All posts by Robert Darden

I am an associate professor of Journalism at Baylor University. My passion -- and research agenda -- is in black gospel music. I am currently researching a book on the influence of black sacred music on the Civil Rights Movement. My previous books include "People Get Ready: A New History of Black Gospel Music."

The Genuinely Humorous Comic Novel

It’s really hard.

No, it’s really really hard.

Writing with humor. It’s just hard. Trust me on this.

Physical humor, that’s relatively easy. Live humor, before a supportive audience, that’s kind of easy, too.

As for live TV, Letterman, Leno, O’Brien, Kimmel and the rest have lots of writers. Dozens of writers. Even so, Letterman and Leno haven’t been very funny in … oh … say a decade or so.

A weekly or bi-weekly humor column (a la Erma Bombeck or Dave Barry), that’s pretty easy, although the writers eventually burn out. Heck, even a bi-monthly religious humor and satire magazine (say, for instance, choosing one at random here, like the late, lamented Wittenburg Door) wasn’t ulcer-inducingly difficult to produce. We had our moments.

Even doing a weekly comedy show (be it Carol Burnett or Saturday Night Live) is reasonably easy, if you’ve got a talented cast and great writers (and keep them).

 

Humor in movies, at least when the writing and acting is good, that’s somewhat easy. Of course, for every Annie Hall, A Fish Called Wanda, Some Like It Hot, or Local Hero, there are lots of really really unfunny movies. We’ve all seen ‘em, alas.

But I venture to say that writing books that are honest-to-goodness, slap-your-pappy, laugh-out-loud funny, now that’s hard.

It’s hard for a lot of reasons. You don’t have the continuity humor of a great comic strip (like Bloom County or Calvin and Hobbes or Doonsbury), you don’t have the physical humor or facial expressions (think Charlie Chaplin or Richard Pryor), you don’t have the explosive, unexpected humor of improve (think Jonathan Winters or Robin Williams). You sure don’t have the timing, the dramatic pauses, the roar of the crowd (think Chris Rock or Ellen DeGeneres). You only have the printed page.

In fact, you just can’t write jokes. Jokes are only funny once. And God forbid you should write puns …

No, writing funny books … or at least chronicling the funny things and actions of otherwise sane characters that you care about while you’re advancing the plot, it’s about as difficult as it gets in the writing biz.

I think that writing funny nonfiction books, be they a collection of essays or actual narratives, is relatively easier. I’ve read very, very funny books by Mike Yaconelli (even in the midst of some very serious messages), Joe Bob Briggs (John Bloom), Woody Allen, Robert Flynn, Ann Lamott (again, while making heart-breakingly vulnerable observations), Lynda Stephenson, and others.

All that to say, I have read some genuinely comic novels. And no, I’m not making a distinction between comic novel and humorous novel.

To me, the true test of a novel blessed with great, insightful, unpredictable humor is this: Am I willing to read it again? The novels below, in no particular order, I am willing – eager, even – to read again someday (and some I have read more than once):

 

Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy O’Toole

Catch 22 by Joseph Heller

Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

Parts of just about anything by Charles Dickens

The Gun Seller by Hugh Laurie

The Liar by Stephen Fry

Parts of several fantasy novels by Fritz Leiber

High Fidelity by Nick Hornby

Bellweather by Connie Willis

Just about anything by P.G. Wodehouse

MASH by Richard Hooker

Quicksilver and Confusion by Neal Stephenson

Any of the Flashman novels by George MacDonald Fraser

Cryptonomicon by Neal Stephenson

Just about anything by Mark Twain

Parts of several Kurt Vonnegut novels

The Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman

Sacre Bleu by Christopher Moore

Parts of several “novels” by Douglas Adams

The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman

Yiddish Policemen’s Union by Michael Chabon

I’m sure I’ll think of more such novels tomorrow. And no, I do not unreservedly recommend them all. Humor is such a personal thing. There are some things that I think are funny that probably nobody else would think is funny. There is stuff that’s so funny to you that you laughed so hard that milk came up through your nose while you read it … but I would only be mildly amused by the same passage. That’s OK. A lot of humor is derived from experience. If we don’t share those experiences, we probably don’t find the same things funny. So if you ask me to recommend one of the above books, I’ll have to consider what I know about you … and what you’ve considered funny to this point in your life.

Still, I’m always looking for more absolutely great, expansive, uproarious, hilarious, joyous, goofy, transcendently funny novels.

Know any? I’d love to hear about ‘em from you.

 

 

 

 

 

We Once Had a Dog Named Naomi

We once had a dog named Naomi. She adopted Mary at a spring women’s retreat, sponsored by 7th & James Baptist Church. The retreat was held at a rural center near Clifton, perhaps 20 years or so ago. As the godly women of 7th approached the door, they saw a little female with a new litter. Most of the puppies cowered under some broken machinery, save for one, a small black and white dog. She romped out and played among their feet. She was a mutt, a mix of terrier and beagle, with perhaps some mutt/lab blood. And Mary, who is full-blood WASP and DAR, had been wanting a dog, fell in love.

Since the retreat was on the Biblical story of Naomi and Ruth, Mary named the pup Naomi.

When the retreat ended the following day, Mary called and informed me that WE had a new puppy.

My role in this significant turn of events was to say “Yes, dear.” Which, I did.

And that’s how Naomi ended up at 118 North 30th Street.

Mary was working at McLennan Community College in those days, and I was freelancing, editing The Wittenburg Door, writing a weekly column for Billboard Magazine, and teaching a class or two in the Professional Writing department at Baylor. Naomi spent the late spring and summer tormenting my shoelaces – while I tried to write – and generally behaving like an adorable puppy.

Mary quickly trained Naomi to do her doggy business outside.

In fact, Naomi learned everything very quickly. While I’d grown up with dogs, I’d never had one as smart as Naomi, though the black mutt Jay-Jay (also called Bosco by my brother Steve) was a close second. Naomi learned dozens of tricks in short order. In addition to the standard “sit and shake” tricks, one of our favorites was to place a treat on her nose, then leave the room saying, “Stay, stay, stay …”. When we’d decided she’d been tortured enough, even if we were several rooms away, we’d say, “OK.” At that point, Naomi would flip the treat in the air with her nose and catch it in her mouth.

Another popular trick was a variation of the “play dead” routine. I’d say something like, “Naomi, think carefully. Would you rather be a living Republican or a DEAD Democrat?” At which point Naomi would hurl herself on the floor, roll over on her back, and freeze – a perfect imitation of a dead log. Depending on who was present, another variation was, “Naomi, would you rather be a live Texas Aggie or a DEAD Baylor Bear?”

Since Naomi didn’t speak (save for a certain whine/yawn that sounded suspiciously like “I want out,” Mary and I had to take turns vocalizing for her. We assumed that she was humiliated by having to perform for treats and thought unkindly for us the indignity of it all. In time, her (imagined) protestations became increasingly vulgar. Yes, Naomi had a foul mouth. We imagined a Dog Heaven where Mary and I were forced to perform demeaning tricks for our food, while Naomi glowered maniacally nearby. But perhaps that says more about us than Naomi.

In those days, Mary and I walked the Castle Heights neighborhood, where we lived, nearly every evening. Naomi, of course, would accompany us. In the first few years, we took her on a leash. Later, we got rid of the leash. Naomi led us, following the exact same route, rarely getting more than a house or two ahead and occasionally looking back to make sure we were keeping up.

Like most dogs, especially those with some terrier in them, Naomi loved to chase squirrels. She only caught one once, in park that bordered the small creek that flows between Karem Park and Castle Heights. It was a crippled little squirrel and it limped frantically for the nearest tree. But Naomi was too fast for it and caught it up in her mouth. All of her little doggie dreams (for we’d often seen her running in her sleep, her legs twitching spasmodically) had come true. But having achieved her goal, she was at a loss. Fortunately, we were close enough that I shouted, “Naomi! No!” And she dropped the squirrel, which scampered up the nearest tree, shaken but apparently not much worse for the wear. Naomi trotted triumphantly back to us. Each night thereafter when we passed the same tree, she broke away to stand under it, gazing up in its branches, clearly re-living the scene of her greatest triumph.

Naomi was a gentle soul. She wasn’t much of a barker and assumed all strangers – heck, all creatures – were her friend. She ambled up to everybody, her tail wagging. Most people responded kindly to her. In her early days, Naomi had shared our house with a big, affectionate neutered tom cat named Seymour, who was very tolerant of the energetic young pup and (apparently) taught Naomi to love all living things, including cats. Cats, for their part, however, rarely returned Naomi’s happy overtures. Once, while walking Naomi in Castle Heights, we came upon an estate sale. The owners sat outside, accompanied by their large cat. Naomi moseyed up. Suddenly, the cat sat up on its haunches like a kangaroo and began bapping Naomi upside of her befuddled head – whappity-whappity-whap. Fortunately, the cat had been declawed, but Naomi was too stunned to move. I had to swoop and rescue my dog from the cat.

Once, when she attempted to make friends with a dog in someone’s backyard, was she cruelly rebuffed. The house had a tall wooden fence. There was a single partial slat missing, from which the dog’s nose extended slightly, as it surveyed the world beyond. Naomi innocently stuck her own black nose into the opening by way of greeting – whereupon the (mostly unseen) dog bit it. But she remained friendly to other dogs to the end of her days.

She never bit anyone and I only remember growling menacingly at someone once. Mary was entering an ATM booth on Washington Avenue, just as a large man – wearing some kind of uniform, as I recall – was exiting. Naomi erupted in angry, protective barks at the man and had to be restrained.

Like many dogs, Naomi loved to ride in the car. We’d tell her we were going somewhere and she’d run outside with us and jump in the car, as soon as the doors opened. She’d go with anybody who asked her to – and a few who didn’t. My father, who had left our house, once didn’t discover Naomi was in his backseat until after he’d completed several errands and was heading home across town. It was only when he checked his rear-view mirror that he saw Naomi sitting in the back seat staring at him quietly.

That’s not to say Naomi was perfect. She wouldn’t do her doggie business in our yard, but preferred the yards of others, no matter how we tried to stop her. In her later years, she insisted on dumping in the street en route to the park.

And she wasn’t terribly affectionate. She’d let you pet her for a little while, then would wander off. Naomi liked to be in the same room where you were – preferably on a couch or comfy chair – but she didn’t want to sit within arm’s length of you. When I lay on the floor watching TV, she’d always come up and curl in the crook of my arm, her head on my shoulder … but only for a few minutes.

Naomi was quirky little dog. For one thing, on our nightly walks, she refused to walk either on the sidewalk or the street, preferring instead to walk exclusively along the top of the narrow curb.

She hated baths, even though she’d get in the tub on command, standing shivering as far away from the faucet as possible. Once the bath was done, she run through the house, pausing only long enough in each room to shake the water off.

So the years passed…

The kids left home. I went to work at Baylor. Mary got her Ed.D. And Naomi grew white at the muzzle. Eventually, she became incontinent and we had to move her into a doghouse outside, where she howled miserably, waking the neighbors until we were forced to buy a muzzle. After a night or two with the muzzle, she didn’t howl again. In time, she wouldn’t come back into the house. In time, she balked at taking her nightly walks.

And one evening, returning from Baylor, I found Naomi dead in the backyard. She was about 14 years old. We had her body buried at a pet cemetery. No one got to say good bye.

Since then, we’ve moved and much has changed in our lives.

I don’t want to get another dog until someone can be home with her. I hate the thought of leaving dogs home all day alone. Right now, it isn’t feasible. Mary would like another little dog, perhaps a miniature poodle, a Jack Russell terrier, or even a cockapoo. If we get another dog someday, I’d be happy with a mutt. I don’t have any illusions that she – I wonder why I think it’ll be another female? – will be as smart as Naomi.

Odd things make me think of Naomi occasionally.

Perhaps some of it is that now our hair has turned white.

I’m no theologian, but I think Naomi is in heaven.

I even think we may see her again.

We’d better start practicing our tricks.

 

 

Every Musician Has Stories …

Every musician has stories. It comes with the territory. Here are two of mine.

In the years before I was with After Midnight, I was a member of the Waco Musician’s Union. I was in good company – Don Henley was a member in Waco, too. The late Johnny Vanston (another drummer) and his wife headed up the union until it finally closed and was folded into the Dallas/Fort Worth Music Union about 1996.

My day job back from 1978 to 1986 was as arts & entertainment editor with the Waco Tribune-Herald, back when it was still owned by the wonderful Fentress family. One night, I was assigned to cover a fund-raiser for The Art Center. It was held in an aircraft hangar on the TSTC campus. In addition to an auction, there was a dancing – provided by a big swing band made up of top Waco musicians.

It was an easy assignment. Get a few interviews, describe the decorations, food, and auction items, wait for the final tally on the auction, then phone in the story (or physically drive back to the paper – this was the days before portable computers, of course – and write it up there). I quickly finished the interviews and was enjoying the various food stations when Johnny came up to me. The bassist for the big band, for whatever reason, hadn’t shown. Would I sit in on drums? Johnny switched to bass.

So, for the one and only time in my life, I got to play in a big swing band. We did everything – Glenn Miller, the Dorseys, Benny Goodman, Guy Lombardo – and I had a ball. The bassist never showed, I filed the story, and I hummed “Chattanooga Choo Choo” for weeks. I’m sure Bob Sadler at the paper knew, but he never said anything if he did.

Story #2:

If you’re a member of the union, periodically you’ll get offered “transcription” gigs. This is one of the things the musician’s union negotiated with the big corporate publishing houses years ago. Essentially, it offered bands the going rate to play places that otherwise couldn’t afford a live band.

In those days, I was in a country-pop band called Bits & Pieces (don’t ask). I don’t remember the names of the lead singer/keyboard player (a gal) or the lead singer/guitar player (a guy), but the bassist was a friend and college buddy from several bands in those days, Scott Pelking. One evening, the guitarist called and said we had a transcription gig that weekend at the Waco VA Hospital.

If you’ve never been to the older buildings in the back of the Veteran’s Administration complex, there is an old-school amphitheater. We set up, did a sound check, and waited. After a while, nurses began to lead dozens and dozens of old soldiers into the auditorium. Some were ancient – clearly veterans of World War I. Many – too many – were grievously injured. A few were pushed into the hall in wheelchairs.

The vets crowded around the stage in front of our female keyboardist.

After a few more minutes, a bus pulled up and out came about 20 middle-aged women. I didn’t recognize any of them, but one of the nurses said that every three months, a number of women from Waco volunteered to dance with the old soldiers. Many wore the “blue stars” of Blue Star Moms – meaning they had had children who had served in the armed forces.

There were many more soldiers than there were volunteers, but each man waited patiently for his turn. On the slow songs, some of the volunteers took the men in the wheelchairs out on to the dance floor, where they slowly swayed and rocked together.

As you might imagine, the guys and gal in Bits & Pieces were speechless. We played every song we knew, especially the old ones. We played songs that I’ve never heard since, songs from the ‘20s and ‘30s. (Our two leaders had done this gig before and came prepared with massive “cheat” books.)

When the dance was over, the old soldiers filed out and the volunteers boarded their buses and went home.

I’ve never forgotten that evening, those men, those women. It was a lovely evening, but a troubling one. As the son of a career officer in the Air Force, I’m sensitive to how we as a society treat those who have given so much on our collective behalf.

Our little gig clearly meant a lot to the men who danced that night.

But very quickly I came to realize how pitifully little it was … and how little I’ve done since.

 

Christ Mass

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

 

This is my favorite hymn of Christmas.

For hundreds of years – through the early part of the 20th century – Northern Europe endured what would later be called a “mini-Ice Age.”  Heavy snows at Christmas were common. That far north, the wan sun rose late and set early. And in the hamlets and hovels, common folk shivered, praying for spring.

In those times, the Winter Solstice had special meaning. Just when it seemed that the night would win, relentlessly slicing off moments of precious daylight until only a few remained, on this day, the bleeding stopping. And, moment by moment, day by day, the sun returned.

Sol invictus!

Alone of the popular songs of Christmas, “In the Bleak Midnight” captures the desperation of nations crying for salvation, praying for the end of the darkness, the yearning for the light.

Our faith-ancestors wisely coupled the pagan Solstice celebration with the Christ mass. Beyond the obvious linguistic connection between “sun” and “Son,” they also captured a deeper understanding, a deeper magic – the Return of the Sun/Son King to save a darkened land.

The birth of Jesus, as Jeff Johnson notes, is the “centerpoint” of history, when – like a spearpoint – the divine explodes into the profane. The darkness that had prevailed so long could not withstand this moment, brighter than a billion billion supernovas.

Jesu Christo invictus!

Our God, heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain; Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign. In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Advent is the waiting, the yearning. The dark night.

But on Christmas morning, our long wait is over.

Come, o come, Emmanuel …

Baylor at the Movies

I once wrote an article that identified more than 140 people with Baylor ties working in the film and television industries … and more have joined those 140 since that article first appeared. Some Baylor grads are better known that others, such as directors John Lee Hancock and Kevin “Hal” Reynolds, and screenwriters Derek Haas and Mike Brandt. But there are many more, including Mark Olsen, LouAnn Gideon, Clu Gulager, and many more, including lots of folks on the technical side of things.

With that in mind, Alan Nelson and I got to talking one day and tried to determine if the university itself is featured in any movies.

First and foremost, Alan came up with the dark comedy Viva Max! (1969), about an abortive takeover of the Alamo. Peter Ustinov’s co-stars include Jonathan Winters and the underrated Pamela Tiffin, who plays a Baylor co-ed. Alan remembers that her kid brother wears a Baylor t-shirt in one scene. Alas, neither of us have been able to confirm that little tidbit.

Some others:

Baylor is name-checked in The Social Media by the actor playing Mark Zuckerberg as an early adopter of Facebook.

In Peter Weir’s brillaint Witness, as the Kelly McGillis character (playing an Amish widow) and her young son travel on a train for the first time, they see a green and gold 18-wheeler with the word “Baylor” emblazoned on the side.

Thomas Harris, who once wrote for the Waco Tribune-Herald, identifies one of the psychiatrists in his Hannibal Lecter/Silence of the Lambs films as having a Ph.D. from Baylor. (Incidentally, novelist Connie Willis gives one of her characters a Baylor Ph.D. in her excellent Bellweather. It would make a great movie itself, BTW.)

Baylor substitutes for a college in Maine in the romantic comedy Where the Heart Is, starring Natalie Portman. If you squint real hard, you can see the Trib’s Carl Hoover, looking very professorial, in the background.

Brandt and Haas have named characters after various folks at Baylor (including me) in their films 2 Fast 2 Furious, Catch That Kid, 3:10 to Yuma, Wanted, and The Double, as well as their new hit TV series, Chicago Fire.

Reynold’s first film, Fandango, is based on his misadventures as a fraternity member at Baylor during his undergraduate days, though the film is ostensibly set at UT.

Both Tree of Life by Terence Malick (who was born in Waco) and Sironia by Brandon Dickerson (who attended Baylor) have scenes shot in Waco, though not necessarily at Baylor. Damon Crump’s zombie thriller Risen is shot almost completely in Waco. In fact, several low-budget and independent films have been shot in and around Waco through the years, including Chris Hansen’s Endings.

Speaking of Waco, did you know actors Steve Martin, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Ashlee Simpson (well, she appeared in a movie once), Peri Gilpin, Anne Gwynne, Shannon Elizabeth and – believe it or not – Texas Guinan were all born in Waco? (Actually, I don’t have any trouble believing Texas Guinan was born here, what I have trouble believing is that she was featured in a movie.)

So, here’s our list. If you know of any other Hollywood/Baylor or Hollywood/Waco connections, I’d love to hear ‘em!

One Starry Night in San Antonio

 

 

OK, this is why it works. Perfect night. About 70 degrees. Stars out. Mary had an invitation to the Witte Museum, where the traveling exhibition, The World of Mummies http://mow2.studiobanks.us/ is currently in full swing. Just as importantly, the evening was sponsored by The San Antonio Express News http://www.mysanantonio.com/. Among those speaking at the short 15-minute program was Managing Editor Mike Leary, the Pulitzer Prize-winner, most recently at The Philadelphia Inquirer.

We arrived a few minutes early and walked the beautiful grounds of the Witte, situated on the banks of the San Antonio River. You can now walk (or ride your bike) from the museum, past the Pearl Brewery complex, through downtown, past the Riverwalk, through the King William District, past the Blue Star complex, all of the way to the other missions, several miles south of town. The “back” of the Witte, which features several (re-located) historic buildings from San Antonio’s past, faces Brackenridge Park, itself full of WPA and CCC buildings and playgrounds. The grounds were lit with fairy lights for Christmas and worth an hour or two on their own.

The Express-News provided a nice buffet and we heard from the publisher and advertising director how the newspaper was committed to the community, how it was adding sections, and – more importantly – more writers. The response was warmly enthusiastic from the couple of hundred people in attendance.

After their talk, I hobbled over to speak to Mike Leary. I introduced myself as a professor from Baylor and he immediately complimented me on the long list of awards The Lariat, Round Up and Focus magazine have all received in recent years, including those where we beat the student newspaper at the land grant school in Austin. I asked him about my friends Mike Blackman (who taught at Baylor until this semester) and Henry Holcomb (a former Lariat editor), both of whom worked at the Inquirer. Leary regaled us with stories of the two, implying – quite maliciously, I’m sure – that both of those stellar gentlemen may have imbibed hard liquor at some point in their youth. Henry’s adventures as head of the union shop while Leary was editor prompted another affectionate story or two. We parted and he reminded me that the Express-News was “beating the bushes” for interns from Baylor.

In the museum, we were much impressed by The World of Mummies. Mary and I had seen the extraordinary mummies on regular display in the British Museum, but this traveling exhibit included mummies from South America, the peat bogs of Northern Europe, and an entire family interred and forgotten for centuries in a hidden vault in an ancient German castle. Nearly every mummy had a digital display as well, showing the results of MRI and and X-ray scans. Informative and beautifully done.

The night was still young, so we drove a few minutes west towards North St. Mary’s Street where Tycoon Flats http://www.flatsisback.com/ features a biergarten, various brews on tap, good pub grub and best of all on this fine December evening – live music. San Antonio is a town full of live music, but the first Friday evening of each month belongs to the MFS Band (Music Fa Ya Soul) http://www.myspace.com/mfs4lifeband, an uncommonly talented R&B and funk band that specializes in both familiar and unfamiliar tunes by Prince, Cameo, Earth, Wind & Fire, the Gap Band, Zapp, the Stylistics and all of the great dance bands that were in business between the fall of soul music and the rise of disco. Oh, we love those guys. They were in rare form Friday night, too. Mary was compelled to dance on numerous occasions under the stars, joined by grandmothers, ankle-biters and everybody in between. Van even stopped by, en route to a special evening of his own at Floores Country Store in Helotes. I even managed to dance a slow song … but only because Mary danced very, very slowly.

When the last set ended, we hugged new friends, and were home in 15-20 minutes in light traffic.

One starry night in San Antonio, y’all…

 

After Midnight

After Midnight

The only thing harder than forming a great band is leaving one. After 14 years (or so – we’re not quite sure when this actually began) of drumming for the best cover band in Central Texas, I had to reluctantly tender my resignation from After Midnight last week. While this isn’t exactly John Lennon leaving the Beatles, it still hurts. A lot.

I’ve grown to love these guys. Barry Hankins (guitar, vocals) and I had played together at 7th & James for several years, usually backing other people for youth talent shows, 7th’s Up, and even Cool Yule when I asked him if he’d be interested in forming a band that specialized in R&B and Texas shuffle. He said yes. Barry had been in a number of bands through the years and has this wonderful Bob Seger/Detroit rock voice that was just achin’ to be spotlighted.

Within a couple of weeks, we’d heard about Steve Gardner (keyboards, vocals) at Lake Shore Baptist. We approached Steve, played a few tunes at his house and found an immediate musical/personal fit. Steve had also been in bands growing up in Oak Cliff In fact, Jimmie Vaughan, Stevie Ray’s brother, once asked Steve to go on the road with him. Steve instead chose to go to college. Jimmie’s loss, our gain.

Several other wonderful musicians came and went — Jim LePeyre, Scott Rasnic, Andrew Armond, John Haskett and others — before we finally found Lance Grigsby (bass) who, at the time, had an office across from mine in the Department of Journalism, PR & New Media. Lance is a multi-instrumentalist and good-naturedly set out to master the bass guitar. Which he did. In the process, he became After Midnight’s youngest member and token eye candy.

But between the commute from San Antonio and my knees and now my shoulder, it has gotten harder and harder. I never dreamed it would get so difficult I’d have to leave something I love this much. When I told the guys, they were disappointed, but supportive. In time, a good band becomes like family. And I had come to regard our Saturday morning and Tuesday evening practices as an anticipated family reunion. Relatives by choice.

I’ve strongly urged them to continue and I believe they will. After Midnight is certainly a lot bigger than one broken-down drummer. It gives too many people too much pleasure to stop now.

In those 14 years, we’ve played every possible gig – private parties, the Bosque River Stage, the Carleen Bright Arboretum, fund-raisers, benefits, wedding receptions, smoky dives off the Circle, La Fiesta, Hog Creek, Common Grounds, 40th, 50th and 60th birthdays, even a particularly unsettling gig on the old Brazos Queen, where we were repeatedly asked to play the Eagles’ “Desperado.” And when we didn’t replay it immediately, the entire party left the dance floor, never to return.

And, oh, the stories …

We once played a reception for an academic conference in Austin on Halloween. I had had a kidney stone the day before. But in the great “the show must go on” tradition of rock’n’roll, I played the gig with a catheter and on some serious pain meds. That night, as Mary drove us out of the downtown hotel where we’d play, we were stopped by the midnight Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender costume parade. Still loopy from the meds, I watched hundreds of beautiful LGBT people – mostly dressed as slutty nurses – parade by. Strangely, nobody remembers this but me.

We eventually came up with a two-tiered fee system. We had one fee for afternoon Southern Baptist wedding receptions where only punch was served and a lesser fee for everything else. I didn’t become a drummer to play softly.

Over the course of the years, we got to be very good. Actually, Steve, Barry and Lance were pretty good to start with. I was the one who got better. Playing with real musicians will do that for you. I’m not enough of a musician to be a great drummer, so I concentrated on keeping a funky beat when a funky beat was called for. My drumming idol is the late Al Jackson Jr., the great minimalist drummer with Booker T & the MGs. But then, the Stax/Volt and Atlantic soul/R&B eras of the ‘60s are my musical foundation.

Being a drummer in a rock band, of course, is the greatest gig in the world. You make people happy. There is nothing I like better than watching people dance and enjoy themselves. The bass player and the drummer, relieved of the added burden to be the featured soloists and sex symbols, usually people- watch. Lance and I have seen couples come together and break apart, shy guys ask a girl to dance for the first time, tipsy 70-year-olds emulate the Solid Gold Dancers, and – at the many outdoor gigs we’ve played – shooting stars explode on the horizon.

When After Midnight is cookin’, I would get totally lost in the music and the beat. I never thought about what would come next, which drum to hit, which cymbal to crash. I would get caught up in it. Making music. Having fun. Watching people smile.

In songs like “Walking to Memphis” or “Brown-Eyed Girl,” I could just play and listen to the band at the same time and marvel at their skill and my luck to be a part of it.

We eventually adopted “Mustang Sally” as our “theme” song – or, perhaps, our audiences adopted it for us. As Lance would begin the intro, our most faithful fans – Mary and Kathy and Ann and Becky and Linda and Dana – would rush the dance floor. And when we’d hit the “Ride, Sally, ride!” chorus, everybody would sing along. Magic.

Jesus, I’m going to miss that.

 

 

The Stones Cry Out

                The Stones Will Cry Out

 In the excitement over the election, perhaps you missed this little news story. It was on Page 9 of the November 8, 2012, New York Times: “Anti-Obama Protest at Ole Miss Turns Unruly.” Early Wednesday morning, a crowd of 400 people – fueled by social media – formed outside the student union building. They chanted racial slurs, yelled profanity, and lit Obama campaign signs on fire. They probably sang “Dixie,” as well. Two people were arrested for disorderly conduct.

                This nasty little bit of business probably wouldn’t have drawn much more than a paragraph had it not been at the University of Mississippi, the site of so much segregation-fueled hatred in the 1950s and ‘60s during the Civil Rights Movement.

                To be fair, Ole Miss has tried to redeem its past in recent years. The Times reported that the school solemnly marked the 50th anniversary of desegregation in September, changed its mascot from a Confederate soldier to a black bear, and even dropped “Dixie” as its fight song. Ole Miss students elected their first black homecoming queen this year. And, in the riot’s aftermath, black and white students have since walked across the campus together, holding candles and singing, in public opposition to the sentiments expressed that night.

                As one white student said, “What happened last night was really disappointing. We do have a history of racial issues, but this is not at all what our school or most students stand for.”

                It was at the University of Mississippi, you may remember, where Air Force veteran James Meredith registered in September 1962, forcing a horrific, sometimes violent, response by thousands of students and outside agitators. President John F. Kennedy eventually called in 31,000 federal troops to force Ole Miss to abide by the law of the land. But Meredith’s couple of years on the campus were living hell.

                The sad, sick little riot at Ole Miss the other night reminded me of a story told me by English contemporary Christian artist Adrian Snell. You must understand that to be a CCM artist in the U.K. means that you must really, really be called to what you do, because there is none of the Christian music infrastructure there. It’s a tiny audience and Snell and the other CCM artists essentially live hand-to-mouth – and keep their day jobs. Not surprisingly, Adrian is a clear-eyed realist. He’s not a mystic, not a dreamer, not a romantic. He writes songs about his faith and is occasionally allowed to sing them before small audiences that may or may not give him a love offering. He’s also very talented.

                Adrian was invited to perform at a church in Germany. Church members promised to provide his transportation costs, room and board, and take up a love offering. He agreed. A lovely older German couple picked him up at the airport on the appropriate evening and drove him to his destination – a town in the Black Forest. The couple spoke passable English and they had an uneventful trip until …

                … until they entered the Black Forest.

                The closer they came to their destination, the more difficulty Adrian had in speaking. He told me he felt as if he were in a small, pitch-black closet – and that the walls were closing in. There was an unspeakable sensation, he recalled, of oppression.

                When they finally arrived at the church, a nice crowd was waiting. Adrian took his guitar, stumbled to the stage, and discovered that he could not sing. He tried several times. Nothing happened. The sense of oppression was too great.

Finally, his hosts led him off stage. The German husband turned to his wife and said, “Well, it has happened again.”

Adrian managed to blurt out, “What has happened again!?”

“Sometimes when we bring singers here, they find they can’t sing, just as it has happened to you.”

“Why?” Adrian cried.

“We believe it is because the church is on the grounds of a Nazi concentration camp where many, many innocent people were murdered. You are apparently sensitive to this.”

Adrian said he spent the night at the couple’s home and they took him to the airport the following day.

In Luke 19:40 (NIV), Jesus tells His disciples, “I tell you, if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out.”

Mary once had a similar experience. It happened when I was co-writing the book Madman in Waco with Brad Bailey. Shortly after the fire at the Branch Davidian compound that killed so many people, Mary and I drove out to the site. It was dusk. The feds had taken the fences down and we walked towards to the ashes of the barrack-like buildings. We were alone that evening. Suddenly, Mary was overcome with grief and a feeling of oppression and we had to leave immediately. I’m not as perceptive or intuitive as Mary, but even I felt … something that night.

The stones will cry out …

Perhaps you’ve had a moment like that, a moment where something otherworldly or supernatural or spiritual has washed over you.

Perhaps it was even a good feeling. I had that once – and only once – while visiting the little village of Eyam in the north of England. On the path towards the village of Hathersage one evening, I felt for the one time in my life a sense of being … home. I even broke down in tears. I’ve never had that sensation since.

As you may know, I have been immersed in the intersection of the Civil Rights Movement and black sacred music in recent years. Consequently, I have been to many of the places in the South where blood was shed – Birmingham and Memphis, in particular. Perhaps the stones still cry out there as well, just as they do in the Black Forest and at Ole Miss.

If nothing else, the stupid little riot at the University of Mississippi reminds us that as a people we still have a long way to go when it comes to race in this country. As a number of commentators have pointed out, you only have to over-lay a map of the Confederacy with a map of the states that voted against President Obama …

The Civil Rights Movement is an on-going movement, whether we think it is old history or not. Ole Miss reminds how far will still have to go.

 

A Day on the Police Beat

             A Day on the Police Beat

 

In a perfect world, just about everybody would have to serve on the police beat for at least a year. And not just journalists, either. Everybody. Much of what I learned about writing, I learned on the police beat. There are a number of classes where you can learn how to accurately gather information and write in clear declarative sentences on a deadline.

But on the police beat, you learn a lot more. You learn how to discern among several conflicting viewpoints. You learn about agendas. You learn how to nurture contacts. You learn who isn’t trustworthy. You learn how to tell when someone is trying to use you for their own gain. You learn how to weave varying opinions into a story. You learn, ultimately, what is and what isn’t newsworthy. All of those still-evolving skills have served me in (mostly) good stead as I’ve written ever-larger magazine articles and books.

So, just like the obituaries, no matter what city I am in, I read the short police reports in the daily newspaper. And, like obituaries, I’m sure some folks would think this is a bit morbid of me. It’s true that the bulk of the reports are about murders and robberies, car crashes and fires. (But not everywhere. When I lived in the U.K., there was a single murder in Bristol in the year I was there. It was front page news for nearly two months.)

Like most police reporters, I have a story or two from my time interacting with the police. Perhaps I’ll blog about them some day. A couple of them involve Brad Bailey. By and large, I’ve liked the beat policemen and inspectors I’ve encountered. (Traffic cops, not so much.) The guys and gals on the street – the “Thin Blue Line” – are generally honest, hard-working, fascinating people. Like the men and women who work in fire departments. Like the men and women who teach science and math to junior high school boys. They’re all interesting. And we don’t pay any of them enough.

And so it comes to pass that I was reading the police reports in the Sunday Oct. 28, 2012 San Antonio Express-News: a fatal car crash, a fire, a police homicide detective facing an assault charge … and this little item from the city’s East Side. Police reporters are trained to relay the information they’ve obtained from the police blotter (or interviews with the police) in a dispassionate, matter-of-fact style, just as the reports in the police blotters are written.

This particular story (on page B2, should you think I am making this up), is titled “Aggressive dog killed by officer.” To recap:

According to Sgt. Gary Pelfrey from SAPD, a woman’s dog got loose from her front yard about 2 p.m. on that Saturday. The woman pursued the animal. “According to her,” Pelfrey stated, “in a playful manner, the dog started ripping her clothes off.”

OK, full stop. I’m having trouble picturing this. But Pelfrey continues:

“An innocent bystander who was walking down the street didn’t know they were being playful, and he tried to help.”

The pit bull-like dog bit the man on the leg, then ran further down J Street. Paramedics and the police were called.

When the officer arrived, the woman was “walking down the street in a thong,” still trying to regain control of the dog.

The dog lunged at the officer in “an aggressive manner” and the officer was forced to shoot the animal.

You’re wondering if the innocent bystander was all right.

No you’re not, you’re wondering about the woman, now reduced to wearing nothing but a thong after her dog “playfully” tore the rest of her clothes off, trying to regain control of her pit bull-like dog. Admit it.

What’s next?

But that’s all there is. The account ends with the cop killing the dog.

Intriguing, yes. Infuriating, yes. Weird, yes. But that’s the deal with police reports. They’re just reports, they’re not complete little short stories. They’re a snapshot of a moment in time.

An innocent bystander, an alternately playful and aggressive dog, a woman wearing only a thong, a cop.

Four characters in search of a third act.

Just another day in the police reports. What will it be tomorrow?

Melancholy Music, Part II

 

 

 

 

Melancholy Music, Maybe. Part II

We’re still talking about/listening to great melancholy songs. One thing that quickly struck me as I began assembling this second part of the list was the number of native Texans (or, at least, songwriters with strong ties to Texas). Why? Who knows…

Which Kris Kristofferson song to choose? The man’s written a bunch of ‘em. Of course, looking back on his acting career, I’d be melancholy, too. How about “Sunday Morning Coming Down”?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qYvkhDMU5Mg

Rodney Crowell is one of our best living songwriters. Like Kristofferson, he’s most comfortable singing about loss and love and a fragile kind of hope that never quite gives way to despair – “Ashes by Now.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YvVSLIXFJWM

Featured on that last video is Emmylou Harris. Crowell used to be her band leader. He wrote “Ashes by Now” and the heartbreakingly lovely “Till I Again Control Again.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TMR4ZU1noI4

Some songs are so old that their roots are lost in the mists of time. “Texas Rangers” is a re-written version of an ancient English ballad, filled with intriguing anachronisms. Michael Martin Murphey sings it like it was meant to be sung, a cappella, with just a hint of drone in the background.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2-dYzh_ZA8A

Roseanne Cash released a number of wonderful albums, mostly produced by her husband (and native Texan) Rodney Crowell. Even her happy songs sound a little wistful. “Seven Year Ache” is one of my favorites. Her dad, Johnny Cash, knew his way around a melancholy song, too.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hrUs_FWqj9s

Townes Van Zandt was a tortured genius, tormented and demon-wracked. And he wrote some of the most achingly beautiful songs of melancholy ever recorded, including “Tecumseh Valley.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_rq5GsZHd0Y

Another Texan, equally acclaimed and – fortunately for music-lovers everywhere – still with us, Guy Clark has an extraordinary catalogue of original and soul-searching songs. Which one to choose? How about the quiet desperate sadness of “Desperados Waiting for a Train”?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbB5TRLF9mo

I’ll be forever grateful for Mike Korpi and Walt Wilkins for introducing me to Itasca native Sam Baker, the heir to Townes and Guy. Nearly killed by a “Shining Path” bomb in Peru, Sam taught himself to play guitar left-handed and has proceeded to write some of the most haunting songs in the English language in recent years, including “Waves” and “Baseball.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ivJva71KaL0

Though not from Texas, John Prine is the only person with three songs on my list, “Angel from Montgomery,” “Sam Stone” and “Paradise.” He’d be considered one of our greatest living songwriters if he never wrote anything but these three. Fortunately, he’s written many, many more equally dour, sardonic, utterly beguiling masterpieces as well.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tVZmSEpuJtg

Speaking of “Angel from Montgomery,” I first saw Bonnie Raitt back in the early ‘80s and have been a fan ever since. But I’m not sure she ever recorded a more beautifully dejected song than “I Can’t Make You Love Me.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nW9Cu6GYqxo

One more American singer/songwriter of note – Tom Rush has been doing this sort of thing a very long time. He’s probably best-known for his leaving home song, “No Regrets,” but I’ve always loved the sad and lovely “Merrimack County.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yS6pMotQma0

Emotionally and stylistically, the Irish seem to have the most in common with Texans, at least when it comes to music. Perhaps because so many Texans are of Irish descent. Or, as G.K. Chesterton once wrote, “For the great Gaels of Ireland/Are the men that God made mad/For all their wars are merry/And all their songs are sad.” Sounds like most Texas songwriters to me!

Regardless, I’d have to say that Maura O’Connell’s version of Tom Waits’ “Broken Bicycles” is one of the most serenely melancholy songs I’ve ever heard. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be a Youtube video of her performing the song, so here’s Wait’s original:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eF-HAAUY45c

This one could just as easily ended up in my list of over-exposed songs of melancholy, but Sinead O’Connor’s version of Prince’s “Nothing Compares 2 U” holds up over repeated listenings and viewings. The stark, honest simplicity of the performance, coupled with the longing and loss in the words, are nearly unparalleled when it comes to MTV-styled videos.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iUiTQvT0W_0

Not surprising, there are a number of artists from the U.K. on my list. (Of course, my Irish friends would say that they’re melancholy because of the Brits!)

Here’s one that you may not remember: Dream Academy, “Life in a Northern Town.” When the music of ‘80s was good, it was very good. And when it was bad, well … This is one of the good ‘uns.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O17MA58P-QY

Dave Mason used to be one of my favorite artists, both when he was with Traffic and as a solo performer. He was/is also an under-rated songwriter. “Shouldn’t Have Took More Than You Gave” is Mason at his melancholic best.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xj2h0LSTY3U

My two favorite songs by the Stones are their bleakest and most melancholy, “No Expectations” and “Wild Horses.” “Wild Horses” is about addiction. Though I’d always known and liked the song, I didn’t really get “No Expectations” until MSNBC played it under a montage of scenes of the aftermath of Katrina. The lyrics are chillingly descriptive – and the somber music matches the mood.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1rIqBeMZAMc

I surprised that only a handful of the many, many great soul/R&B songs I love can be classified as melancholy. Here are three of them:

The Temptations’ “Just My Imagination (Running Away with Me)” has an added layer of regret over and above the lyrics and music – this is the last song with the original lineup, before egos and health issues tore the group apart.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M5Z9-QCmZyw

I never get tired of hearing Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes sing “If You Don’t Love Me by Now.” Teddy Pendergrass at his prime. An aching, stop/start melody line. And sublimely resigned harmonies. Perfect.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UxOZ6gifTjA

And one of my earliest all-time faves: Brook Benton’s moody, mystical, just on the edge of despair reading of “Rainy Night in Georgia.” Some of the most melancholy guitar licks ever pressed to wax. I can remember being a teen-ager and driving around the Piney Woods of East Texas listening to this song as if it were yesterday. It transports me every time.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bDRbF80NKDU

Finally, the four melancholy songs that still hit me at a visceral level whenever I hear them. They are here because they embody the best, most insightful lyrics and most utterly haunting melodies of a truly great song of melancholy and loss. These are bittersweet, autumnal songs of regret … but always leavened with a hint of hope.

I’m not sure I can narrow down the music of Loreena McKennitt to just two songs – all of them are infused with a gorgeous Celtic fatalism and transcendent beauty. “Lady of Shalott” and “The Bonny Swans” are just two of many …

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JsNJuhBfbPg

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MU_Tn-HxULM

The forever underrated Beth Nielsen Chapman (who happens to have been born in Harlingen, Texas), has written hits for a lot of other artists. But nothing, to my ears, as heart-wrenchingly beautiful as “Sand and Water,” written after the loss of her husband to cancer.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_G6lIpWQXhw

And finally, I don’t know this song always devastates me. It just does. It’s like a fatal attraction. It sends me careening in melancholy every time I hear it, but I keep going back: Simply Red, “Holding Back the Years.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yG07WSu7Q9w

And, as before, I’d welcome/cherish YOUR favorite melancholy songs!