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Nashville, TN, Sept 12, 13, 14, 2002
This saga began when my good friend Deborah Orazi, eagle-eyed,
golden-eared ace music reporter for the Sarasota Herald Tribune, asked me
if I wanted to be her
official photographer for the 2002 Americana Music Association Conference
here this week in Gnashville. This would, she said, thus qualify me
for press credentials,
avoid messy entanglements and get me into all kinds of events from which I
otherwise might be excluded.
"Sure," I said, "I'll bring my Instamatic." I go out and buy a
trout-fishing vest so I'll look like those guys on CNN.
THURSDAY SEPTEMBER 12
When I check in at the Hilton, ordinarily a place I can't enter without
attracting unfriendly security, to get my credentials, the reception babe,
the only volunteer at
the whole affair who will recognize me, and much to the delight of my
boosted ego, starts thumbing through the "P" section, then the "R" before
I can give her my name.
"Uh, I'm here under my alias. Try 'Finley, Sarasota Herald Tribune',
I say, striking a square-jawed, intrepid journalist pose.
"Oh, here it is. Golly, Panama, I didn't know you were a REPORTER."
"I is a Pho-to-journalist, please," I reply, picking up my laminate and my
bag of free samples of other peoples' CD's.
In the atrium I immediately encounter my Amsterdam Americana buddies over
here for the event. Alex Tobin, now heading up Americana-Europe.com,
Louis Jay Meyers of SXSW and A2A fame, and notable Gourds producer, Texas'
Mike Stewart. The stately silver Volvo is double-parked out front,
however, so I gotta go.
Later in the night I set out again. There are three venues
this night, the Station Inn, the Slow (or Slo) Bar and 12th and Porter. I
hit 'em all, finding nothing new or old...an endless cruise the high point
of which was encountering Mike Stewart navigating his way a few sheets to
the wind back down Broadway to the Hilton. "Get in, man," I say. "Nah,
man, I gotta get to bed. But you might wanna watch that truck in front of
you. He don't seem to be able to find the clutch."
I cruise 12th and Porter again. I run into my ostensible journalistic
leader, the Debster herself. We hang out. I drink. Then we set
out to the Station Inn, a notorious bluegrass hangout here in The Vile.
I get my heartstrings tugged for the hills of home for awhile, then I say
goodnight to Deborah and drink up and head home to the Phoenix.
FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 13
Next evening, Friday, is the central event of the whole shebang, really,
the presentation of the 2002 Americana Music Association Awards. So
6:30 finds me at the Hilton guzzling complimentary Shiner bock beer.
It ain't Laphroaig or even Lagavullin, but it ain't bad for free American
beer. I am sitting on the third-floor
terrace where I can keep an eye on the Volvo, parked illegally on the
soon-to-be site of the Gnashville Symphony Hall. There are quite a
few thousand-dollar hats here this evening. I see a Tom Mix number that is
to die for.
As I say, the real reason I am slumming here at the Awards tonight is to
see my friend Shaver present, and, it is rumored, receive an award.
These conventions are
usually pay-to-play showcase affairs, with only a few getting fees to lend
their names and thereby some credence to the event. And Shaver
rightfully so. Along with Townes, Guy Clark, David Olney, Steve
Earle and just maybe a couple of lesser lights, Billy Joe midwifed the
baby we call Americana. I was in the room, or at least the room
next door, at the time the baby was being born, and so I know.
Deborah has promised to save me a seat inside the banquet room at her
table, and, as it turns out, it is the best seat in the house. I am
sitting down front stage right, where I can see everthang. The PA
was a little heavy in the 800h range, so the footsteps boomed a bit.
Or maybe it was simply the walking of giants across the stage.
Because of 'O Brother, Where Art Thou?' the Americana scene this year has
taken a decidedly bluegrass turn. So much so that I am thinking of
starting a bluegrass band of
oldsters called the Saggy Bottom Boys. But I have to abandon my
usual drolly cynical attitude here and say that, as far as I'm concerned,
all the right people were nominated and all the right people won.
****
The Awards are in the form of a Gibson guitar headstock complete with
strings and tuners, mounted on a horizontal piece of nice wood.
Billy Joe won the songwriters' Lifetime Achievement Award. The only
person surprised was, of course, Billy Joe. Receiving his award, the first
thing Shaver had to say is typical Shaver: "It would be nicer if they gave
you the whole guitar."
****
I first met Johnny Cash at the House of Cash studios when I got the chance
to play on Billy Joe's first record. I was standing on a step
leading down to the orchestra pit, and I was still looking UP at him.
And, though years have gone by and I've gotten a little
taller, I guess (cause he could never get shorter), he is still an
imposing presence. Johnny Cash received the Spirit of Americana Award
presented by the First Amendment Center, for...well, for everything about
which Cash has spoken up forever. And that's a lot of stuff. I will
not confess to tears. I will just move on.
****
Years ago, the Texas Jewboys played a gig at Hofheinz Pavilion in Houston.
It was a kinda Texas Music Fest thang. Appearing there also was, among
other notables, Sir Douglas Sahm. Later that day or next I flew back
to Austin on the same plane with Doug. And for some reason, two
great banties meet or something, we nearly came to blows. Had to be
separated by a couple of anorexic stewardesses. The President's
Award, presented posthumously to those who have moved on too soon to get
their just recognition on this particular flight, was presented to Doug
Sahm Friday night, for his vast contributions to what we are now, I guess,
all calling Americana. Chet Flippo, the dean of American Music
journalism, accepted. I concur.
****
Shaver presented the Song of the Year Award to Jim Lauderdale for his tune
"She's Lookin at Me," from his collaborative album with Ralph Stanley and
the Clinch
Mountain Boys.
There was a lot of music, mostly as I say, bluegrass, between
presentations. It was wonderful. The evening ended with a finale by
Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash,
rendering a Lonzo and Oscaresque version of 'Temptation'.
It was a grand night.
****
Later, I am sittin on a couch at Douglas Corner, a non-AMA venue this
year, waitin to hear David Olney. I've just returned from a walk
with Louis Jay Meyers, a good picker, and that's all that needs to be
said. I like the guy. I tell him my Volvo story. We share an
Amsterdam moment. I have earlier arrived twice, once to drop Mike
Stewart here, and again after taking my Dutch friend Bas to the Basement,
where they do not permit you to smoke. Bas is a Dutch music maven
entrepreneur looking for talent to book here at the Fest. Alex Tobin
and I have returned here to wherever it is I am to hear Dave.
I have known David Olney for 30 years, since the old days before we had
won our spurs on the hard steets of Music Row. I am always overjoyed
to see him again, because I can rely on some quirky take on the working
musician's life to pass from his lips. Let me be the next guy in a
long string to tell you that Olney has the real shit and
presents it uncompromisingly. If you haven't heard his work, you owe
it to yourself to do so, because I wouldn't lie about this stuff. He
is, quite simply, the best at what he does. Buy his records.
What we talk about tonight is getting older. Dave says for a while
he wondered about maybe fudging his age downward. Finally, he says, he
just started revising his age upward. "Now," he says, "I just tell 'em I'm
68, and people say, "Wow, that old guy looks good for his age. He's
gotta be cool." That makes me about 71, as I am three years older
than Olney.
I stick for most of Dave's set, then drink up an go home.
SEPTEMBER 14
Next day, I am pretty much Americana'd out. I take some time to go
visit my old friend Phil Larson, whom I've known since the coffeehouse
days at Beaux Arts in Pinellas Park Florida. That's thirty-five years.
Phil is in town for the Americana thang, being a shill for the Waybacks,
Kathy Chiavola, and the three surviving members of
Bethlehem Asylum: myself, Charlie Dechant, and Buddy Helm. Phil is a
font of memories of the old days and of old friends long since
disappeared.
I had the opportunity to go see Billy Joe at the Belcourt tonight, but he
doesn't need me there, and I am, as I say, whupped. Besides, I know
his tunes. Very well.
I come back to the Phoenix, and as I'm lying in bed with Patty I am
overcome with love for and gratitude to her for continuing to endure.
"Goodnight, Patty. You're a good little woman," I say.
"Thank you, Papa. You're a good little woman yourself,"
she replies.
We go to sleep.
panama red
Visit
Panama Red's website
Editor's Note: Panama Red is an independent
music artist, story teller and songwriter based out of Nashville. He
has written songs with Kinky Friedman and others of note. Panama
Red's "Homegrown" CD is pure genius in my opinion. He's just a
misplaced Texan I do believe. |
