Elvis

Alright, alright, alright! Ronnie and Rocinante started this tour from the great state of Kansas, and in the stompin’ rock-n-roll salad days, Kansas was famous for springtime tornadoes. Well, times change, people change, and apparently weather patterns change as well. For instance, here in the Southeastern states, the approach of March and April 2025 subjected Ronnie and Rocinante to three, count ’em, three white knuckle evenings where one eye was on the online tornado trackers and the other on streaming movies. Two of those evenings featured sirens screaming, “take cover people, a funnel has been spotted!!”

Now, being a lifelong Kansas native, Ronnie’s habit is to hightail it outdoors to look for the funnel. But all three of these incidents happened at night, and those are no fun at all. So, there they were, watching for danger funnels on the radar trackers while Ronnie formulated a plan for what to do if the damn thing rolled over them. Once, they had a nearby ditch to duck into, but the other two times, just Cracker Barrel which is closed after 10:00pm. So Ronnie’s idea was to wrap himself in a substantially padded sleeping bag, strap into the passenger seat and ride it out with Rocinante. The good news? They didn’t have to resort to drastic measures on any of these evenings, but the most recent incident did scare Ronnie a bit, and the psychic reverberations are chronicled in the below dream dispatch (embellishments taken by artistic license)..

Buckle up, Buttercup, because we’re driving headfirst into the swirling, screaming maw of a river-riding tornado, a meteorological monstrosity tracing the muddy spine of the Mississippi and Ohio, a psychedelic serpent of wind and chaos, as the Mississippi, usually a languid giant, began to froth. From the trembling neon of Beale Street, a tornado, not of wind, but of memory and distorted reality, spun to life. It didn’t roar, it whispered, a chorus of forgotten river songs, bourbon-soaked laments, and the echoes of civil war battles all the way from the blues-soaked delta of Memphis to the bourbon-soaked hills of Louisville.

It started, as these things often do, with a whisper, a low growl in the humid air above Beale Street, a pregnant pause in the rhythm of the blues. Then, BOOM, a swirling vortex of fury ripped through the neon haze, sucking up stray guitar licks and the lingering scent of barbecue like a cosmic vacuum cleaner. We’re talking a twister with a goddamn attitude, folks, a hell-bent hurricane on a pilgrimage to the heart of bluegrass country.

Upriver it raged, a furious finger pointing towards Kentucky, leaving behind a trail of bewildered catfish and flattened riverboats. The swirling vortex first caught the echoes of Elvis’s ghostly hip swivels, then twisted north, past the slumbering cotton fields. The air shimmered, and we saw a young Jennifer Lawrence, not on a red carpet, but atop a wild-eyed pony, her laughter echoing across the rolling hills of her childhood farm. “Those horses,” she whispered, her voice a phantom breeze, “they knew the secrets of the land, secrets the river whispered too.” The tornado, momentarily calmed, seemed to nod, then resumed its watery ascent.

Next, the phantom funnel roared past Churchill Downs, where the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson, fueled by a lifetime of Wild Turkey and mescaline, materialized in a puff of ganja smoke. He was ranting about the “equine gentry,” their manicured hooves and bloodline arrogance, as the tornado ripped the fancy hats off the heads of bewildered spectators. “Fear and Loathing in Tornado Alley,” he’d scream, his banshee voice lost in the wind, “a goddamn vortex of pure, unadulterated madness!”

The tempest continued its journey, a whirling dervish of destruction, passing over Louisville, where the spirit of Muhammad Ali, light as a butterfly and stinging like a bee, rose to meet it. He was projected into a snowy black & white television screen reliving a defiant response to the military draft, his voice echoing through the storm, “Why should they ask me to put on a uniform and go 10,000 miles from home to drop bombs and bullets on brown people in Vietnam while so-called Negro people in Louisville are treated like dogs?” The audio glitched, he continued through the white noise, “I got no quarrel with them Viet Cong!” he said. The tornado, momentarily stunned by his sheer force of personality, seemed to hesitate, then roared on, a begrudging respect in its howl.

Further up the Ohio, the ghost of Abe Lincoln, his lanky frame emerging from the mist, pointed a spectral finger towards his “sinking spring” childhood home. “Even the land weeps,” he intoned, his voice deep and resonant, “when the balance is disturbed.” The tornado, perhaps sensing a kindred spirit in the rail-splitter’s melancholic wisdom, seemed to soften its destructive touch, leaving the old homestead relatively unscathed.

Then, the storm reached the heart of bluegrass country, where Chris Stapleton, his voice a whiskey-soaked lament, stood defiant against the swirling chaos, his trademark cowboy hat firmly planted on his head. “They told me my style was too raw, too real,” he growled, a plume of smoke curling from a phantom stem, “but the wind knows the truth.” The tornado, impressed by his gritty authenticity, seemed to bow in deference, whipping his long hair into a frenzy.

Dwight Yoakam, his voice echoing the Bakersfield sound, tipped his hat to the storm, a knowing grin on his face. “Even the Bluegrass wind respects the Bakersfield Sound,” he drawled, his voice cutting through the roar. The tornado, perhaps drawn to the twang of his soul, seemed to sway in time with the rhythm.

Finally, as the storm reached its crescendo, a spectral banjo echoed through the chaos. Bill Monroe, the father of bluegrass, materialized, a red clan robed image straight from the Coen Brothers’ movie, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly light. He plucked a haunting melody, a lament for the ravaged land, and the tornado, as if listening to a divine command, began to dissipate, its fury spent, leaving behind a trail of eerie calm and the lingering echo of the high, lonesome sound.

And so, the river-riding tornado, a psychedelic fever dream of wind and chaos, faded into the Kentucky hills, leaving behind a trail of twisted jangled nerves, tall tales, and the lingering scent of bourbon and bluegrass. Nothing like a good existential scare to bring out the vivid dreams.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

In Kentucky…
Old Man River…
Has marked the boundaries…
Has been the giver…
Deep and wide…
The greatness flows…
All this and bourbon whisky too.

Ok… there we were… Memphis, TN… home of Graceland and, if we may be so bold, some of the worst highways and city roads poor Rocinante had been forced to endure on this tour. We didn’t hit a tire killer, but that’s only because Ronnie practices hypervigilance when traveling Tennessee roads. Read, he’d seen this show before… he came prepared. That said, we had a super pleasant stay in Memphis. Not all of the roads were peppered with tank-traps. For example, the eastside Germantown area is quite nice. It reminded Ronnie of some of those old money neighborhoods in Kansas City. Anyway, on laundry day, waiting for machines to do their business, Ronnie struck up a conversation with one of the patrons. We’ll refer to him as Ronnie’s “laundromat companion” (LC). After some brief introductory exchanges, Ronnie’s LC launched into a string of Music Biz-related anecdotes, slightly embellished below.

Turns out, Ronnie’s LC is from old money, himself, but chose a vagabond’s life over joining the family business. He struck out on his own doing various music-biz functionary tasks, traveling the world with this band or that. In the process, got to meet and work with quite a few of the stars most of us only see in the tabloids or on stages. Now, Ronnie wasn’t about to let this opportunity pass so, with encouraging nods and mostly closed mouth (don’t laugh), he took it all in.

“Well, now, let me tell you, Ronnie,” he said. “Tennessee’s music scene ain’t just fiddles and steel guitars. It’s a regular circus, i tell ya. A regular menagerie of the peculiar.”

“First off, there’s Elvis, ‘The Kang’ himself.” At this point, Ronnie couldn’t believe his luck, and this LC raconteur was just getting warmed up. “Now, you’d think a man with that much hip-swivelin’ talent would have the good sense to get himself a pup, like any respectable fella. But no, sir,” LC was on a roll. “Elvis, flush with his first taste of fame, decided he needed a monkey. And not just any monkey, mind you, but a spider monkey.” Ronnie nodded, having heard this particular story before. However, LC wasn’t done. “Then, as that wasn’t enough monkeyshine, he brought home a moonshine-swilling chimpanzee he called Scatter, a ‘coconut-headed little mother fucker,’ as Elvis would call him. Imagine the chaos! I reckon those critters saw more booze than a saloon floor on a Saturday night.” Ronnie agreed, anxious to hear more.

“Then there’s the Ryman Auditorium, that grand old cathedral of country music. Built by a man of the same name, who, they say, still wanders the halls like a lost gospel tune. Folks swear they hear noises, see lights flicker, and some even claim Hank Williams Sr. is still there, singin’ his lonesome tunes.” Ronne offered a lame missive, “Maybe he’s just lookin’ for a decent after-life honky-tonk.” Ronnie’s LC winked and carried on.

“And speaking of lonesome tunes,” LC’s segues were tight, as if he had had plenty of experience providing soundbites to interviewers, which by some cosmic synchronicity happened to be a skill Ronnie had honed in his working life as an electronic-media educator. “It’s all in the eyes,” Ronnie might say. LC continued, “…there’s Willie Nelson. Now, Willie, bless his edible cannaboid heart. He’s a man who appreciates the finer things in life, like… well.” He winked again. A friendly sort of ‘know what i mean?’ way.

Ronnie was keeping up without too much trouble. And since Tennessee doesn’t have legal weed for recreation, there was no talk of sharing a toke. Anyway, LC picked up where he left off, “Willie even claims he lit up a joint on the roof of the White House during Jimmy Carter’s time, the 1970s. On the roof! I tell you, that’s bolder than a bullfrog in a teacup.” Ronnie nodded. “Snoop Dogg, take notes,” Ronnie was warming up to this fella.

“Now, don’t go thinkin’ these music stars live a life of pure luxury,” LC continued. “Johnny Paycheck, of ‘Take This Job and Shove It’ fame, proved that wrong. He stopped for a drink on his way to see his mama, and some fella recognized him. Invited him for deer meat and turtle soup, which, to be fair, sounds like a dish straight out of a Ma and Pa Kettle episode.” Ronnie chuckled and LC took a sip of his soda. “Well, Johnny, he wasn’t havin’ it. He pulled a gun and asked the fella if he looked like a ‘country hick,’ then let a round fly, grazing the poor yokel’s scalp.” Ronnie was astonished, he hadn’t heard this one before. LC continued. “Nine years they gave him, but they let him out early. Seems the judge could appreciate a rare talent when he saw one.”

At this point LC and Ronnie had to move their respective laundry from washers to dryers. But once the tumbling got underway, the stories resumed. Ronnie remembered LC had mentioned working for George Jones at one point, so he encouraged LC to expand on that. “Now, i called George Jones, the ‘lawnmower man,’ LC began. I called him that because his wife, bless her drunk-wranglin’ heart, tried to keep him away from the bottle by hidin’ his car keys. Too bad she forgot about the lawnmower.” This sounded familiar to Ronnie, but he thought is was about someone else. Anyway, LC went on. “A ten horsepower rotary engine riding mower. He rode that thing all the way to Beaumont, Texas, 16ish miles.” Ronnie glanced at the tumbling laundry. This sure was more exciting than watching clothes dry. “Now that’s that’s dedication,” Ronnie said.

On the laundromat’s TV, a feature about T-Bone Burnett and his soundtrack for the Coen Brothers movie, “Oh Brother Where Art Thou” was on and that reminded LC of a Bill Monroe anecdote. “Mr. Monroe, the father of bluegrass, a devout man, mind you. But even saints have their limits. He got himself arrested for hittin’ his ex-girlfriend with a bible. The word of God! And then, they let him go.” Ronnie sighed, “That’s taking bible thumpin’ to a new level,” joking. Ronnie’s LC chuckled. “I recon you got that right.”

As the dryers’ time grew short, Ronnie’s LC wrangled up one more wild Tennessee music biz anecdote. This one for for the ladies. “Sweet Dolly,” Ronnie’s LC drawled on. “Now, she’s a queen, no doubt about it. But even queens can be out-queened. She entered herself in a Dolly drag contest in Santa Barbara, and lost!”

“W-what,” Ronnie couldn’t believe what he was hearing!? “That’s right, she made her hair bigger, her eyes bigger, her beauty mark bigger, everything bigger, and still lost,” Ronnie’s LC said. She said she had gotten the least applause.” LC shrugged, “I reckon that’s the kind of humility you only find in a true legend.”

And with that, Ronnie and his LC had clothes to fold. Once finished, they bid fare well and went their separate ways. And, there you have it, loopers. A little slice of Tennessee’s musical madness. It ain’t always pretty, but it’s always entertaining.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

Keep your eyes peeled…
Drivin’ through Memphis…
The potholes deadly…
Will break your senses…
But take a moment…
To offer reverence…
Music is born in Tennessee.

Loopcircus

Loopcircus

This Land: Kentucky

This Land: Tennessee