The body language tells me he is trying to connect with the too-young-for-me brunette. I avoid having to join the conversation. I steer clear of the bar, of the show featuring his contrarian ideas, of his serial puns. The obviousness of his intentions making me want to groan. I am told it is his mischievous smile, the sparkle in his eye, that makes it work. I wonder how long it takes them to realize that he has dimorphic eyes, the inner aureole of his right iris a lighter shade of brown, honey coloured.
“Texas Radio and the Big Beat”
A singer with a story.
A gravesite with a story. Ten years until it got a headstone. Ten years of vandalism then a new headstone from the father.
Songs with backstories that when documented come with ignored disclaimers: rumoured, claimed, some say, believed, thought.
I collect musical facts because I am not musical enough, because I do not know how to talk about the music itself. I am unlikely to remark on the driving drum beat being front and center but I know they had only one microphone for the drum kit.
Riding around Miami in a white Le Mans coupé, I learn that a joint allows me to isolate the different instruments. Musical meditation. Untangling the three guitars in Lynyrd Skynyrd‘s live performance of Free Bird. Listening to John Cale on the left speaker and Lou Reed on the right one. Parked on the beach, star gazing set to The Dark Side of the Moon.
I knew of Pink Floyd before knowing their music. I was 11 or 12, the guidance counselor had a poster on his wall. I must have said something about it being a funny name. He explained it was an homage to two bluesmen, Pink Anderson and Floyd Council. Funny name for a bluesman.
He is the only practicing hippie I can remember knowing. It was the early 70’s and he would complain about how his was one of the last remaining communal houses. One of those friendly bear types, a cross between Jerry Garcia and Jim Morrison during his beard period.