54 - 🐓
echoes from the past, real and imagined, somewhere between Amarillo and Bakersfield
We are in a Chevy Silverado of indeterminate vintage. With the windows open, a choking cloud of clay kicked up from the tires fills the cabin. With the windows down, the sun bakes the vinyl dashboard and upholstery, commingling with the fumes of an ever-present packet of Red Man chaw to produce a unique smell that my brain will replicate for me whenever I hear Jean Shepard or Hank Williams. I think I prefer the windows up, but the a/c is busted and to get any relief from the unrelenting early August heat, we compromise with the worst of both worlds: windows cracked, a fine dust filling the air but offering no alkali suppression of the plastic-and-tobacco scent.
We are making time but I don’t know where. I am a passenger. The only way I have of passing the journey is watching the blur of sagebrush race past as the foothills crawl and the mountains stay hunkered. We make the odd attempt at conversation, with pennies promised for thoughts but nothing much to offer in return. My head is against the window as I follow the sympathy card sunbeams that melt down through the tallest clouds I’ve ever seen. We pass a sign that says LIMBO and turn off the main road toward the hills.
Loose 8-track tapes bounce off the seat. The road resembles less the highway we were on and more a somewhat wider than normal cow path through the sage. The sun makes long shadows as a house comes into view: not our destination, just a waypoint. When we finally stop, our cloud catches up to us and we wait a spell before stepping out of the truck and inviting ourselves in. We’re directed to the back porch where a pitcher of sun tea waits. A chicken is fried up, bellies are filled, we bunk down.
We are in a Chevy Suburban, pale white, same general smell as the Silverado. It’s probably the specter of many long hours spent alone with the highway and one’s thoughts and only a wad under the lip to mediate between the two.
I drift off and the sun slips away. Only varying shades of darkness rush by the window. The headlights don’t do much other than let us know we’re still keepin her steady between the shoulder and the double line.
We’re somewhere between nowhere and nothing, creeping up on midnight. We make a stop to stretch legs and drain lizards. Before we continue on, we pause to count the infinite stars. With no clouds and no moon, we can see past the bright band of our outer spiral arm all the way back to the birth of the universe. The only thing we can’t see is what’s to come. To handle that, all we have is trust and wonder.
By now we are all ghosts: you and me, the oversized American vehicles, their vinyl, the desert, the sky. The road goes on forever and we can never go back.
Tasting Notes
Country is a contradiction. It’s a traditional mutant. It’s a somber comedian. It’s a sobering drunkard. It’s a loud introvert, a simple navel-gazer, an abusive saint.
Here I find more nostalgia, only some of which is manufactured. I keep peeling and peeling and peeling and just keep finding more and more interesting things to love, more complicated heroes who died too young — often just a shade older then I am and often from a lifelong devotion to alcohol — and more living legends who have survived despite all expectations.
There are a few contributing factors to this particular deep dive: after many years and recommendations I finally started listening to the excellent Cocaine and Rhinestones, which does a good job of celebrating country music while addressing its complications; I sneaked a Dolly Parton cover into all of my Q2 playlists; I built a chicken coop mostly listening to Kitty Wells and Jean Shepard. That last one probably pushed me over the edge and here we are.
This leans hard into Texas: Lefty Frizzell and Joe Ely and Townes Van Zandt and Blaze Foley and Johnny Rodriguez and Guy Clark and Lyle Lovett and Jimmie Dale Gilmore and Roger Miller and Kris Kristofferson of course Willie Nelson.
Texas is a strange place, full of tall tales and large personalities. I think I’m kind of in love with this story about Townes Van Zandt realizing a pawn ticket for his guitar was buried with Blaze Foley:
"One of the last stories I ever heard Townes tell -- I'm sure this was a story -- he was talking about how after Blaze died, his guitar was still in the pawnshop, and they realized that the pawn ticket must have been in his suit jacket that he was wearing in his coffin.
"And so they went out, him and the Waddell brothers -- they were Townes' bassist and drummer for a while -- they went out to the cemetery and got some guy with a backhoe to dig up Blaze's grave. They opened it up, and sure enough, there in the suit jacket pocket was the pawn ticket for his guitar.
There’s some obvious deviations from the theme but mostly this one sticks to its center. I will, however, strongly contend that Nick Cave very often writes country songs.
While sequencing this I found some pretty amusing pairing, so hopefully that’ll tickle you too.
Fair warning, the next one of these is going to be more of the same, but heading into much much darker territory.