van cliburn, 1934 - 2013

a repost from a couple years back; tonight, it seems appropriate.  rest in peace, mr. cliburn, and thanks for the memory.



so i'm thirteen and on a trampoline in some strange kid's backyard in a strange city, having been dragged there by the kid of the friend my mother had dragged me along with her to visit [that's clear, right?].

it's hot and we're jumping and hollering and generally having a good time, when suddenly there's the sound of a car out front and then the gate opens, three grownups appear and the action grinds to a halt. one of 'em (the woman, i think) steps forward and calls out, "c'mere, kids, there's someone we want you to meet!"

"my parents," one of the kids who lives there mutters. "c'mon, we have to." obviously, he's done this drill before.

we dutifully dismount and cross the lawn to the grownups. i'm embarrassed as i always am when meeting new grownups, but even more so than usual because they're all impeccably turned out in their church clothes, and we're a fuckin' mess.

the parents proudly introduce their guest and the kids are all like, yeah, whatever, give him a half-hearted wave and head back to the trampoline.

the parents are obviously mortified by their kids' reaction. i'm mortified, too, and more than a little stunned--because, unlike them, i know exactly who this guy is.

see, my grandmother had told me all about him as we watched him perform on television one night. about how he'd gone to the soviet union at the height of the cold war as a callow young kid from the nearby town of kilgore, competed in their fancy piano contest, beaten the russkies at their own game and come home with the prize.

about how america had celebrated his victory with magazine covers and ticker-tape parades.

but more importantly--at least for my grandmother--about how he had vindicated east texas. because suddenly we weren't just backwoods hicks anymore--we had produced a prodigy.

so without overthinking it too much, i walk my sweaty and grass-stained ass up to this elegant, imperially-slim gentleman, stick out my hand and say, "nice to meet you, mr. cliburn. my grandmother loved you."

and then feel myself flush as it flashes through my mind--"holy shit, is 'van cliburn' like 'van dyke'? does he have a first name i don't know about and i just made an even bigger fool of myself?"

no worries--he smiles and takes my grubby little mitt in his without hesitation. his hand is cool and supple, and i marvel at the fact that he'd let anyone touch it, much less me.

we talk for a minute. turns out the kid's parents are real estate agents and are helping him find a house for his mother. he asks me about school and about my grandmother, and seems genuinely interested.

and then he heads into the house to talk business with the parents and i head back to the trampoline to join the others, but i can't get back into it. the afternoon has changed, and i can't put my young finger on why.

alas, the word "surreal" hasn't yet entered my vocabulary.

christopher hitchens, 1949 - 2011

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I sympathize afresh with the mighty Voltaire, who, when badgered on his deathbed and urged to renounce the devil, murmured that this was no time to be making enemies.

gerry rafferty, 1947-2011

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i'll let everybody else in the blogosphere and elsewhere posthumously pee down both legs over stuck in the middle and baker street.

me?  i'll focus instead on a couple far more obscure songs which first made me suspect (a) how talented this guy really was





and (b) how he probably idealized his childhood just like me [steamboat row, in the following clip]





[which second point would only be confirmed when i read this obit earlier today]

RIP, you talented, tortured, drunken soul.

believe it or not, i was once a brazen, entitled, ungrateful little fuck

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as i sat there at his funeral and listened to the [too-few] testimonials, i reflected that if every friend, relative, employee and/or stray country-singer-with-promise my uncle don had helped on his way to the top had shown up that day, the church woulda been filled to overflowing; as it was, the place was maybe a third full--world's full of ungrateful bastards, i thought.


and then i recalled the way i myself had once handled don's largesse and decided to cut the rest of the world a little slack.

picture it:  spring 1979

i'm 22 years old, three years outta high school, three aimless semesters of junior college and one at UT austin under my belt--depressed, directionless and adrift.

awakened from sleep one early afternoon by my roommate:  "your uncle don's on the phone--says it's important."

and indeed it is.  my dead father's very busy and very successful brother, who has only once before ever called me directly, has decided to light a fire under his nephew's lazy ass:  he offers to fully fund the remaining two years of my college education--room, board, tuition, books, walking-around money--everything.  all i have to do is finally settle on a major and get back to him; he'll do the rest.

nice, huh?

to this day, i dunno from what depths i managed to summon the chutzpah to do what i do a week later:  namely, call and tell don that instead of the two years of college he's offered, i've suddenly decided i wanna go to architecture school.  it's a five-year program, starting from scratch--not a problem, right?

to his credit, don not only doesn't blink, he flies me up two weeks later for lunch with him and one of tulsa's leading commercial architects--hell, he's researched the whole thing far more fully than i have.

see, here's the thing about uncle d--he listened.  when you talked to him about anything of substance, he always had a legal pad, took copious notes, handed 'em off to his secretary to be typed up and added to your file--not that he ever forgot anything, of course.

i'm last-minute-accepted into the UT architecture program commencing fall '79, and don gives me a big check covering all my first-year expenses--except for a car, which i need because my old honda's dying.

he gives me a choice:  (a) a new car; or (b) one of his VP's cast-off company cars.  i decide that, having already taken a mile, i might as well settle for an inch this time [and besides, don's VP's cars are always fabulous, right?].

unfortunately, VP homer p. turns out to be a chrysler guy.

there's technically nothing wrong with the new yorker--it's big and plush and relatively new--but from the moment i climb inside that loose, rattly old-ladymobile and turn the key, it's alien and wrong and i hate everything about it.

homer actually showed up at the funeral; i briefly debated telling him he had shitty taste in cars, but, being sober, went with the "my uncle always spoke highly of you" option instead.

to my credit, i endure the thing for almost a month before i ditch it for a vehicle which i deem far more appropriate to a serious young student embarking upon a rigorous course of study at a major university; i.e.,

how, you ask?  simple--i unload the new yorker at top dollar to neville, who has suddenly found himself flush with cash.

wait--have i never talked about neville?

neville:  (a) assistant athletic director at tyler junior college; (b) my mother's then-boyfriend; (c) the reason i got straight A's in gym for three semesters without ever once showing up; and (d) [since they played football together back in the day, and most pertinent to this story] my uncle d's newest business partner in a nursery venture which was created to exploit neville's legendary green thumb.

"so, mike," my uncle d sits me down and gently explains to me that summer at grand lake when he finds out about my brilliant deal:  "just so you understand, i ended up buying that new yorker three times--first, for my company; then, for you; and last but not least, for neville."

of course in my stupid, self-centered youth, i hadn't put that one together--but lemme tell you, i'll never forget how small i felt when i realized what i'd done.

i'll never forget what happened next, either--uncle d put his arm around my shamed, dejected shoulders, gave me a squeeze and said, "don't worry about it--it's ok."

and then--because he always used music to deflect shit--he said, "here, listen to this--willie and ray price just put out an album, and you gotta hear what they did with this song."

while neville's nursery would turn out to be but one of many failed business ventures don would sink his money into in order to help out a friend--and god knows i'd scorch the landscape of texas in that spitfire before it finally burned out--willie and ray's version of bob wills' faded love will forever and rightfully endure in my mind as a memento not only of that grand summer, but of the man who made it and so many other things possible.

here's to you, uncle d.

mary travers, 1936-2009

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popular music in early-sixties america found itself in a weird interim phase--the rockabilly wildfire of carl perkins and jerry lee lewis had died down, elvis had sold out, black artists still were denied mainstream acceptance and the beatles hadn't yet come along and changed everything.

in the eye of this hurricane, the folk singers briefly flourished--and while people like the kingston trio, the limeliters, phil ochs and bob dylan were considered by the beat intelligentsia more "authentic" of the genre, i'll take peter, paul and mary any day.

to my mind, the song that best showcases mary travers' honeyed voice is their cover of tom paxton's the last thing on my mind, but since i can't find it on youtube [and since i'm too lazy to make my own and wait for it to upload], i'll offer up instead another cut i was surprised to find from that same album--the surpassingly fine hangman--in which, while she's not featured, mary gets the last word.

three voices, two guitars, little else but pure talent--a formula that appealed to my minimalist nature then, and does to this day.

shame they don't make 'em like that (or like her) anymore.