What’s a Funky Friday without James Brown?
“He was the sort of fellow that kids laughed at and dogs wanted to bite.”
Carson McCullers from The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
for the beauty of the earth,
for the glory of the skies.
photo copyright joseph e bird, 2015
Another excerpt from my novel in progress.
Trevor looked around and saw that all the seats in The Empty Glass were taken. Quite a few were tables were singles, mostly young men, a few women, all unable to keep their eyes off their electronics for more than a few seconds. Producers, maybe. Or executives scouting for the next big thing. There were also a few couples and small groups, obviously out for dinner, but no wide-eyed tourists.
“Is that him?” Dani asked, nodding toward the stage.
“Yeah.”
“They look very country.”
“Well, it is Nashville, baby.”
On stage, they continued to tune their instruments, but Maxfield Martin finally seemed satisfied and sat behind his instrument, his arms crossed as he looked out across the restaurant and smiled. The guitar player also stopped, leaving only the bass player plucking on the heavy strings. He played a note, then another, lower note. He played them again. And again, increasing the tempo each time, until he it was obvious he was playing in an up-tempo four-four time, like a train moving over railroad tracks. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. Then came the train whistle from Maxfield Martin’s slide guitar. Waaaaa-waaaa. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. Faster. Waaaaa-waaa.
Trevor looked at Dani. She was smiling. He was smiling. Everyone in the place was smiling, their eyes glued to the musicians.
Then the guitar player with the embroidered jacket began playing an even faster rhythm, the sound muted by his hand.
Clackety-clackety-clackety-clackety. Waaaaa-waaa. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. You could almost see the train.
And then they stopped without warning.
“One, two, three, four,” the guitar player counted in perfect time.
They started up again, keeping the same rhythm, but now the guitar was in full voice and after a few measures of introduction, he went off on a bluegrass, rag-like solo that showed his amazing guitar skills. There were whoops and hollers from the audience. As his solo wound down, a fiddle could be heard taking the lead. And from behind a curtain came Janelle Hylton, all of five-foot two, her long black hair pulled back as if to highlight her dark brown skin. She moved slowly in black jeans and a red oxford shirt until she hit center stage, and as her solo reached its apex, she moved in time with the bow as it screamed across the strings of her fiddle. The room filled with applause as she finished and stood tapping her foot and nodding her head in time with the music as she turned toward Maxfield Martin.
He started with the train whistle but after the third blow, he moved the slide toward the left of the guitar and slowly slid it to the right, creating a steadily rising pitch as his right hand plucked the strings until it reached the crescendo. Then it was as if all restraint was tossed from the window of the engineer’s cab. His left hand flew up and down the fretboard, at times bouncing on the strings creating percussions that accentuated the pulsing rhythms.
When he finished, everyone jumped into a perfectly executed instrumental union, driving the song to its conclusion. The applause was loud and long. Trevor glanced at Dani. He had never seen her so animated.
“Thank you so much,” Janelle said from the stage. “That was our take on the Bill Monroe classic, Wheel Hoss.” She introduced the musicians, each of whom garnered their own well-deserved applause. “And the gentleman on the steel guitar, the legendary Maxfield Martin.” He stood and waved to the crowd, then joined in the applause before he sat back down.
copyright joseph e bird, 2015
Pandora : Rare Groove Radio : Hook and Sling by Eddie Bo.
Dig it, if you will.
Canyon Rim Trail, Pipestem State Park; Pipestem, West Virginia.
Photo by GMcB, copyright 2015.
There are some days that jump on your back at dawn’s early light for no discernible reason and ride you hard, dissipating energy and polluting emotion until sullenness is replaced by abject apathy, before the night finally declares an end to the day’s reign. Trevor had seen his fair share of such days that more often than not lingered into weeks. And though he seemed primed to again carry the oppressing burden, he awoke Thursday morning at daybreak with a fresh enthusiasm that would have been difficult to explain, had he even cared to think about it.
Another random paragraph from my novel in progress.
He turned to look at Dani.
The glow from the street lights moved across her face, highlighting her features before leaving her obscured in shadow. As if there were two versions of the same person. The woman of light who quickens his heart and brings forth thoughts that he had willed himself to suppress. She of ankle boots and smooth skin and hair of fire. And the one who lives quietly in the dimness, who understands his thoughts and challenges his mind, who without even trying is as alluring and comforting as a soft song in the evening.
A friend.
copyright joseph e bird, 2015
When was the last time you enjoyed a funeral? I did last night, at the funeral of Joe Dobbs.
I arrived ten minutes before the service was supposed to start. Ron Sowell, the leader of the Mountain Stage band, was front and center with his guitar, singing a melancholy spiritual. At one point the song morphed into Amazing Grace, and everybody joined in.
What else do you need to know?
Joe Dobbs was the owner of Fret n Fiddle, a music store in my small little town of St. Albans, West Virginia, that attracted real musicians as well as rank amateurs like me. The kind of store where honest-to-goodness jam sessions take place. I didn’t really know Joe. My wife bought my guitar there years ago and I would stop in every so often to look around. I was too intimidated to pick up a guitar when Joe was around; too cheap to buy one when he wasn’t.
A couple of months ago my wife said she wanted to learn an instrument. She decided on the violin and we went down to Fret n Fiddle. Joe was there. He was busy repairing an instrument and let us browse. We found a reasonably priced violin and as we walked to the counter, I asked a dumb question. “Do you think she can learn to play the fiddle?” Joe’s answer, “Of course she can. I sell fiddles.”
I didn’t know his whole story, but his obituary filled in a lot of the blanks. The funeral even more. As tends to be true with musicians, Joe Dobbs lived a colorful life.
After Ron Sowell finished, one musician after another came in from the make-shift “green room” and sang. After each one the audience – yes, we were an audience – applauded. A woman with a strong and unique voice led us in an a capella version of I’ll Fly Away. Twenty minutes later all the musicians returned, and led by Jim Snyder, sang Will the Circle Be Unbroken, complete with guitar, dobro, harmonica, autoharp, mandolin, and drum solos. A true musicians’ send-off.
After that, friends and family told stories of Joe. Great stories. Unexpected stories. Again, I didn’t know Joe, but he would have loved it, I’m sure. Who wouldn’t? Air Force Chaplain Matt Lanham, a one-time student of Joe’s and former employee at the store, gave a beautiful benediction.
And then one last song.
In maybe Joe’s last surprise, he had revealed that one of his favorite songs was not a bluegrass standard, but Louis Armstrong’s classic, What a Wonderful World.
A fitting end to a wonderful tribute.
Footnote: I borrowed the photograph from Joe’s obituary. I’m sure I’m violating copyright laws and I don’t do that lightly. I would rather ask permission and give credit but I don’t know the photographer. But you had to see Joe.
Joseph E Bird 