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Editor's Note: I chose to add this article written in 2000 by Panama
Red to my feature articles for a couple of reasons; 1) it has several
references to Texas and 2) because I really enjoy the essays of Panama Red
and like to feature a few of them here to lure you to read more on his
site, which is referenced at the bottom of this essay. You can find
other Panama Red stories on this site as well. Enjoy! Laugh
out loud a little and experience what is Panama Red... the writer, the
songster, the man.
Amsterdam:
April 2, 2000
This
saga begins one night in Maloe Melo when Jur the Main Man introduced me to
this guy looks like something out of "The Good, The Bad and The Uglyz"
named Hans, owns a bar in Roosendaal, a town down on the Belgian border.
Dude is wearing one of those floor to ceiling train robber raincoats, a
big Stetson, and enough turquoise jewelry to support a whole Southwest
tribe for a year. We talk a while and ultimately I get a gig to play in
his bar. This is back in February.
Sunday, April 1, finds me and my personal trainer and nurse Peppermint
Patty on the train to Roosendaal, gleefully escaping grandparental duties
for the wilds of South Brabant.
Coupla things: we had bought first-class tickets (usually they sell second
class unless you specify), but for some reason were unable to find smoking
accommodations in same, so we settled into a second-class state of mind
and seats. All went well until the conductor came by and told us we had to
leave second-class and get back to first, where we apparently belonged.
I've been chased out of first to second before but never vice-versa. And I
tried to explain the rationale that having paid for a better class of
seating, we should be able to slum it a little. Not so, adamantly replied
the conductor. If we wanted to ride in second class, we should have bought
second-class tickets. So we got up and under the scornful eyes of the
peasants returned to first class. Actually there is almost no difference
between the two; first has slightly plusher seats an a little more
legroom.
Ultimately we did find a smoking section.
Now comes a couple of spectral yet polite characters in black leather
jackets swaggering down the aisle. They go by, I look on the back of their
jackets and it says, no shit, "Hell's Angels" on the top of the Hell's
Angels wing and "Switzerland" at the bottom. Now of course I gotta wonder
what Hell's Angels from Switzerland do to be badass? Be late. Or miss an
appointment altogether. Don't fill out a deposit slip properly. Drink milk
directly from the carton. Get up from dinner without excusing yourself.
The potential ins and outs of being a Hell's Angel from Switzerland keeps
me occupied the rest of the trip, which is short...a couple of hours at
most, and soon we pull into Roosendaal Centraal Station.
We go into the restaurant and for a grand total of about four bucks have
the most wonderful fish soup ever made. The Dutch eat well, and I've tried
to figure out why the food here is so much better and cheaper than at
home. Maybe the farmer dudes are subsidised. On the other hand, a doctor
will come to your house in the middle of Sunday night, it costs about
forty bucks for a filling in a tooth, unless you have insurance, in which
case it's cheaper. There are a lot of economic mysteries, but one thing
I've noticed is the absence of insurance companies' fingers in every pie.
Perhaps we oughta drag those guys out in the street by their neckties an
just shoot 'em. Come the Revolution... Or maybe it's the bold concept that
the healthcare system exists to deliver healthcare. Anyway the fish was
great, and I get on the horn to Hans, who shows up in full rodeo drag,
turquoise dripping off of him, to take us to the bar. On the way Hans says
there are a lot of Moroccans at the club... don't worry. Well, I wasn't,
but now that it's been brought up... Hey, I'm a Semite myself, that is, a
descendent of Shem as opposed to Ham or that dude Japheth. They're Hamites
or something.
We get to the club and the dreaded Moroccans turn out to be nice fellows,
not at all bloodthirsty. Besides I still have Patty draped in black head
to toe, so I earn a coupla points from the boys there. De Pub, as it's
known, is a relatively small place, good thing, cause I draw at one time I
counted 43 people. But I do my little show, an everyone seems to like it.
Now, there aren't just the Morocco guys there; there are also some
honest-to-goodness Dutch country music fans, including a coupla Dutch Mrs
Robinson babes.
Let me tell you a little about the wonderful fans in Roosendaal. During
the breaks I fielded questions in re my curriculum vitae; Texas Jewboys,
Billy Joe Shaver, stuff like that. Roosendaal has gotta be the hottest
hotbed of country music fandom in the whole little country. Not only do
they like country music, but the people who came to our show are
inordinately well-heeled...rich enough to make a yearly or bi-yearly
pilgrimage to Willie's picnic, or to South by SouthWest. And child! the
getups these folks had on just to come hear this not-even-relatively
unknown singer songwriter. I haven't seen so many Tony Lamas, even one
pair the guy swore were Charlie Dunns, western-motif jewelry, and I don't
know what-all outside of Austin. One lady fervently swore to me that
"Texas is my home." One of those people who if they're good, when they
die, they get to go stay at Willie's house.
I won't belabor you with a set list which if you haven't heard my cd would
mean nothing to you. I'm not a music writer...at least in the sense that I
can review my own shows. I didn't break any strings. I got out of the gig
well-paid and not injured. It was a good little gig, and if I ever get the
chance to go to Roosendaal again, I'm on the train.
Hans put us in a cab to take us back to the Station, and when we got
there, I tried to pay the guy, but it turned out Hans had already done
that for me, too. A touch of Texas oil baron class in Roosendaal.
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, was one of the original Texas "Jewboys,
has toured with Billy Joe Shaver and others of note. Panama Red's
"Homegrown" CD is pure genius in my opinion. He's just a misplaced
Texan I do believe. |
