the only thing the AMA did was to put on this conference/music festival every year, I would call the organization a success.

I decided to make it a long week.

TUESDAY

I showed up to Nashville on Monday evening and made a record on Tuesday with my old friend and guitar hero Donnie Winters. I wrote about that on a previous blog. Afterwards, Tuesday Night, I met a friend who flew in from San Francisco and we drove out to Norm's River Road House (Last beer before Cumberland Heights -trust me, I know this to be a fact) to see a songwriter thing with Jon Byrd, Nancy Apple, the Sways (Adam Landry and Carey Kotsionis) and Pete Molinari . I was very impressed with everyone. I had known Nancy and Jon for a number of years, but had never seen either of them perform live. Jon's Byrd's Auto Parts album ended up on my Top Ten Last year.

I had never had a chance to hear Nancy sing live. She's known as the Queen of Memphis as she has ties and connections to just about everyone who makes music in that town, regardless of the type of music. Everyone loves Nancy and Nancy loves everyone. I naturally expected Nancy and Jon to be great because I had heard their recorded stuff before.

 The surprises of the evening were The Sways and Pete Molinari. I had previously met Adam of the Sways when he was touring with Allison Moorer as her stunt guitar player, so I knew he was a picker, but I had no idea that he could sing or write. His work with Carey Kotsionis was very nice. Pete had a wonderful singing voice that was nothing like his speaking voice. I'm really interested in hearing more from these two acts


WEDNESDAY

Wednesday, I went to the Convention Center to help stuff some Goodie Bags with swag. While there I met several old friends and made some new friends as well. That's one of teh things I like most about this conference, the unique opportunity to meet like minded people.

Wednesday night saw me at The Cannery/Mercy Lounge. I caught the Band of Heathens from Austin who just totally blew me away. Three lead singers, three lead guitar players. Reminiscent of a more country rock Little Feat in vibe. I was completely awestruck, Afterwards I was told by one of their fans that they were having kind of an off night. If this is an off night, what does an On Night sound like?

There was a "Secret Special Guest" that was going to be playing at the Mercy Lounge that evening. Those of us who were considered "Member's of the Press" (for some reason, that included me) were informed before hand that the "Secret Special Guest" was going to be John Fogerty and that we weren't supposed to tell anyone. The funny thing is half of America already knew about it. They did everything but put billboards up alongside the highway to advertise his show. While it may be considered blasphemy by many, if not most, I was never a huge CCR fan. If Fogerty was playing 20 miles away I don't know if I would make the effort to go see him. Sure he is super talented, sure CCR made a lot of good records, it's just that the stuff never really moved me at all.

The stage at the Mercy is not a huge one by any means. When Fogerty and crew set up it looked like their goal was to try and outnumber the audience. He had James Penndecker, Buddy Miller, Billy Burnette and about half of the rest of the AFM Musicians Union Local on stage with him. At one time I counted five guitar players (not counting Pedal Steel)  Why on earth would anybody ever need five guitar players? Especially when you are a damned good guitar player yourself?  Regardless, he put on a good show featuring cuts from his new Blue Ridge Rangers Ride Again record as well as various selections from the CCR songbook.

I watched the first hour and then had to leave so I went outside and lit a cigar. It sounded good out there. I have no idea why they insisted on Stadium level sound for a club. It was so goddamned loud that it hurt. It also went on way too long. He was only supposed to play for 45-50 minutes. Fogerty played a solid two hours. There were other acts on the bill that gave up their time slot so that he could play. If I had been in one of those bands, I'm afraid I might have walked on stage after about an hour and a half and told him to get the fuck off, that he had gone over and he was cutting into my time now. If I am going to drive halfway across the country to play a short set for a bunch of music industry weasels for no money, I don't give a damn if the Rolling Stones are playing, I want my 45 minutes when I'm supposed to have my 45 minutes. You're rich. Go rent the local Sports arena if you want to play all fucking night long.

To be fair to Fogerty it was a pretty damned fine and rocking set though.

I then went downstairs to catch part of the Reckless Kelly set. I knew what to expect here. Good songs, Good performance. They didn't disappoint at all. The rest of the evening is kind of a blur. I can't remember who I saw. I think I spent the majority of my time visiting and networking. I ran into friends like Peter Cooper, Judy Hubbard, Kay Clary, Steve Fishell, Holly Lowman and a bunch of others. I even saw Henry Paul show up at the Cannery (and I got my picture took with him too)

Now Henry ain't the ugliest man alive, but he is in the running for the Top Ten. You may remember him from the band Blackhawk. I'm old. I remember him from the band The Outlaws as well as The Henry Paul Band with Billy Crain. Being the nice guy that I am, I reminded him about that piece of crap disco sounding record that he once recorded (and I own) and watched him hang his head in shame. Still, he was a nice guy, or at least he treated me nice that evening and not just because I was a foot taller and outweighed him by over a 100lbs either.

Later that evening/early morning I picked up three super hot Asian strippers who told me that when they weren't stripping, they were Baptist Missionaries and were only stripping in order to help pay their way through Seminary and because Strip Joints were a perfect place to witness to the fallen. I told them that I understood, because I only went to Strip Joints so that I would know who to pray for. You would be surprised at the number of the Truly Righteous that you can find in a strip joint. We all ended up going back to my hotel room (because the Gideons had left us a Bible) where they did things to me in the name of the Lord that I would be ashamed to tell my preacher of, yet I might be willing to sell you a copy of the DVD we made if the money was right.

Don't I wish

Actually, I had a sackful of Krystals, then went to bed and missed my dog Bob who usually snuggles up with me at night. What kind of an old boring bastard have I become when I prefer snuggling up with my dog over three hot Asian chicks (who I didn't even meet)?

THURSDAY

I had volunteered to help the AMA's official publicist, Jayne Rogovin, out by doing whatever it was I could do. This could be anything from delivering an awards show ticket for someone to helping her to hide the body of somebody who had really pissed her off.  Fortunately, she doesn't get pissed off very easily. I called to check in with her and she had an errand that she needed me to do for her. I performed my assigned task in a diligent manner and then headed over to Jacks's on Lower Broad for some Brisket.

Now I live in the BBQ capital of the known free world, North Carolina, and had once almost gotten into a physical altercation with Billy Joe Shaver arguing about BBQ. I was saying that real BBQ is pork while he tells me that it is beef and if I want to continue to argue about it, we can go outside and argue like men. I decided that since Billy was getting up there in years (I didn't want my ass whipped by an old man) that I would let him think that he had won that argument. Later I had occasion to travel to Houston a few times on business and had been exposed to some Smoked Beef Brisket. That's some good stuff right there. It ain't pulled pork, but it's some good stuff. Jack's is the only place I have found between the house and Houston where a man can get some good brisket and I had a hankering for some Brisket.

I had to drop some stuff off at the Ryman Auditorium first and as I parked in the parking lot, a van with Texas tags pulls in next to me and the driver flips me off. This can only mean one of two things. We are either getting ready to fight or fuck. I saw that it was Claude Bernard of The Gourds, so fighting wasn't necessary. I have never figured out how flipping somebody the bird somehow became the ultimate expression of ManLove but it has. One of the things I love so much about the whole AMA thing is how it is still so much of a small tent type thing and  how many of the artists are so approachable. They remember their fans, they remember people who have opened for them. Lifelong friendships are made. AMA is a homecoming for so many of us, where we can all meet up and catch up on each others lives. I visited with the guys for a few minutes before they had to go inside and do their thing. I decided that I needed to continue upon my quest to get something to eat.

I was smoking a cigar while I was walking to Jacks. I remembered that I was no longer in North Carolina and that they won't let you smoke indoors anywhere in Tennessee anymore regardless of the fact that the tobacco plant is on the State Seal. Cigars are just too damned expensive to throw away without finishing them when you are unemployed. It was raining a little so there was really no where for me to stash it and then retrieve it later, so I decided to duck into the alley between the Ryman and Jacks. I knew a perfect spot to sit and relax and enjoy what was left of my smoke. The stage entrance for the Ryman is back there as is the back door for Jacks. The Ryman artists entrance is all nice and covered and out of the rain. A perfect place to smoke a cigar. Nobody was out there so I wouldn't be in anybodies way.
 
Inside the Ryman, stage plots were being finalized and rehearsals were taking place for the big Americana Awards show that were taking place that evening. It takes a lot of work, not to mention a lot of Hookers and blow, to put on that show and it's always crowded backstage while they are getting it put together. I'm sitting there, on the steps smoking my cigar when a disheveled  looking little old guy comes out and lights a cigarette. If he hadn't come out of the Ryman, it would have been easy to mistake him for one of the local bums. We start talking about inane stuff when he asks me my name, I tell him and he sticks his hand out and introduces himself.  "Hi, I'm Spooner Oldham." No shit? THE Spooner Oldham? He's a living chunk of musical history. His credits include Wilson Pickett, Aretha Franklin, Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin, Arthur Alexander, Funky Donnie Fritts, Eddie Hinton, Bobby Charles and more than I have room to name here. What's even more amazing is that he is the most humble, down to earth guy that you would ever hope to meet. We sat and smoked and talked about Fritts, Dick Cooper, he talked some about touring with Neil and the difference between van & station wagon gigs and flying gigs. He didn't act like he felt that people should recognize him. He didn't act like a star. He just acted like Spooner, the guy who would fix your flat tire down at the Shell station, like a guy you had known your entire life. I was able to keep my fanboy bullshit in check (barely).


Anytime there is something going on at the Ryman, there are people in the alley with cameras and autograph books. Sam Bush pulled in and unloaded and since I'm a big old sumbitch, I ended up helping him tote his roadcases up the stairs. Sam got nabbed by a couple of autograph seekers and photographers. Meanwhile, Spooner is just standing there smoking a cigarette, leaning up against the wall. I wanted to go grab all of the fans and tell them that even as incredibly talented as Sam Bush is, Sam has never played with Aretha. Sam's not a member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (yet).

Sitting back there smoking, not only did I get wrangled into playing roadie for Sam, but I ran into old friends Justin Townes Earle and Jason Isbell and the always lovely Traci Thomas. We caught up for a little bit, I met James Penndecker who is the Fender Rep and a damn fine guitarist, Then I got wrangled to act as security for Fogerty who was coming in for his rehearsal. I was just asked to keep the doorway clear and to help keep people back so that he could get in. No big deal. The strange thing was how nice Fogerty was. He came up to me, stuck out his hand and asked me my name. This seemed to be happening a lot as of late. I'm not anybody of any import. I've been fortunate enough to do some writing for various publications but not enough to make me a household name, even in as tiny a house as Americana. I've been fortunate enough to meet folks like Spooner and Fritts and others just because I was in the right place at the right time, and I've always tried to be of service without being a dick about it. I guess I'm just blessed. I have no other explanations.

After Fogerty went in, my cigar was done and I finally got to eat. After eating it was time to go back to the Ryman for the awards show. Out front, while waiting to go in, I was talking to Barry Mazor and his lovely wife Nina. They introduced me to Barry and Holly Tashian. Mr Tashian, Mr Mazor and I then got into a discussion about whether or not the follicly challenged are somehow more attractive to the women folk than those of us with gorgeous flowing locks. Nice folks.

Inside, I had a wonderful seat for the Awards Show, of course there isn'tt really a bad seat in the Ryman. I can't remember who won what and who performed what, but there were some special highlights; Rodney Crowell accompaned by Will Kimbrough with backup singers Allison Moorer and Patty Griffin.

 Band of Heathens played and impressed me once again. Sarah Borges and the Broken Singles were awesome. I particularly enjoyed watching Binky dance around like a loon. He is just one of the nicest guys you would ever want to meet.

John Prine and Nanci Griffith performing together, The Belleville Outfit were incredible, Justin Townes Earle came out in a red velvet suit that looked like it came from a prom circa 1979 (mine was brown).
Somewhere about this time, I needed a bathroom break. I ran into Jason Isbell and he was estatic. I asked him what was going on and he told me that he just got to meet Joe South. Are you fucking kidding me? Joe South is a hermit. He's holed up somewhere in Georgia and from what I have been able to discover, he ain't never coming out again. Jason told me, that Jeremy Tepper had just introduced him to Joe South and he was really here at the Awards show. I looked inside teh door and there is Tepper. I go up and ask him if it's possible, I would really like to meet Joe South. Tepper looks at me "So you want to meet Joe South, huh?" I told him yes, that I was a fan, and I had written a piece on South for American Songwriter, but I had never been able to speak to him and I just wished to pass along my love and respect, but I wouldn't know South if he was standing next to me. Tepper responds. "Well, he is standing next to you. Meet Joe South.

Just about everything that happened after this at the Awards show was a blur. Afterwards, I was out in the parking lot hanging with Kev "Shinyribs" Russell and smoking cigars. I also got to meet Ramsay Midwood who just came in to support the Gourds as well as Patrick Sweany who was playing that evening. I hung around and talked to old friends before I had to run off to catch some music at the Basement

Now, the act I had most wanted to catch was Otis Gibbs.  I had been introduced to Otis by a couple of different record label weasels and they all had nothing but glowing thing sto say about him. "Otis is Incredible!" "Otis is the most awesome guy ever." When I finally got to meet him, I got to tell you that the guy just exudes confidence, sincereity, and humilty. He has an incredible charisma. Unfortunately, I missed his set. I did happen to catch Grayson Capps. I've never figured out why Grayson isn't huge. His's records are all incredible, He's good looking as hell. He puts on an excellent show that always gets the crowd involved. This short showcase set was no exception.

The Deadstring Brothers closed out the night. They sounded like an Exile on Main Street era Rolling Stones, which to my ears was a good thing. The remainder of the evening was spent watching Joe Swank try to get laid. He was unsuccessful. Swank is so ugly, he has to sneak up on his dick just to be able to jack off. I've known Swank for quite a while and we have threatened to share a stage together at some time, but thusfar it has never happened. He is a great hang though and everybody loves him. It's just that nobody wants to sleep with him. His own penis doesn't even like being alone with him.

FRIDAY

I ain't used to staying up all night and sleeping all day. I could get used to it though. I don't remember what all I did on Friday. I went and saw a friend from High School for a few minutes (I was raised in Nashville) I found a ridiculously overpriced cigar shop. Nice store, nice selection, but damn they were expensive, especially compared to NC prices. I went back to the Convention Center to catch a panel on the Future of Music Journalism. There I ran into teh incredibly talented Greg Trooper who remembered me opening for him several years ago and gave me a copy of his new disc. Just in case you missed the panel what we figured out about the future of music journalism it it sucks. It totally sucks. If you have the desire to be a music writer, run, don't walk to a mental hospital. There may be hope for you. Some of us are already certifiably insane. We write for the same reason we play music. We have no choice. We have to.

Peter Cooper is the only music writer in America left with a decent gig. He complimented me on my writing which tells me that in addition to being a great writer, Cooper has the ability to lie convincingly. I told him how much I love him and that if I ever decide to turn gay, he's on my short list along with Sam Elliot.

Let me just tell you right now why it is that I love/hate Peter Cooper.

1. He's good looking as hell
2. He's one of the nicest guys you will ever meet.
3. He's a great writer. Not only is he a great writer, I often see him at shows and he will tell me that he has to run bucause he has 30-45 minutes to get his story filled, so not only is he a great writer, he writes fast. I couldn't write that shit in 6 hours, much less 30 minutes.

4. He is a PAID music journalist in Nashville at the daily paper and access to everybody, is respected by everybody, and loved by everybody.
5. He is in Todd Snider's band
6. He's as gay for the Marshall Tucker Band, and especially their rhythm section of Tommy Caldwell, George McCorkle, and Paul Riddle, as I am
6. He's a super talented singer/songwriter/musician

Once I got done being depressed about being a music journalist my phone began ringing off the hook. Dallas Wayne and Jeremy Tepper from Sirius/XM Outlaw Country wanted me to come over to the studios at the Summet Center. Joe South was on the air live, and I was invited to come witness it.

Now let me tell you a little something about Joe South. He was talented. No, he was a damned genuis is what he was. He wrote some incredible songs, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, Games People Play, Hush. He was a session picker in Atlanta and Muscle Shoals. He was on top of the world and then his beloved brother passed away and Joe lost it. He got caught up in liqour and drugs and burnt every bridge that he could find to burn. He then became a recluse who avoided any and all public exposure. When I wrote that little short piece for American Songwriter I tried to get in touch with Joe but was unsuccessful. I called in some favors and I was able to talk to Ray Stevens and Emory Gordy Jr who both had worked with him at Lowery Music in Atlanta. Neither gentleman could find enough good things to say about Joe. Both were very protective of him and his privacy as well. They didn't make any excuses for any of his behavior, but it was very obviosu that both men held him in extremely high regard.

There's more to this backstory. The reason South was in town and now live on the radio was because he had written a couple of letters to Tepper at Sirius. Not e-mails, but genuine snail mail letters. The letters talked about how much he enjoyed listening to teh station and how much he liked certain songs. Tepper immediately got hold of him and asked him to come to Nashville as his guest and attend the AMA.

I go to the studio and the first person I see is Big Steve Popovich who used to be head of Columbia Records back in the day. He's also the guy who discovered Meatloaf, championed David Allan Coe and other stuff. He had moved back to Nashville from Cleveland and had lost a bunch of weight. He was finally totally retired from the music business, if such a thing is possible. After all, he was hanging out at the studio

Inside the studio, Mojo Nixon and Tepper were interviewing South. During a break, Mojo comes out and asks me if there was anything that he should ask South about. How did I suddenly become the Joe South expert? Tepper came out and told me that I should go into the booth. I wasn't going to pass up the opportunity. I got the opportunity to spend a little time talking to Joe and found him to be incredibly humble. He now suffers from diabetes and as a result moves a little slower. 

It also needs to be noted for those who were listening to the live broadcast that he spent most of the day in the studio without much of anything to eat.

He talked about showing his ass when he was younger and admistted that he burnt a lot of bridges, He talked about his work in Muscle Shoals. He talked about his work at Lowery with Jerry Reed and Ray Stevens. He told us that he was working on new music which was welcome news. He was just incredibly open and gracious with his time. He made no excuses for past behaviors and was received with love. The two days that he was in the studio, fans and well wishers kept coming by to offer up a constant chain of praise, love, and respect. I  think it really did Joe a lot of good to feel all of that love.

Oh, and I discovered why I was considered the Joe South expert. That article I wrote on South for American Songwriter Magazine? It's the home page on Joe's Website.

I can't thank Jeremy Tepper, Mojo Nixon, or Dallas Wayne for the kindness they showed me by inviting me up to the studio and letting me just hang out. For the record, I would like to say that I was in no way responsible for the many empty liqour bottles that magically appeared at the end of Mojo's on-air shift. I would also like to say that I still love Ms Elizabeth Cook even though she scares me. She's so sweet. I bet she would still be sweet even while she was stabbing you repeatedly for being trifling. and I'm known for being trifling.

 

After Mojo finished up his set and Joe South headed back down the road to Georgia, I headed over to the Mercy Lounge. Over there I had big plans on catching several acts, but I made the mistake of going outside to light a cigar on the smoking deck. I got into a discussion with Ken Paulson of the First Amendment Center on various First Amendment issues. He is a very interesting man, and one who seems to have a love for teaching, Before we even began talking, he asked me if I knew what Rights were guaranteed to me under the First Amendment. Then he gave me a hint. There are five of them. Press, Speech, Religion, Assembly, and the right to petition the Government. Most people can't name all five. I got stuck on the Right to Petition. When is the last time you read the Bill of Rights? The First Amendment to the Constitutions states: Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances. Little did I know that I would attend a Music Conference and receive a free history lesson.

Ken had to take off to attend to other business. I ended up meeting two hot chicks from Birmingham; Lea and Laurie. They came up to attend the festival and were having the time of their lives. Lea taught English at a University near Birmingham while Laurie was a chef, baker and what not. They were incredibly interesting and we all three clicked and time just flew by, Unfortunately (for me) they were lesbians. That didn't stop me from admiring Laurie's rack though.

This is another highlight of the festival for me. I get to meet some incredible people like Lea and Laurie or like Mike Lantham and his son Jon, People that you connect with first on a musical level then get to know on more of a personal level. I find it incredulous that these people are as interested in me as I am in them.

Since this is a music festival, I guess I should talk about the music some. Radney Foster kicked ass. I missed everyone else until Scott Miller because I was busy learning stuff and staring at lesbian titties. I like titties.

Scott Miller was the closing act at the Mercy. Most people were downstairs for Sam Bush and The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, however those of us in the know knew where the party was going to be. Scott Miller and the Commonweath brought the RAWK. Miller plays Countryish Rock or maybe it's Rockish Country but it definately ain't Country Rock. He was on fire, full of piss and vinegar

Another thing that is special about a Scott Miller show is the amount of hot chicks that he attracts. I don't know what it is about that man, but he attracts hot chicks. The other cool thing is that since he is up on stage and therefore unavailable to these hot chicks, I am down in the audience where the hot chicks are drawn to me by default.

After Miller shut the place down, I took 3 hot chicks, Maryanne, Jeanie, and Amy to the local truck stop for breakfast. Rule of thumb; Truckstop food is a lot more palatable if you are drunk, which none of us were.

SATURDAY

I spent Saturday just chilling out and relaxing. I went and smoked me a cigar and had me a decent meal. My plan was to head over to the Basement later to catch Angela Easterly, Dallas Wayne and the Bottle Rockets. I got there early and decided to spend some time mediatating with my guitar. Sometimes I can pull out the acoustic and just let my hands do their stuff and turn my mind off. It relaxes me and centers me.  Apparently I wasn't the only person who had this idea. A couple were up on teh 3rd floor balcony playing fiddle tunes. I stopped what I was doing and listened. I then yelled out, "Do I get some kind of prize if I can name that tune?"

"Sure, why not."

"That song is called Jack of Diamonds"

"If you know that, why don't you come up here and pick a few with us."

I don't remember their names. I have it written down somewhere, but I can't find it. She was from Black Mountain NC and he was from Nashville. Both were fiddlers. We sat up there for about an hour and played Old Time, Bluegrass, and Cajun tunes. It was better than Valium for calming the soul.

I went downstairs to catch Angela Easterling's set which was awesome. Kimbrough was sitting in with her which just made it more awesome. Dallas Wayne's set was next. I have known Dallas for 6-8 years now. I have shared a hotel room with him and seen him naked. It made me insecure. Some things once seen, can never be unseen. Being friends, I often forget about him being such a strong entertainer. That evening he played a solo set, just him and his guitar. No band, no stunt pickers, nothing. He's old, fat, bald headed and only has one good eye, but that sumbitch can really sing and really work a crowd. Dan Penn was in the audience and obviously digging what it was that he was hearing. If Dan Penn likes your songs, that's pretty high praise.

This got me to thinking. What's with all the focus on being young and hot in order to have a successful career? Dan Penn and Spooner Oldham are neither youngf nor hot, bit damn if they can still sing their asses off. The same can be said for Dallas Wayne. I'd much rather hear songs by grizzled old grumpy men and women than I would from people who ain't even old enough to drink yet. At least Bluegrass and Blues still respect talent over image. I hope that the same can continue to be said for Americana.

The evening was finished off in grand style by Chuck Mead followed by The Bottle Rockets. The basement was packed so tight that it was impossible to move. The BoRox brought their A Game and blew the doors off teh place, I've got to say I really like the addiction fo John Horton to that band as he pushes Henneman as a guitar player and really makes him work.

I finished the conference sitting with Joe Swank on a hotel balcony picking tunes and watching him unsuccessfully (again) try to get laid. I love teh AMA and I love Joe Swank. I can't wait for next year.