
Category Menu
The General Store

List of Articles
Love the Bengals? Think Michael Jackson was over rated? Still believe Elvis is alive and living in Michigan? Whatever you think you're input is welcome.
Arts, Entertainment and Sports: Everyone has a favorite performer, actor, artist, genre of music, sports team, sport or sports hero. This is the place to share your likes and dislikes with others.
Murder By Serpents: The Mystery Quilt by Barbara Graham, a review
When you look at the title and cover of
this book, you have immediate thoughts of slimy, slithering
creatures attacking from dark, obscure places. This is not
the case. Yes, there are a few snakes. But they are
somewhat predictable after their introduction, and they are not
very scary. The mystery of this book is in the character
associations and the problem resolutions.
Tony Abernathy is a former cop who was
shot on the job in Chicago. His wife, Theo, is a homemaker
and avid quilter. After the shooting, Theo constantly
feared for her husband’s safety. Opportunity knocked, and
quieter and safer Park County, Tennessee elected Tony sheriff.
The family moved into the house Theo inherited from her
grandparents, and Theo opened a little quilt shop that soon
became central for all things news and gossip worthy.
The slumbering town was jolted into fear
when a traveling, snake handling preacher was found dead in his
car. How did the snakes get out of their boxes in the
vehicle? Who would want to hurt a preacher? Why was
he behind the local restaurant in the wee hours of the night?
As the
story unfolds, the true background and identity of the dead man
becomes known. His ties to the community and its residents
take twists and turns as his involvement with them surfaces.
He may not have been who, and what was believed.
Linda Fugate, February 26, 2010: Submit Comments
Ninty-Four and Still Shoutin' the Blues
David "Honeyboy" Edwards has been shoutin' the blues since he
was a young child in rural Mississippi. Today, Edwards is 94 and
he is still shoutin'. Most recently his decades of contributing
to the blues were recognized with the granting of a Lifetime
Achievement Grammy.
I didn't see the Grammy Awards program but my son did and reported that amongst all the glitz scant few seconds were allocated to recognizing Edwards as he sat in the audience. One would think that someone who played such an important and long role in the creation of a musical genre that gave birth to about all that followed, including jazz and rock, would have been granted more than just a swipe by of the camera.
I wonder if any of those young performers on stage that evening understand that if it hadn't been for the sacrifices and efforts of people like Honeyboy Edwards, they might still be playing the Chitlin' Circuit for less than minimum wage?
I think we all need to take a little time to reflect that we all stand on the shoulders of those who paved the way for us.
Larry Chapman, February 23, 2010: Submit Comments
True
Fans: A Basketball Odyssey, a review
Author Dan Austin, along with
brother Jared and best friend Clint Ewell set out on bicycles to
cross the country and deliver a basketball to the NBA Hall of
Fame in Springfield, Massachusetts. The trio intended to
have those who unwittingly assisted them along the way sign the
NBA issued ball, and at journey’s end, ask it be enshrined in
the Hall as a symbol to the goodness of the everyday Americans
they met.
Each young man added his own special talent to the mix.
Dan intended to film the journey as a documentary. Jared
was the planner and plotter, keeping the group on course and
budgeting their minimal funds. Clint was the basketball
fanatic who had used the sport to work his way through and
overcome difficult situations he could not control in life.
Their travels carried them up and down mountains, across the
prairies, and through sprawling metropolises. They slept in
parks, in churchyards, and along riverbanks, and battled both
natural and manmade opponents. Sprinklers were one of their
most dreaded foes. In addition to peanut butter, they subsisted
on what they named “True Fan Sludge” – a concoction of
dehydrated instant soup and any other carbohydrate
they could afford. Recipe variations are located in the
final pages of the book.
The original media for True
Fans: A Basketball Odyssey was
a documentary. The print version followed six years later.
In print, the author occasionally adds details of other
“pilgrimages” enabling the reader to relate further with the
personalities of the characters. Throughout the story, the
reader begins to feel the faith and inspiration Dan, Jared and
Clint maintained throughout the long journey. This is not
a basketball story. Pickup games or faraway courts are
rarely mentioned. It is, instead, a story of the goodness
of a nation and of how obscure and random acts of kindness can
touch others.
A review by Linda Fugate, February 18, 2010;
Submit Comment
The group started their
pilgrimage from Venice, California with a bicycle trailer called
the Ark of Covenant in tow. The trailer carried staples of
peanut butter, camping equipment and the tent that would often
become home for the one hundred day journey. It also
protected the glorious basketball.
Top of page
When people think about blues music the instruments that normally come to mind are the guitar and harmonica. I was doing a little research today and came across a rare video of a guy named Hairlip "Sweet Pepper" Hayes who made the blues festival circuit back in the 70s. His specialty was picking out blues on a ukulele. Because of his affliction he didn't sing but rather whistled the melody of the tune he was playing.
I suppose playing blues on a uke isn't all that strange since most early blues players resorted to whatever was at hand to make their music. Poverty usually dictated their choice of instrument.
B.B. King, and many others, began playing on screen door wires strung between two nails on the front porch post. They would insert a tin can under the string to act as a resonator. A fancier, and more portable, version of this became known as the "diddley bow."
Also, an important part of the blues is the use of the finger slide. The resulting sound is in many ways similar to the sound of Hawaiian music played on a slide guitar.
The following film footage was shot in Louisville, KY in 1968, while Hayes was practicing his version of "The A Train Blues."
By the way, Hairlip's mother must not have been a too kind lady since his true given name was Hairlip.
NNOTE: Hairlip is not spelled correctly and is not a nick name. It is the name his mother had placed on his birth certificate.
Larry Chapman/, February 15, 2010: submit comment
The Rise and Fall of the Boys of Summer
Pastime and what it meant to me.So in my reflections, I came up with some tough truths.
Pardon my grammar, but baseball ain't what it used to be!
Americas pastime is played on Saturdays and Sundays in the fall
Baseball fans have always cared WAY more about the game than the game ever cared about the fans.
The steroid era in baseball has led me to question the outcome in all sports and performances of athletes in those sports.
And maybe most importantly...if it seems to good to be true it probably is!
The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind: Creating Currents of Electricity and Hope
by William Kamkwamba and Bryan Meale, William Morrow, 2009
William
Kamkwamba opens his story as a child in the village of Masitala,
Malawi in Africa. Masitala is what one typically envisions as an
African village. The homes are small huts consisting of
few rooms with a roof lined with plastic and covered with
thatching. An outhouse is also home to snakes and spiders.
There is no electricity for any other than very rich, and it is
notorious to blackouts. There is also no running water.
The community is traditionally comprised of generation after generation of farmers. Culturally, the villagers have a foot in both the present and the past. The culture still embraces the superstitions of the ages and to some degree, still believes in the power of magic and spells.
William’s father believed his only son was worthy of an education past grammar school. Traditionally, only the affluent were able to afford such a luxury. William’s father worked hard to provide the tuition, books and supplies for his son’s needs. This was an extravagance not to be a continued as the rain does not come and drought sets in and famine becomes the norm for the country. Unable to pay the steep tuition any longer, William returns to his father’s fields. His desire to continue to learn becomes even stronger, and he frequents the area library for anything to entertain his restless mind. During these many trips the young teen’s interest in science is born. He repeated checks the same books, learning and trying to understand all he can from them. His fascination with the windmill is born.
William regularly frequents a scrap yard looking for materials to use in his attempt to build his own windmill. His efforts meet with the ridicule and scorn of fellow villagers, and his parents endure it silently. Many label him crazy. Others believe he is at fault for the conditions of his country. Through perseverance and self- study, William’s dream becomes reality.
The Boy Who Harnessed The Wind is non-fiction. Kamkwamba’s explanations of traditions, superstitions and life styles of his people offer understanding of the culture one may never see. The young man William is not so old at the time of this writing that he has forgotten his feelings and fears from childhood. Nor has he forgotten the hunger and anguish of his fellow tribesman. His creation was not selfish folly – it was for his fellow villagers and compatriots. This book, like the young man it features, is a study of hope for a nation.
A review by Linda Fugate, January 11, 2009, Comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.com
Time Bandit...a review by Linda Fugate
The book intertwines the past and
present to give a picture of the lives of these daring men.
Living was an adventure and a challenge to all five
Hillstrand brothers. Their family life was often
broken and abusive, making one wonder if their adventures
were an emotional outlet. After their parents separated,
their time was divided between their grandmother’s home in
Homer,
A tale in the present unfolds in the
portrayal of Johnathan. While on the sea in
the Fishing Fever, a small one-man vessel equipped for red
salmon fishing, the boat loses power. When Johnathan
does not return to fishing camp that evening, childhood
friend and fellow fisherman Russ Newberry becomes uneasy.
His attempts to contact the pilot and vessel by cell phone
and radio are unsuccessful. Russ’s
Brother Andy reveals his relationship
with John as well as his occasional irritation toward him.
He discloses his views of their formative years, and his
life of contrast on the sea compared to his horse ranch in
The book uses a variety of technical sea terms that may be unfamiliar to the reader, but do not disrupt the flow of the prose. It describes some of the difficulties men of this caliber face daily. Are they adventurers? Are they social outcasts? Their lives as fisherman is what they know, and what they live. Reading this book will give insight into their world. (Ballentine Books, 2009)
Linda Fugate, January 4, 2010, Comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.com
Is the Oasis of the Seas Too Big?
Oasis of the Seas, a brand
new, 220,000 ton cruise ship from Royal
Caribbean with the capabilities of hosting 6,219
guests is the “World’s Largest Cruise Ship”.
But is it too big? The predominant comment I
have gotten prior to sailing and after sailing,
is “Oh, I think that ship would be too big”.
I’d like to use this space to give my opinion
on that.
My
wife Connie and I, were recently guests aboard
the Oasis of the Seas on a promotional sailing
from her home
Driving up to the pier, you can tell the Oasis
from the other ships in port immediately, her
stacks and upper floors dominate the landscape.
Much as new Yankee Stadium in
The “World’s Largest Cruise Ship” begins with
what I have to believe is the “World’s Largest
Cruise Terminal”. It’s purpose built for the
Oasis, very well done, and, as with the Oasis,
everything is very automated, very 21st century.
Large overhead video boards direct guests to
the proper place, and embarkation goes very
smoothly. As with everything about the Oasis,
it begins with the waiting terminal -- stick
with the plan. Stake out an area and stay with
it if you don’t want to be overwhelmed.
Your stateroom is typical Royal Caribbean.
There are very few insides or ocean views.
Most have verandahs that either traditionally
face the ocean, or more contemporarily, overlook
The Oasis of the Seas has seven neighborhoods
that makes this ship very manageable to
navigate. So much of this ship is made up of
staterooms, that the public areas, large as they
might be, need to be your primary focus for
getting around the ship. There is a flow into
and out of them, using your knowledge of fore
and aft that you’ll gain rather quickly (Seaside
Theater is in the aft, the Opal Theater is in
the fore).
Plenty of elevators fore and aft will handle the
bulk of the ship’s guests. At many points,
there is an interactive “Compass” listing the
events of the day, their place, and a map to the
event from where you are.
The Promenade is not the complete length of the
ship, rather the middle third. The shops and
small clubs on each side are well appointed. It
will be interesting to see when this ship is
full, how the smaller clubs accommodate the more
popular events.
One of the striking qualities about Central Park
and most of the Boardwalk to me is that they’re
in open air, but almost completely shaded
because of the six or seven floors of staterooms
on each side that look into the neighborhoods.
The sun only for a short time is directly on
you. Makes both of these areas very tolerable.
Some bar areas have definite unique qualities.
The Tides Bar rises from the Promenade deck 5 to
the 8th deck and
Royal
So is it too big? I was expecting to be
overwhelmed. I was expecting not to be able to
see the whole ship in a short period of time.
Both of these comments we’ve heard from clients
and local Lauderdale residents. I will say that
I was neither overwhelmed, nor did it take an
inordinate amount of time to tour the whole ship
and enjoy her amenities.
As I mentioned, we were with Travel Agents and
Royal Caribbean execs on this sailing. These
were all people who knew and appreciated the
Royal Caribbean product. Two shirts I saw that
stuck out to me was one that featured the
Voyager of the Seas (entered service in 1999,
138k ton, 3,114 guests) and one that featured
the Freedom of the Seas (entered service in
2006, 160k tons, 3,634 guests) Both had the same
caption -- “World’s Largest Cruise Ship.” I do
think the Oasis of the Seas will retain her
title longer than both of these ships, for a
number of reasons -- most of them economical in
nature.
The Oasis of the Seas is very manageable to
navigate, provides wonderful opportunities for a
cruise vacation, and underscores the thought of
your ship as your destination. I think she’ll
have problems (I thought the Windjammer Cafe was
too small, I worry that the Royal will be
pushing their “extra charge” restaurants) that
will be worked out as they arise -- everything
new does.
From a guest standpoint, she’s a terrific cruise
destination. It will be interesting to see how
the coming months and years treat her. I would
recommend a cruise on her in a heartbeat.
Bob Sims,
December 15, 2009, comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.comSkipping Christmas by John Grisham, a review
Luther and Nora Crank just
waved goodbye to their only child, Blair, as she
boarded a plane. Armed with her master’s degree
and no job prospects, she joined the Peace Corps
for a year and was heading to the jungles of 
Luther launches a scheme to distract Nora and ease her heartbreak. With figures in hand, he realizes they could take a cruise and skip Christmas altogether, and save money doing so. He books Christmas day passage through a travel agent and plans his attack on Nora’s vulnerable state. Nora is accepting, though often shows signs of weakening. There is pressure from neighbors to conform to the traditions, from community organizations touting their fundraisers, from retailers awaiting the Krank’s typical holiday orders, and from both Nora’s friends and Luther’s co-workers. This leads to entertaining give-and-take as the couple attempts to avoid conflict with all parties.
The morning of Christmas Eve Blair calls with news. She will be arriving that evening – with a guest. Her plan is to show him the traditions of Christmas her family shares. Nora refused to tell her of the cruise, and chaos ensues as the couple scramble to try to pull together the traditional party, dinner, decorations and friends. How to accomplish it may be impossible since they have alienated everyone with their bah-humbug attitude.
Skipping Christmas is a work of fiction, is lighthearted and humorous, not the standard John Grisham fare. It is brief, so would fit nicely into a bustling holiday season as a moment to relax.
Linda Fugate,
December 11, 2009, comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.com
The Death Artist by Jonathan Santlofer
HarperCollins, 2002: Kate McKinnon
Rothstein is an art historian
and community focused socialite, author of a
bestselling art book, and former host of a
popular PBS art series. Her primary charitable
interest is “Let There Be a Future”, a
scholarship foundation for the education of up
and coming young artists and performers. Kate’s
husband
Richard is an attorney who garnered
financial affluence in defense of questionable
CEO cases. Life was not always so easy for
either of them. Richard’s name became household
conversation when he defended and won an
unpopular civil rights case. Ten years prior,
Kate was a former cop, focusing on runaways and
missing children. One of the foundation’s
graduates is found murdered in her
Linda Terwilliger Fugate, December 10, 2009, comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.com
Playing for Change...The Power of Music
As far as my wife and I are concerned there are no entertainers more enjoyable than street entertainers. Our best vacations have been those where we were able to experience a variety of good street performers and one of the best places for such is the French Quarter of New Orleans.
I
’ve
been to NOLA many times and each visit is spent
mostly sitting in Jackson Square watching and
enjoying the street people. In 1996 my daughter
Jennie and I spent a week in
They were absolutely fantastic and I ask if they had any tapes or CDs. Sadly the answer was no. I never forgot that experience and on each subsequent trip I walked, without success, all over the Quarter looking for them.
About a year ago I was watching the Bill Moyer’s program on PBS and he did a bit about an organization called Playing for Change. The idea was to produce a documentary about trying to break down the walls of cultural difference by demonstrating that music is a universal language that could help unite us.
A segment of the documentary presented a performance of the song, Stand by Me, by a group ofstreet musicians from all over the world. Each was taped individually and then edited into a synchronized music video. It was simply breathtaking.
The piece begins with a
street performer in
To my amazement, the
persona is fabricated. He is a gifted and
somewhat classically trained musician who is not
blind and has never sought a career outside of
being a street entertainer in the city he loves.
He is easily recognized by his floppy straw hat,
full white beard, missing front teeth, red shirt
and denim bib overalls. My wife commented that
Elliot was a black me which I took as a
compliment. I could only hope that in some way I
am as talented as he.
Recently we were watching a segment on Norman Lear and discovered he has become involved in Playing for Change. As part of the segment they showed a new video and it featured a NOLA street performance that included, among others, Grandpa Elliot. Afterwards I got on PforC’s website and discovered that in the past year they have produced a number of similar videos and most can be seen on YouTube or on their website. I enjoyed it so much I decided to purchase the combo CD and DVD which will both sooth my soul and help them a little in turn.
If any part of what I’ve just written interest you, then you absolutely have to visit the PforC site and check out their artistic creations.
P.S. The singer leading
out the video of Stand by Me is Rodger Ridley, a
street singer in
Larry Chapman, October 13, 2009, comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.com
The Blues Isn't Just Some Old Dusty Artifact
Last night I was on the
phone with a technical support person in
She
said, “I know what it is but I don’t really
listen to it. My grandparents really like it and
get excited about it but I don’t pay much
attention to it. We studied it in high school
history and we listened to examples but that’s
about all I know about blues.”
I have spent lots of time listening to blues, watching videos of past blues performances, talking about blues, reading about blues, trying to learn how to play blues on the guitar, going to meetings, symposiums and seminars about blues history, driving to Mississippi to feel closer to the birthplace and beginnings of the blues and…! Here is a young person, very bright and delightful personality, who grew up and lives within an hours drive from Clarksdale, MS, and doesn’t know a lot about the very seed of a musical form loved and performed all over the world.
Muddy Waters sang a song in which he claimed, “The blues had a baby and they named it rock and roll.” Well, while there is truth in that, the blues had several children. One was named rag-time, another swing, one called Dixieland, and one with a cool personality named jazz. Furthermore, there may a few other, not so legitimate, children of the blues.
Most musical historians
agree that few things have affected the
development of American musical genres as much
as the influences of the blues. I’ve heard it
said several times that all American music
evolved from the blues. But, it does go back
further. The blues didn’t just suddenly appear;
it too evolved and can trace its genealogy back
to
I’ve witnessed B.B. King speak, with mixed feelings, about what could have, and may still, happened to the music that made him famous. The early 50s were a heyday for blues musicians. They were getting air play on radio, their records were selling, and their live performances sold out. The bulk of their audience was black but there was a growing audience of whites who were “crossing over.”
Then along came Bill Haley, Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis and other white entertainers selling a “new” sound called rock n’ roll. It really wasn’t anything new and often it was mere covers of standard black blues tunes. Elvis’ first hit, That’s All Right, was written and first performed by blues man, Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup while Hound Dog had been a hit by blues woman, Big Mama Thornton. Haley’s Shake Rattle and Roll had been recorded and performed earlier by Big Joe Turner.
Didn’t matter though, the radio jocks started playing for pay (Payolla) and blacks were out and whites were in. Rock and roll was here to stay and things turned sour for the blues and all who were making their living off it.
Ironically, though, while it was white teens that had killed the blues, it was white teens who breathed new life into it. Beginning with the folk era of the late 50s and continuing with the British coming ashore in the middle to late 60s the blues was rediscovered. While American teens were going bonkers for Fabian and Frankie Avalon, young Brits, like Keith Richards, Mick Jagger and Eric Clapton were spending their last tuppence on American blues records and aping every guitar lick contained therein. The first thing many of the British rock groups wanted to do when they arrived in America on concert tour was to meet their blues heroes and sit in on some sessions.
The point I want to make from all this background is, it was white musicians who brought black music to the larger white audience. The rock heroes of the 60s and 70s were playing blues and incorporating blues into their own creations. To their credit, they reintroduced their black musical heroes to their white fans and B.B., Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters and scores of others found their musical careers rejuvenated.
Today, the greater
audience for the black genres of jazz and blues
remains white. And unfortunately, like the young
lady I spoke of from
Larry Chapman, October 8, 2009, comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.com
Autumn, a Time to Remember my Father
Remembering a really great man and a poem from October 9, 1969…
The 60’s were quite a
time. A time of hippies, tie-dye,
Every year about this time, I pull out this old clipping and re-read this poem. Forty times now, maybe more. I find a sort of comfort in my father’s words. Dad was a simple man himself. He was a former English teacher at Greenfield McClain HS, who started working at the paper in the summer for a little extra cash. Dad caught the newspaper bug and when my sister and I were in High School, he went full time at the Enquirer. He drove sixty miles one way to that job. But dad didn’t mind so much. Perhaps it was on one of these drives in the fall, when he pulled over to the side of the road and penned this poem.
…Autumn
By William Trutner Of The Enquirer News Desk
You turn onto the gravel road, round a bend and the world you know disappears in a swirl of dust. You stop, get out of the car. The stillness is overpowering.
You fill your lungs with the sharp, clean air and look about. Clusters of orange – red bittersweet cling to the sagging wire fence. Beyond the fence, heads down, a dozen white-faced cows mow their way on the grassy hillside. And atop the hill a grove of sugar maples blazes scarlet against the blue of the sky. You lean back against the car, breathe deeply again. Ecstasy. You realize that Thoreau had the right idea. Would that you had a Walden of your own.
Here’s where it is, Autumn seems to say. Here’s where you find peace, tranquility, freedom from care. And she’s right. You sense a sort of earthy nirvana, a feeling of belonging, of being in tune.
You start and turn at the sudden intrusion of a machine sound. Below the road, a cornfield stretches as far as your eye can see, its rows tall and straight, its leaves faded yellow, rustling ripe. The rumbling sound you heard comes from within the field. It crescendos and a monster corn picker surges into view devouring two rows at a time, snapping off the ears, ripping loose the husks, sending the golden harvest tumbling into a wagon behind. The farmer smiles, waves a friendly greeting and disappears back into the field.
Autumn makes her message clear. Work hard, she says. But relax too.
Appreciate beauty where you find it. Love life. And, when you feel the walls closing in, come ride with me.
Dad passed away four years ago on October 5, 2005. I shared this poem with the hundreds gathered in the church during his memorial; former students, our neighbors, several newspaper men, many friends and family all sharing memories. Dad’s poem standing the test of time, a man remembered and loved by many, and a season he dearly loved. As I re-read yet again this poem, I am reminded of my dad and his gentle way of viewing the world. While much as changed since the sixties, I would like to think that dad is right. Work hard, appreciate life. But sometimes, you have to pull over and get out of the car. And, when you take the time and listen with your heart, you’ll be sure to find a Walden of your own.
Written by William Everett
Trutner of Leesburg,
Ann (Trutner)
Anderst of
Highway 61...The Blues Highway
Highway 61 begins in
Before the Interstate System, Highway 61
was a major north-south blood vessel serving the
travel and commercial needs of millions who
inhabited
In
In the history of blues music 61 is devoutly
referred to as the
One of these communities was/is
Get a map of
Near by
It was Highway 61 that carried Muddy Waters,
Howlin' Wolf, Sonny Boy Williamson II, John Lee
Hooker, Buddy Guy and countless other unknown
dirt poor black musicians north to
Paralleling Highway 61 is Highway 49, another
major north/south artery. The two roads merge in
rooted in blues mythology.
It was also these two highways that brought B.B.
King north and to becoming the world's most
famous and possibly best blues man ever.
Highway 61 carried a lot of poor folks to the
promised land "up north" but many never achieved
the freedom and equality they hoped existed
there. It was both the road of dreams come true
and dreams broken. The great blues singer Bessie
Smith was but one of those who's dreams ended on
the road. In 1937 she was involved in a car
accident and eventually bleed in a segregated
Legendary blues and soul musician Rufus Thomas
once said about
It was in
|
|
|
Map of the two great Mississippi Blues Highways, routes 49 & 61. |
Today, much of what
existed of the
As the economy shifted away from agriculture and
as agriculture became more mechanized cities and
towns, such as
Blues has become a major international art form
and each year thousands of foreign
visitors arrive in the delta to search out the birth of their favorite
music. They visit the graves of Rice Miller and
Robert Johnson, drink canned beer in one of the
few remaining Juke Joints while listening to
blues men such as T-Model Ford or James "Super
Chikan" Johnson.

The Mississippi Delta, birthplace of the
blues.
A few even book a room at the Riverside Hotel
which in a former life was the hospital where
Bessie Smith passed. By the way, it has been
claimed that it was in the hotel's basement that
Ike Turner recorded what many consider the first
rock and roll song, Rocket 88.
I suppose a history about any road or highway could be written. Many
have been written describing The Mother Road,
Route 66 and my children gave me one about US
Route 50. It was both those that carried me to
Larry Chapman, August 13, 2009, comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.com
A few weeks ago Larry
posted a couple of videos from recently deceased
bluesman R.L. Burnside. When I mentioned
that I had worked with R.L. at a small venue in
In 1996 I discovered 
In 2000 a local bar owner, Malcolm White, approached the theatre about hosting concerts. Malcolm was something of a local legend having helped organize the annual Sweet Potato Queen parade and Bacchanalia as well as promoting other concerts in his bar and around the city. He was interested in New Stage because he wanted to bring in smaller acts that would have a limited audience into a space that could feature the music. The first concert was guitarist Richard Thompson. The second was a dual bill of Mississippians Mose Allison and R.L. Burnside.
Because I had worked with Malcolm occasionally when I was the director of a local improv comedy group, he asked if I would run the venue for these concerts. It wasn’t a big job, basically I’d get the space ready for the rental equipment and serve as contact for the artists and/or their managers. For the first concert I did very little. Thompson came in late in the afternoon, played his gig very well, nearly killed a sound operator, and left with little more than polite greetings. He wasn’t rude, but he didn’t have much need for striking up conversations with people he wouldn’t see again after a couple of hours.
The second concert was completely different. R.L. arrived early in the afternoon, before anyone else and was accompanied by a twenty-something white kid that looked more like a frat boy fan of Hootie’s than a manager for a seventyish year old bluesman. Even the designation of manager led to a lot of confusion. Over the course of the afternoon R.L. must have asked me to find his manager a dozen times and each time I would dutifully find the man that had been introduced to me as R.L.’s manager. At some point, still a few hours before the show, R.L. blew up, yelling at me that he didn’t care where his manager was, he wanted to know where his “manager” was. You can see my confusion. It wasn’t until the woman that was R.L.’s personal dressing room guest held up an empty bottle of Jack Daniels that I understood what he meant by manager. It wouldn’t be the last empty bottle of Jack the woman would hold up.
R.L. was one of the most unhealthy people I’ve been around. He was borderline obese, drank epic amounts of straight Jack Daniels, and couldn’t walk without great assistance. His speech was nearly incoherent, but profanity always seemed to be privileged with his clearest enunciation. His vaguely defined “woman” that stayed in his dressing room all day served as translator, rickshaw, and bartender. R.L. had every appearance of a man trying to speed up his inevitable death. I spent less than twenty minutes total with R.L., but that was enough for me to worry that he wouldn’t be able to perform.
Later in the afternoon
Mose and his band arrived and promptly set up
and went through a few songs. Mose was
roughly the same age as R.L., but a casual
observer would have guessed he was at least
twenty years younger. He was quick,
precise in his movements and in command of his
music and his band. Most of all, Mose was
smooth. I can’t define smooth for you, but
I know it when I see it. Mose was at the
theatre for maybe an hour before he left for
dinner with some friends. Dinner was at a
local diner, The Elite, that most of us Yankees
would pronounce E-leet, but Jacksonians
pronounced E-light. It was one way that I
always stamped myself as being, “one of them”.

Mose returned with just
enough time to get ready before the show
started. He changed clothes into an outfit
that looked to me like an exact copy of what
he’d been wearing previously, and told tales,
seemingly a mix of fact and fiction, about his
day s in
Mose’s music is a mix of
Mose played without a set list and without a clock. After a song finished He would call off the next song to his band and they would go immediately into the tune. He talked a little, but mostly it was a steady stream of uninterrupted music. When he walked off stage after his encore I checked the clock and he’d finished less than thirty seconds short of one hour. While R.L.’s manager, the real one, handled the instrument changeover, Mose politely thanked everyone backstage and left.
R.L. had to be escorted onto stage and into a chair by his, “woman” and his manager. He carried his guitar and a large cup full of straight Jack. He mumbled something into the mic that I’m not sure anyone understood, and began his set. For everything that Mose’s music was, R.L.’s was the opposite. R.L. was rough, with lots of missed notes, and unrefined. Where Mose was intellectual, R.L. was all passion. His music was soul food.
He was also scheduled to play for an hour, but his set lasted closer to two. After every song there was a break for him to drink another half cup or so of whiskey and when his cup was empty he’d hold it up saying, “I’m all out. There must be a hole in my glass.” Each time he ran dry his manager would fill him up with his “manager” and he’d say, “Well spank you very much.” As he played his alcoholic fog seemed to clear, his voice became clearer and his playing became cleaner. At one point he even stood on his own and danced around the stage until he was corralled by his manager and forcibly reseated. (Who wants their first manager experience to end with your star performer breaking a hip?)
R.L.’s simple, emotional songs lifted the 350 or so people in the theatre out of their seats. The area between the first row and the stage was crowded with bodies, and I decided to leave the confines of backstage to experience the show with the rest of the crowd. Security was practically non-existent for a small show like this and more than once people jumped on stage to dance near or on one occasion with R.L. I don’t remember a single song he played that night, but the experience of being in that space at that moment still sticks with me. Those of you that know me understand why the intellectual side of Mose’s music would appeal to me, but for as much as I liked Mose and his music, the visceral experience of R.L. is what I most cherish about that night.
Eventually R.L. stopped playing and returned to his dressing room. By the time I got backstage his Cinderella moment had passed and he had turned back into the stumbling, incoherent drunk I had seen that afternoon. I helped his manager load up the instruments and he disappeared unannounced with his “woman”. I locked the theatre and checked in with Malcolm, who said he couldn’t afford to do anymore concerts for such a small audience. And that was the end of my concert experiences.
James Phillips,
September 14, 2009, comments togreenfieldohio@gmail.com