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Joseph E Bird

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The Night I Shot the Whiskey

She doesn’t drink. She’s never shot anyone. But her song is killer.

Listen:

I’m 66 years old and first picked up a guitar when I was around 10. I’ve had a guitar in my possession most of my life, but it was only a couple of years ago that I started getting serious about playing and singing songs. Then I started playing open mics. I don’t kid myself. I can pretty much carry a tune, but my vocal range is limited, and my guitar skills are likewise limited. I’m too much an of old dog to be learning new tricks. And though my imagination and ambitions know no bounds, Clint Eastwood once told me that a man’s got to know his limitations. So true.

Since I started playing open mics, I’ve shared the room with some amazing musicians and singers. They make it look easy. Let me assure you, standing in front of a room full of people who are listening to you caterwaul and fumble through the chords is enough to make you lose your mind. The first time I performed at the local coffee shop – fueled by adrenalin and fear – I tore through my rendition of “Mrs. Robinson” like a car doing 60 in a 30-mph speed zone, bouncing off the curbs and barely staying on all four wheels. I forgot the lyrics of my next song and just quit in the middle. I fumbled through another song and vowed to never play in public again. I even swore to never again show my face at the coffee shop.

I was back the following week, trying again. And again the next week.

My friend Richard Hill is like me (except that he is a much better singer than I am and is vastly more entertaining). We go to a lot of open mics together, not with the idea that people are going to start asking us to play a set at their venue; we just want to have a good time and be somewhat entertaining. Richard plays good-time country music that always gets everyone smiling. I’ll play whatever fits my mood, from Foo Fighters to Simon and Garfunkel.

Here’s what I’ve learned. Singing in front of people is not easy. And through conversations with others who do this, I’ve learned that most everyone is dissatisfied with some aspect of their performance probably 80% of the time. I have no facts to back this up, but in my many years of observing people, the 80-20 rule applies to almost everything.

And here’s another inescapable truth. Some musicians are better than others. Rank amateurs like me hate to follow real talent. Most of all, we hate to follow Makena Hope.

I first heard Makenna Hope at the Coal River Coffee Company’s Thursday night open mic. Most of you reading this have heard her. But if you haven’t, Oh. My. Goodness.

Her voice is so strong. Her talent overwhelming. She’s one of a handful of artists at Coal River Coffee that set the bar so high.

Makenna has been singing most of her life. She’s been performing on stage in front of audiences since she was 7. At 18, she’s a seasoned veteran and has played countless gigs. And even though she has her own shows, she still goes to open mics.

There was one night recently at The Pallet Bar in Scott Depot, West Virginia, that stands out. The Pallet Bar is a little, upscale place, by no means a dive bar. Still, people go there to have a drink and meet friends. For most, live music is a bonus. And to be honest, for some, live music is an annoyance. On this night, there were maybe 20 customers and a handful of musicians, including me, Richard, Makenna, and a few others. We all sang our songs with respectable delivery and garnered polite applause from the few who were actually listening.

And then it’s Makenna’s turn.

She usually sings other people’s songs, with a few of her originals sprinkled in. And whenever she sings, she turns heads. People stop what they’re doing and listen. Richard and I look around the room and watch this happen. It’s like we’re privy to a secret weapon that’s being unleashed on these unsuspecting souls. Their lives are about to be enriched, at least for one night.

After two songs, she asks Sam Eplin to join her. Sam is one of those local musicians who set the bar for the rest of us. He has an amazing voice, is a great guitar player, and a very original songwriter. But tonight he’s backing Makenna on guitar. A few minutes earlier she had asked him if he could play the Radiohead classic, “Creep.” A few minutes of playing together outside and they had it down.

“Creep” is one of those iconic songs. It’s powerful. Other singers will “make it their own” by slowing it down or dialing back the power chorus. Not Makenna. She absolutely owns it.

I know what’s coming. So does Richard. “Hurt ‘em, Makenna,” he says.

The opening verse is familiar to most people and when Makenna starts singing, you feel a shift in the mood of the room. It’s a great song, but they have no idea what’s coming. They’re tuned in, willing to accept whatever Makenna has to offer.

By the time she hits the first chorus, they’re beginning to understand.

But I’m a creep
I’m a weirdo
What the hell am I doin’ here?
I don’t belong here

She has them in the palm of her hand. She completely controls the room. She could quit right now and still own them. But the best is yet to come.

More verses, then the bridge. A simple bridge.

Run.
Run, run, run.

Run.

If you don’t know the song, you can’t appreciate what Makenna did with that. One of those moments where people applaud in the middle of the song.

Then the chorus again, one last time.

But I’m a creep
I’m a weirdo
What the hell am I doin’ here?
I don’t belong here
I don’t belong here

And the room explodes.

Listen:

We have Tyler Childers. Everyone and his brother cover Tyler Childers songs. Good songs made better by Childers’ gritty, soulful voice. The covers are fun but not really memorable.

We have Coalter Wall and his gritty, deep baritone singing about asphalt roads.

We have Sierra Ferrell and her quirky, new-grass songs.

And we have Makenna.

In some ways she’s a throwback. Her voice is pure and her talent natural. Check her out at age 12 singing at the St. Albans Riverfest in 2016.

When she was 15, her mother asked her to write a love song. She got together with Travis Vandal and penned a classic about a no-good, cheating man. It goes something like this.

The night I shot the whisky was the night I shot him down
Caught him with some redhead Jezebel from out of town
I put him in my sights and then I put him the ground
The night I shot the whisky was the night I shot him down

It’s what I would call a power country murder ballad. It’s another showstopper. Have a listen.

So how does a 15 year-old come up with a song like that? And how is that a love song?

Well, it’s not. Ask her about love songs and she’ll give you an unenthusiastic bleh. So the song was a 15-year old sticking it to her mother. Teach her to ask for a love song. But in her obstinance she came up with an absolute winner.

So who is Makenna now?

There’s definitely some country in her songs. But then you hear her song, “Cookie Cutter Classic”, about growing up plus-sized in a world way too judgmental about what we look like. “Cookie Cutter Classic” talks about it.

Cause I’m not cookie cutter classic
They’ll never get past it
Only good enough to want then walk away
But I’ll still put on all my makeup
Watch what I eat
But that’ll never make ‘em want me
Cause I’m not cookie cutter classic

https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=482382346820707

So here’s the thing. Makenna’s talent is undeniable. Anyone who hears her knows it. But Makenna is human. She has doubts. You can hear it in the melancholy of the song. And like everyone else who has ever performed in front of people, the doubts creep into her feelings about her music.

The name Makenna is of African origin and means “happy one.” With that name, you would think she’d be writing songs about rainbows and butterflies. Not that Makenna isn’t happy, but as a young woman still figuring out the world and its inequities, her music reflects this time in her life. She grew up in the oldest house in St. Albans, West Virginia, where she still lives with her family. It’s a warm and welcoming home where they frequently host summer get-togethers around a fire where friends – most of them musicians – talk, tell stories, and play music. It’s fitting that she lives in that old house, because in many ways, she’s an old soul in a teenager’s body. Though she’s still young, she also has wisdom that comes through in her songs, not just the ones that she writes, but in the ones she performs.

But she is also self-assured. You couldn’t belt out a rock standard like “Creep” without an abundance of inner-confidence. You couldn’t write a reflective, soul-searching song like “Cookie Cutter Classic” without the peace and understanding of knowing who you really are.

Makenna is a star. Not everyone knows that yet, but that’s only a matter time. Catch her while she’s still on the rise.

If you have read the story about her friend and frequent guitar accompanist, James Townsend, you have probably seen the clip of them performing “Hallelujah” on Main Street last summer. For those of you who may have missed it, here it is.

As Richard would say, “Hurt ’em, Makenna.”

https://www.facebook.com/joe.bird.5836711/videos/880083106285845/?__cft__[0]=AZX0Pjf4XhHcOvgwvJgjyWD1BhIaRavUbVNoEX1c5s_XbZKPgaKSKXD1nNKEiQoskheqG26RbbARTt0uljBPZlQGdQ0qb6yaMDl-HPUk-iForypFx5Octw2lXzmWWzlGMdo&__tn__=-UK-R

copyright 2023, Joseph E Bird

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The Martian

Remember the movie from a few years back starring Matt Damon? And all of those potatoes.

The movie was based on the book of the same name by Andy Weir. Here’s how it happened.

Andy Weir started writing his story and published it, serial style, on his website.

Then he self-published the complete novel.

Then a publisher purchased the rights and re-released it.

Then they made a movie.

And Andy Weir is rich and famous.

With no illusions of my story having the same outcome, I am nonetheless going to attempt to publish my story, Song of the Lost, serial style, on this site. You should see a tab at the top of the page named Song of the Lost. Everyday I’ll post a new chapter at the top of the page. Then when I post the next chapter, I’ll drop the previous chapter to the bottom of the page. Newcomers can read the chapters in order. Those who follow daily can see the new chapter at the top. That’s the plan, anyway. We’ll see how it works.

And please provide feedback with your virtual red pen. Tell me about typos, grammatical errors, plot holes, or anything that you don’t like. And feel free to tell me if something is working for you. So here we go.

Thanks.

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Anna

Vronsky followed the conductor to the carriage and at the door to the compartment stopped to allow a lady to leave. With the habitual flair of a worldly man, Vronsky determined from one glance at this lady’s appearance that she belonged to high society. He excused himself and was about to enter his carriage, but felt a need to glance at her once more – not because she was very beautiful, not because of the elegance and modest grace that could be seen in her whole figure, but because there was something especially gentle and tender in the expression of her sweet-looking face as she stepped past him. As he looked back, she also turned her head. He shining grey eyes, which seemed dark because of their thick lashes, rested amiably and attentively on his face, as if she recognized him, and at once wandered over the approaching crowd as if looking for someone. In that brief glance Vronsky had time to notice the restrained animation that played over her face and fluttered between her shining eyes and the barely noticeable smile that curved her red lips. It was as if a surplus of something so overflowed her being that it expressed itself beyond her will, now in the brightness of her glance, now in her smile. She deliberately extinguished the light in her eyes, but it shone against her will in a barely noticeable smile.

The first time we see Anna.

From Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy.

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i’m a skaz, you’re a skaz

In A Swim in a Pond in the Rain, George Saunders says this:

“If you’ve ever wondered, as I have, ‘Given how generally sweet people are, why is the world so messed up*?’ Gogol has an answer: we each have an energetic and unique skaz loop running in our heads, one we believe in fully, not as ‘merely my opinion’ but ‘the way things actually are, for sure’.

The entire drama of life on earth is Skaz-Headed Person #1 steps outside, where he encounters Skaz-Headed Person #2. Both, seeing themselves as the center of the universe, thinking highly of themselves, immediately misunderstand everything. They try to communicate but aren’t any good at it.

Hilarity ensues.”

Saunders is explaining Nikolai Gogol’s short story, The Nose. The story is absurd. It’s a form of Russian story-telling called skaz, where the narrator of the story becomes part of the story because of his own inept story-telling. Google it. Or better yet, read Saunders’ book.

I came across the passage and thought, yep, that’s how we are in real life. We’re all just skazzes. I find it funny because it’s true.

*Saunders used a description a little cruder than “messed up.” I took editorial liberty to clean it up a tad, though I personally am not offended by the cruder language. They’re just words, after all.

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the porch

Home. The theme of Katie’s writing challenge. I failed to get a new story for March. I tried, but it didn’t happen. I could tell you the reasons, but you don’t really care. Instead, here is something I wrote few years ago that fits the theme. Next month, something new.

She sits on the porch alone

as we drive by.

Stop on your way back.

Past the house,

we turn up the hill that’s almost too steep.

The trees reach out and touch the car.

as if to comfort, as if they know.

In the clearing, faded flowers lean

in front of slabs of stone,

forever marking the place

where we visit those

we can no longer visit.

Gospel music from across the hollow

filters through the trees.

Dusk is creeping closer.

Has it been that long already?

We leave because we must.

She sits on a swing

built by her husband’s father,

so many year ago.

We sit in rockers

and talk.

The porch is painted white,

the floor boards brick red.

Once-sharp edges are now round

from years of touch

by those who rest

on the hill above.

The swing creaks back and forth,

a soothing lullaby.

Nearby a bird calls in strong song.

Farther away, another answers.

Still another sings the song of

the solitary bird.

A frog croaks.

Just one, for now.

Others will follow later.

A cool breeze brings relief

from the hot, muggy day.

The serenity of the world

from the porch

is comforting.

All things of youth

are memories now.

He is gone.

Though there are friends,

though there is family,

she is alone.

She embraces the solitude.

I love this porch, she says.

In the mornings

on the swing

by myself.

I am blessed.

The Lord

brought him

to me.

And he brought me

to this house,

this porch.

And now,

though alone,

I am blessed.

copyright joseph e bird, 2016

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listen to this song and learn about art and literature

Yet again I’m at my desk, working, with music in the background. Again it’s Wilco. I’m learning a couple of their songs and I’m letting them sink in. I came across this live performance of Shot in the Arm. When I play it on my guitar it’s just me and it’s a simple song, though the song itself is infused with conflict and doubt. In this live version, you see Jeff Tweedy up front, singing and playing his simple chords. In the background a whole heckuva a lot is going on. The conflict can’t be avoided. Doubt is everywhere. It’s all in the music and it might be a chaotic mess if not for the simple story (Tweedy) holding it all together. It makes a simple song complex and engaging. Good art and good literature do the same thing.

Maybe all I need is a shot in the arm.

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So, Mr. Chekhov.

No, not that Chekov.

Chekhov, as in Anton Chekhov, the Russian author.

In The Darling, Chekhov tells the story of a woman who is somewhat of a serial lover, losing herself to whomever she loves. When we first meet Olenko, we admire her utter devotion to the man she loves. When he dies, she repeats the pattern with her new love. And when he dies, she repeats it again with her new love, and we begin to have questions about her. We begin to see the flaws in her character. And yet, her biggest sin is loving too much and too easily.

In his book, A Swim in a Pond in the Rain, George Saunders offers this about Olenka:

“I feel about Olenko the way I think God might. I know so much about her. Nothing has been hidden from me. It’s rare, in the real world, that I get to know someone so completely. I’ve known her in so many modes: a happy young newlywed and a lonely old lady; a rosy beloved darling and an overlooked, neglected piece of furniture, nearly a local joke; a nurturing wife and an overbearing false mother.

And look at that: the more I know about her, the less inclined I feel to pass a too-harsh or premature judgment. Some essential mercy in me has been switched on. What God has going for Him that we don’t is infinite information. Maybe that’s why He’s able to, supposedly, love us so much.”

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in the clearing stands a boxer

A publisher has expressed interest in my novel, Heather Girl. They like the story and the primary characters; however, they feel that I have too many sub-plots and secondary characters that take away from the main focus of the novel. There are a couple of sub-plots and secondary characters that I have no trouble eliminating. There are others that I’m hesitant to lose.

I’ve been reading a book recommended by Mr. Larry Ellis, A Swim in the Pond in the Rain, by George Saunders. In the book, Saunders examines short stories of Russian authors so that writers may learn and hone their craft. Saunders just told me something that is helpful in evaluating Heather Girl. It is this:

Imagine we’re bouncers, roaming through Club Story, asking each part [of the story], “Excuse me, but why do you need to be in here?” In a perfect story, every part has a good answer. (“Well, uh, in my subtle way, I am routing energy to the heart of the story.”)

Our evolving, rather hard-ass model of a story says that every part of it should be there for a reason. The merely incidental (“this really happened” or “this was pretty cool” or “this got into the story and I couldn’t quite take it out again”) won’t cut it. Every part of the story should be able to withstand this level of scrutiny…

The second paragraph confirms what I think needs to be cut.

The first paragraph makes me hesitate on other parts, those that I believe are routing energy to the heart of the story.

It’s fun, this building of a complete story.

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it’s alright, ma

It’s alright, ma. I’m only bleeding.

And it’s running down my arm, dripping onto the dirty concrete, pooling like cherry jello next to the steps where I’m sitting, hoping someone has called for a wagon, but then I realize the closest ambulance sits idle at the hospital twenty miles away. It’s a long, deep cut and it’s all I can do to keep the pressure on.

Apologies to Dylan. He wrote that song, what, fifty years ago? Sixty, maybe?

Ma’s been gone a while.

Nothing good happens after midnight, she used to tell me. It’s 1:37 and all self-respecting people in this godforsaken town are fast asleep. Truth is, there’s not too many of them left.

There’s this photograph, a grainy black and white, probably taken about the same time Dylan wrote that song. I would have been about eight. Ma sitting at table with her sister-in-law, my grandmother, and my great-grandmother. Looks like they had been working, or maybe getting ready to work. They all look tired. They’re all at rest now.

It seems to be slowing down a little. Maybe if knot my shirt around the cut. Kind of hard to do with just one arm, but if I can take one end with my teeth and pull tight. It’s cool out here but it was muggy in that closed-up building and I was starting to sweat before I went through the window so taking off my shirt feels pretty good. And there’s nobody around to see my soft, pasty flesh.

Ok. That’s better. But it’s hurting now. Not just stinging from the cut but real pain. The muscle’s been cut. I’m probably going to need surgery. I can’t stay on this stoop.

It’s alright, ma. I’m only bleeding.

Ma and her sister-in-law were young women with their glorious lives ahead of them. Later I would see the color photographs they were proud to show, their hair just right, their smiles beaming. But in this old black-and-white they looked tired. Just beat.

Kennedy was assassinated around that time. Then Martin Luther King. Then the other Kennedy. Death was all around. So when I came home one day after a nasty fall in the creek, blood streaming down my leg, ma looked at me like I was going to die.

It’s alright, ma. I’m only bleeding, I told her back then.

Dylan had nothing on me. If I could have just come up with the other existential verses and the complex rhythms and rhyming patterns and a hundred other songs I could have been another Dylan.

I’m walking now. Not to the hospital. I couldn’t do that under the best circumstances. And not home.

Just about every storefront I walk by is empty. More than a few with the glass busted out. So when Decker tossed me through the plate glass window of the old hardware store, it was kind of like if tree fell in the forest and nobody was there to hear it, would it still make a noise? If anybody heard, nobody would care. That’s how it is here.

And I can’t blame Decker. He had to do it.

I’ve always been an under-achiever. Ma had more faith in me than I deserved. Maybe it was just hope. My sisters were something else. Intelligent, outgoing. Honor roll. And my cousins, the kids of the sister-in-law in that photograph, they were the best at everything. And then there was me.

I don’t know. I tried. Sometimes. Most of the time I just didn’t care that much. Went to the university after high school but didn’t last a semester. Nothing good happens after midnight. But I had fun.

It’s alright, ma. I’m only bleeding.

He never even sings that line in the song but in my head he does and I’m singing it over and over because that’s the only line I know and the rest of the song is beyond my comprehension.

I haven’t had a drink in ten years. Not since ma’s funeral. I don’t know if I was ever an alcoholic. I drank a lot, but never on the job. But there was a lot of stress and the drink softened the edges.

Been married twice. Neither marriage lasted long enough to build a family. First one was peer pressure. Everyone was getting married and it seemed like the reasonable thing to do, but we were way too young. Didn’t know who we were. Second marriage I blame to an out-of-control libido. And when the flame died down there was nothing else.

My dad died when I was thirty. Hardly ever see my sisters. They’ve lived out of state most of their lives. They’ve got family. And their families got families.

There’s a safe house about five miles away. Little cabin about a mile off the hard road back in the woods. I’ll stay there and call Decker in a couple of hours. Have him run me over the mountain before dawn.

I shouldn’t be doing this. Not at my age. I should be at a desk. There’s younger guys that could have taken the assignment. It didn’t have to be me. Didn’t have to be good old Joey.

But Joey, he’s got no kids. No grandkids. No wife. Not even a regular girl. Evenings are bad. Weekends worse. I got to find something to fill the time. And so here I am out here after midnight, when nothing good happens. Right, ma?

I had to talk the captain into letting me do it. He didn’t come right out and say what I already knew, that I’m too old to be chasing bad guys and getting thrown threw a window. He’s right.

But I’ve seen what the pills do. And if it was just killing the ones who used it, I might be ok with that. But I’ve seen the kids, the ones I never had, and they end up being raised by their grandma. Or maybe their great-grandma. And I think of that photograph. And I’m glad ma lived in simpler times and I’m glad that those ladies in that simple kitchen never had to see what things have come to. And maybe I can save a family. Maybe I can do some good.

So Decker’s the middle man. He sets up the meeting between the docs and pharmacist. That’s me. At least that’s my role. We talk to the docs and convince them that it’s all safe. They can write the scripts and I’ll fill them at the pharmacy, no questions asked. Then we get a some of our younger plain clothes to pose as patients and when the doc rights the scripts, we start building the case. They wear wires and everything. Once things are set up, we move on to the next county. It’s usually low risk with meet-ups in a diner or sometimes at the doc’s house. But his was different. Should have known better.

The docs are usually forty-something. Maybe they realized they’re never going to be the hot-shot surgeon they thought they’d be in med school. Maybe they see they’re not going to have that big house on the hill, or the condo in Florida, so they see the chance for easy money and what they felt was their destiny. Or maybe it’s just simple greed.

But Doc Varney was different. He’s in his seventies. Everyone in the county knows him and there’s a cloud of fear that overcomes folks when you talk about him. He’s been involved in the drug business since before the opiates took over. So he’s a prime target.

He wanted to meet after hours at the hardware building. Bad move by  me and Decker to agree to it. Should have been neutral turf. Supposed to meet at ten, but he called and put it off till midnight. Then one. Nothing good, I told Decker. Nothing good.

Varney shows up and he’s not alone. There’s another guy, body guard or some such thug. Varney’s probably around five-eight and his thumb-breaker, a neanderthal for sure, is maybe six-two and probably weights two-fifty, hair cut close to the scalp, belly puffed out beyond his windbreaker jacket. He looks at me. Eying me.

Decker’s talking to Varney, the usual patter. I hear my name mentioned. Joey will take care of everything he says. Plenty of money for everyone. And best of all, it’s legal. Well, that’s a lie. And if it was legal, it’s completely immoral. I see Varney smiling.

And then neanderthal pulls a gun. He points it at me.

He’s a cop, he says to Varney.

Decker looks surprised. No way, he says. He runs the pharmacy over in Herndon.

Neanderthal knows me for sure. He tells Varney and Decker that I was in the task force that took him and Gilley down. He calls me by name. What was it Joey, six years ago?

Yeah, I’m thinking. He’s right. Six years ago.

You’re a cop? It’s Decker. He gives me a backhand across the chops.

We’re done, Varney says.

I’m not, neanderthal says. I’ve got unfinished business.

And both me and Decker know what’s coming.

Varney’s left the building and is sitting in his car. That’s when Decker takes me by the collar and heaves me through the window. I hear a gun shot and see a puff of concrete dust where the bullet hit beside me.

Varney yells something and the goon gets in with Varney and they take off. Decker does, too. He’s staying in character. Too much invested in all of this just to give it up. Besides, I just crashed through the window. How bad could it be?

It’s alright ma. I’m only bleeding.

Another mile and I’ll be off the hard road. Feeling tired and thirsty but there’s food and drink at the cabin. And a real bandage.

I don’t hear the car and it surprises me as it came around the curve. I try to step back into the edge of the woods but I’m too slow. The car throws gravel off the shoulder as the wheels lock up.

I reach for my Glock but I’m too late. He’s leaning out the window, firing. I take a shot in the shoulder, then my stomach, then my chest.

I’m on the ground, looking up at the stars. I can’t move. I hear the car throwing gravel again.

I can’t move. I’m gurgling blood. I know what that means.

It’s alright, ma. I’m only dying.

copyright 2021, joseph e bird

A couple of months ago, Katie, my friend in Virginia, issued a short story challenge for 2021. The theme is Home. This is my February contribution.

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