I discovered Jason and the Scorchers in the mid-eighties. I was a guitar-playing college student with thick brown hair perfectly parted down the middle and feathered on the sides. I heard "White Lies" on KSHE 95 on a beautiful summer evening and heard the dj announce that they were actually in concert in town THAT NIGHT! Fortuitousness prevailed throughout my youth, and that night was no exception. My cousin was dating the owner of the bar they were playing. One call to her, and I was on the guest list. None of my friends were available, so I went by myself. I stood in the back, leaning against the divider of the under-21 section, and just like that my life changed.
We stroll, amble, peruse, stumble, trip, stagger, and run headlong through our own odysseys and things smack us along the way. Some we seek. Some seek us. Some occur through pure happenstance, but are none the less significant. Such was my experience that night.
That night I was absorbed into an unintentional musical phenomenon. Jason and the Scorchers rocked my world, while rocking the entire crowd at Mississippi Nights. They were loud, exciting, musical, and TALENTED. Hearing Jason's voice was akin to drinking your first beer. "I'm not sure I like this, but wait, maybe after another swig... yes, it's not so bad" and then, several Busch's later - ahhh. Not too shabby. Perry's drumming was hyperactivity without the Ritalin. Arms and legs flailing, tongue wagging, and vocals blending perfectly with Jason's. Jeff was the stalwart, iconic, solid-as-his-steel-strings bass player, stage right. But Warner, oh Warner, on the guitar- was the stamp without which the letter home could never be mailed.
Warner Hodges was (and still is!) the guitar-player's guitar player. Licks aplenty. Obnoxious skill and energy. A tone to die far. And showmanship that would make Hendrix arise and take notice. Cigarette hanging from his lip; long, black hair framing a face that mirrored the occasion of the music- serious as a Harvest Moon or playful as a bird out on a wire. He owned stage left. He prowled; he scowled; he laughed; he whirled with his guitar held parallel to the ground in a kind of ax-dervish; and he raised his eyebrows as he picked out an audience member, hit an open string,let it ring, and spun the guitar on its strap over his left should, past his right armpit, and back into his left hand, which picked up the run without missing a beat. And in case you didn't know he was no-bullshit, he wore SPURS on his boots. Nuff said. I was hooked.
I bought every record (yes, record) I could find of Jason and the Scorchers, of which there were dismally few. There's still not enough. Critics always loved them. They all seemed to think, "right band; wrong time." My opinion: there was never a wrong time for them. When I'd catch them in concert on each of the many passes through town, that confident feeling that they WERE the right band was always reinforced. Their shows were energetic, positive, affirming EXPERIENCES. How much could a bunch of young mostly white folks jump, sway, bump, high-five, backslap, sweat, and sing communally at maximum volume? A LOT! I always got there early. I always stood close to stage left. And I got their autographs on a concert jersey.
I haven't fit into that jersey in years. But I still have it.
And last night I thought of putting it on one more time. My wife, wonderful beyond belief, got me two tickets to their show when my free sources (like so many other things in life) dried up. It was an early Father's Day gift. And I'm not even her father!
I called Tom, my best friend of 30 years and fellow Scorcher-phile from the great ol' days. Tom, alas, has aged as I have. Seems his daughter had a birthday party. Priorities change as we get old. There was a time when we'd have ditched our girlfriends for a Scorchers show, but those days are long gone. So Keri, loving soulmate that she is, said she'd love to go with me. Now, please keep in mind that I've tried to Scorcherize Keri several times since I've known her. She's never been able to make it past the yodeling twang of one song before she excuses herself with the 'thanks but no thanks' smile. But she committed, and we planned it.
I showered at 5:30. She was already doing her hair and getting ready. "Why?" I asked, knowing that a Scorchers show is a dress-down affair. I knew her look, so I just cranked my Scorchers mix disc (I know, I know. Even CD's are outdated now.) I had a beer in the shower. Why not. It was almost show time! That's when I thought about my autographed jersey. It was a brief fleeting thought, extinguished by the grim reality that - like records and now CD's - my youth was also a thing of the past. Who was I kidding? I couldn't squeeze into that thing any more than the pair of stonewashed jeans I have snugged away somewhere. (Just kidding, honey.) So, with a sigh and another preparatory beer, I slipped into my relaxed fit jeans, button down wrinkly shirt, and my Scorcher-approved cowboy boots. I triple-checked the tickets. Keri triple-checked her hair. We said farewell to the kids and all other domestic obligations and headed to the show.
Two opening acts and a couple equipment fixes later, the Scorchers took the stage. Perry and Jeff were long gone. The band had been through intoxication, rehab, breakup and God-sworn dismemberment. But here they were, at least Jason and Warner. They were loud and they were proud.
But they weren't the Scorchers of old.
And it made me think of my Uncle Frank. My Uncle Frank taught me how to fly fish when I was ten years old. He taught me to tie my own flies and showed me the joy of catching a trout on a self-tied fly while laughing at those that didn't! He had several new jokes every time I saw him. He played guitar and owned a reel-to-reel tape recorder and would let me make chipmunk recordings on it by recording it slow and playing it regular tempo. He was a walking mailman and had fantastic dog stories about his routes. He was in the army when he was younger. He played stickball. He played tennis and golf and even made his own plastic worms for bass fishing! He owned the first trolling motor I ever saw. He taught me the first verse of The Jabberwock. He constantly made me laugh. And his car was always impeccably neat and air conditioned. But I got married, had kids, and saw less and less of Uncle Frank. Then one day several years ago, Uncle Frank had a stroke. He's been in a wheelchair ever since and has been in and out of nursing homes during that time. The fishing, the excitement, the neverending jokes, the external fires are gone. I'll love him forever; but things will never be like they once were.
The Scorchers were like my Uncle Frank. They had grown old. They could still rock hard, but the experience was much, much different. I loved every minute of it, but it was not like the Scorchers of the 80's. The volume was bearable (I didn't even pull the tissue out of my pocket.) They played an overabundance of songs from their new album, which is always disappointing live, as the sing-along effect is minimized. And they left out an enormous amount of classic Scorchers concert essentials. The show was great. But it was old. I wasn't sweaty, hoarse, or tired (unless you count the normal everyday fatigue I felt since it was 1 am, and my prostate was pushing me in the direction of the nearest urinal.) But i was satisfied.
And Warner, oh Warner, was just as good as ever. He whirled, he twirled, he owned, he ripped, and he wore his spurs.
Keri (as expected), hated it. But smiled and watched the whole show. (But she is the newest fan of Warner Hodges!) She was glad I had a great time. Of course I did. I love seeing my Uncle Frank. I always will. And I'll always love seeing Jason and the Scorchers, even if I'm not sweaty and can still talk afterwards.
No comments:
Post a Comment