Road Tales - Aftermath

I am often asked what happened to the characters that folks came to know and love in Road Tales. Here is the fate of a few:

Patty O'Leary - Patty moved to Paris to study writing and the culture. She achieved her dream in 1972 after graduating from a Minneapolis high school. She soon She obtained a masters degree in fine arts. She wrote columns for her local village. She never married and  had no children. She lived with the fear that they would die young like her mother. On June, 7th, 1987 Patty followed her mother to the other side. Cancer claimed her at the age of 34.

Jack Ghostly - Jack went to a successful career as a social worker. He continued to play music in the local Twin Ports area. He married his high school sweetheart. Their union produced a girl and a boy. They bought a house in Central Park and lived an idyllic life until Jack's death. Jack suffered a massive coronary in his kitchen. He died at the age of 52.

Curt Butler - Curt continued on his nefarious ways until he was murdered at age 38. The police haven't solved the murder. Suspects were numerous. They all said the same thing, "I wish I was the one." He was not mourned.

Tim O'Keefe - As you know from the book, Timmy O'Keefe died of Leukemia. A day hasn't gone by that I haven't missed Timmy.

Dave Dudley -  David continued to play music until his death on December 22, 2003. I'll never forget his gregarious laughter and generous spirit.

Del Shannon - Del continued in the music business, playing smaller and smaller venues as the years went by. He was forced to sell most of his classic cars due to financial problems. Del never released the next hit for which he was so desperate. On February 9th, 1990 Del took his own life with .22 rifle.

Ricky Nelson - Ricky's career fell off during the late '70's and early '80's. The rumour in the industry was that he was unreliable. Drugs played an increasing roll in Ricky's last years. I last played with him when he was appearing at the Normandy Hotel in Duluth, MN, in 1984. He was still looking for that next hit that would put him back on top. He died on December 31st, 1985 en route to a New Year's Eve concert when his plane caught fire while Ricky was freebasing. The news hit me hard. I knew him when he was on top and had seen him when he reached a career low. Little did I suspect that he had farther to fall.

Bill Haley - Bill continued his boozing ways up until right before his death. He was a great guy to party with, a funny guy who loved to laugh. He never seemed to take anything too seriously. Years of being an admitted alcoholic inevitably caught up with him when he developed a brain tumor. In his final days he recognize no one. He died on February 9th, 1981.

Road Tales - Behind the scenes

I decided on the novel format so that I wouldn't embarrass folks that I've known. And also so I wouldn't get sued.

All of the characters are based on real people. Sometimes I consolidated several people into a single character. That makes it easier for the reader and the writer.

The decade that began in 1965 was the greatest period in musical history. In the '60's came an explosion of creativity and expression unlike anything before or since. Experimentation was encouraged with amazing results by companies like Electra Records. Blues grew into a recognized art form through groups like The Doors and Paul Butterfield's Blues Band. Players like Mike Bloomfield stretched the limits guitar picking. Of course, Jimi Hendrix was the undeniable innovator of modern rock & roll.

The folks that I played with, famous and not, were sincerely searching for their own voice, to express their pain and hopes. It was a glorious time for music. I am so glad that I grew up during that time.

Rode Tails - Musical Visitors chapter sample

Musical Visitors

E

ventually, I discovered that my dad knew a bunch of musicians. There came an era in our household on Bartholomew in the Desire neighborhood of New Orleans that I realized that some of these card playing people were quite gifted musicians, singers, and entertainers.

                There was an old WWII Army buddy of my dad named Louis Jones. The guy was way older than my dad, loved to play cards, bullshit, drink beer, tell stories – often he’d ask my mother to cover my young ears – and jokes. I loved the guy. He was great to me and always brought me peppermint candies.

                Apparently, my dad had saved Mr. Jones’ life during some battle during World War II. They were in the same outfit in Germany in 1944. My dad seldom talked about the war, nor did he boast of any heroism. But it was obvious that Mr. Jones held him in high regard.  

~~~

                Years later, my dad whooped at our black & white TV as his old Army buddy appeared on a new show. Mr. Jones looked exactly the same as I remembered and he played the same song: That Good Ole Mountain Dew. We were back on the res by that time and I recall clearly my dad saying, “That’s my old buddy, Louis. He was at least 10 years older than the rest of us and woke up grumpy every morning earning him the nickname of Grandpa.”

                The show was Hee Haw. We never missed an episode. It was clear that my dad felt great pride in his buddy. He also loved Buck Owens and Roy Clark. I dug both cats too, even though it wasn’t cool at the time among my peers. I am currently working up an album of Buck Owens covers. The guy was fun!     

~~~

That became a recurring theme in my life: the best musicians, performers, and entertainers that I played with were people that most have never heard of. 

Rode Tails - The long, rough road

This is sort of a pre-chapter. Like I said, I don't follow the rules very well, for writing and, as you'll see, for life in general.

The Long, Rough Road

           

“A

fter all my hard, hard travelling, things about coming my way…” As I recorded this Tampa Red song I realized that it accurately described my spirit. No matter what life has thrown at me. No matter how far down I sunk my inner core would not give up, would not admit defeat, and would always rise again. I reflected nature. I died and then was reborn, over and over again. Just as winter gives way to spring and as seeds awaken with the thaw, I have always been resurrected into a new life.

            My father, Sunshine Blackwater, had many sayings that he repeated time again until his death and after as his words rang in my memory. One of his most repeated sayings was, “Life is what you make it. If you believe its shit, your life will be shit. If you believe that it is great, your life will be great.”

            I chose great.

            At birth I received a mixed bag of talents and deficiencies just like everyone else. The challenge of the early days was sorting out which was what. Creative ability emerged quickly as the frontrunner. Music, writing, storytelling, painting, photography, engineering, and above average, though never outstanding, athletic ability were the top gifts that I detected and developed to their utmost.

            Using my musical abilities I have had the great fortune to play with many great musicians, many famous people, and a few who were both great and famous. 

            Currently, I have the honour and privilege of working with two of the true greats that I have met: Spade McQuade & Shawn Lightfoot.

            Another gift that I received was the drive to procreate, to reproduce. To that end, I helped create five incredibly talented offspring, namely boys Ashcat, Ghost Moon, Red Moon, Lonewolf, and PJ, the girl – the Indian Princess of the Blackwater Tribe.

As a musician on the road I used that drive as often as I could. The combination of music and horniness are the subject of this book and source for the dual title: Road Tales & Rode Tails–The story of a blessed life of debauchery. 

Rode Tails - My First Professor (full chapter)

My First Professor

O

ccasionally, my folks would scrape together enough extra money to head to a country bar on a weekend. I remember one bar in particular by the name of the Gaiety, which was a honky tonk east on Chef Hwy. It was a long drive to near or maybe over the Mississippi line. (M I S S – I S S – I Pee Pee In Your Eye – that’s how I learned to spell it.)

 In that bar played a giant of man that my dad called Henry, or sometimes, Birdman. He was the tallest person I had ever seen. And he had these extraordinarily long fingers. Birdman played piano at the bar, accompanied by various musicians depending upon the night. Some nights more players would filter in late in the night.

 I always positioned myself at the end of the piano and watched Mr. Byrd’s hands pound a piano – old, beat up, cigarette scarred, turn-of-the-century vintage piano – bringing out a carnival of sounds from his ten, bony fingers and that deep voice resonating off every surface in the jernt.  Happy people, free of care, danced joyously to the music.

            I watched intently every finger stroke and would later attempt to mimic his movements with my tiny hands. I may have been six by this time. My parents were happy that I was distracted and not interfering with their conversations with the other denizens of Gaiety. And Mr. Byrd took a liking to me.

            Occasionally, Mr. Byrd would show me a pair of keys to hit, “Jus’ keeps on hitting the B-flat and C when I points at you.” I’d strike the keys in rhythm with him whenever he pointed, then he’d signal me to stop with a gentle, horizontal wave of his hand whereupon his fingers would fly up and down the 88’s, another finger point and I’d be pounding the high Bb-C as he laughed and urged me on.

            You pick up on vibes from adults. My dad loved this guy. He felt him, sang along with him (out of tune), and bought him beers. “You’re all kinds of alright, Sunny,” Mr. Byrd would say. My dad would always reply, “Henry, you know what I came to hear, you know the song. Play it! You played it for her you can play it for me.” I hadn’t seen Casablanca at that point in my few days so I missed the significance of the Bogart reference.

            “Goodbye Joe, me gotta go, me oh my oh, me gotta go float a pee-row down the bayou…Oh Jambalaya, crawfish pie, fillet gumbo. For tonight I’m gonna see my Cher amio… ”

            I had heard Jambalaya more than any other song at that time, but this was quite different. It wasn’t a guitar strumming version. It was a vibrant, soulful piano-based rendition. Mr. Byrd painted a completely different picture than what I envisioned from the original by Hank Williams, Sr.

This proved to be yet another transformational moment for a young entertainer like me: Make the song your own!

            Frequently over the next few years my folks travelled to whenever they could to wherever this man played. I heard my dad explain that Henry wasn’t allowed to play in New Orleans proper because he had a mixed band. Professor Longhair, Henry Roeland Byrd, was black yet he often hired white musicians to play with him. Strangely, I immediately understood what he was saying. I knew kids whose mothers would call them in from the ball field if there were Negro kids playing. At 6, I couldn’t comprehend racism, but it was the reality of the time and place. It was the way things were in 1959.

             There are still things that Fess played that I can’t figure out. I replay his every finger movement in my mind, but can’t discern the nuances of his floating digits. But I solemnly appreciate all that he taught me and for his heartfelt inspiration.

            Older classmen of the time like Mac Rebennack (Dr. John) and Ed Volker (The Radiators) – who got closer to Fess as musicians and students – were able to absorb more, but there isn’t a keys man of our generation that isn’t beholding to Mr. Henry Roeland Byrd, more famously known as Professor Longhair.   

Rocky Rhodes - Preface

The Rocky Rhodes

Jack Ghostly was the undisputed pun master of our band.  The subtitles of Road Tales are a tribute to Jack. This subtitle plays on the name of the piano I used back then: the Fender Rhodes Stage 73.

This volume of Road Tales continues the story of music and debauchery that are my life. Picking up from where Rode Tails ended in late 1968, Rocky Rhodes describes the many highs and a few lows that occurred during the years of 1968 through 1970, an era that lasted an eon and forged me through an intense ordeal by fire, a flaming gauntlet that I easily could have killed me. Yet, through each death came a new life, new promise, and new hope.

With the shit that rained down on me during these years, with all the strife and conflict going on in the world, I could have easily become a serial killer… or a politician. (You tell me the difference between those two.)

Or, I could have easily committed suicide, which was and remains the leading cause of death for Indian teens, or, been murdered by wasicu, the next leading cause for premature exit to the other side for our people.

At my lowest point a series of folks came into my life to provide comfort and guidance. The greatest new influence was the Boudreaux family introduced to me through their eldest son Ben. 

I’m never sure when new folks are sent into my path whether I’m supposed to help them or the other way around. I’m starting to realize that both things happen. You cannot affect someone without being affected by them.

These stories are about the people who changed me and my life –and me theirs – in fulfillment of the Grand Design. 

Rode Tails - Emergence chapter

The first chapter of Rode Tails describe my birth (no gory details) and first impressions of the world I was born into.

Emergence

I

 floated in the Amniotic Sea at the darkest of midnights enjoying the banquet graciously passed down by my host. Andouille sausage, shrimp Creole, red beans and rice, chicken jambalaya, deep-fried catfish, washed down with sweet iced tea providing my nourishment.  Dixie beer and brandy had become my favorite calmatives. It always happened the same way. The music of a juke box would filter in, I would start dancing my tiny feet, and soon the alcohol would start flowing inducing immediate relaxation, peace, and dreams. I was certain that life couldn’t get any better.

I remembered the time before my spirit embraced the body I found myself in. For eons, I had bounced around the galaxy from crib to lecture hall to ballroom to bar room. I always felt most comfortable in the bar room.

 In the bar room, I met folks that I was most comfortable with, the cats I could stand to be around for more than a sentence. Poets, writers, musicians, novelists, circus performers, gymnasts, volleyball and soccer players, mathematicians, physicists, scientists, engineers, and even psychiatrists were in my closest orbit, comprising an eclectic collection of drunkards.

One night, I was drinking wine with this Dionysus chick at a bar in the Orion belt. We were contemplating the effect of a single fart in the ocean to all fish in the sea. We drank a shot of Absinthe and moved on to the farts effect on oceanic mammals. After a few more shots the conversation shifted to embryonic physiology. I have always loved hot chicks with a brain who liked to drink. I started to trip balls from the Absinthe, drank too much of her beauty, and lapsed into a warm coma. I awoke in a bag of fluid sucking a tiny thumb. Have you ever had a night like that? 

~~~

People were jabbering around me. “Hey, I’d appreciate a little consideration here, ok. Do y’all know what I’ve just been through?” They didn’t hear, didn’t care. I heard my grandmother say repeatedly, “Armond Joy! Armond Joy! Armond Joy!”

Years later I learned what really happened. It is Sioux tradition to celebrate birth with a feast. Granny Blackwater was starving and thought the nurses were asking her what she wanted to eat. She had seen a bowl of candy bars on our way to the room and asked for her favourite snack: Almond Joy.