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 