Losing a big one in overtime requires a certain amount of time for grieving; there, that’ll suffice. Onward. Damn, though, ya know?

And Now, The Opposite Of Silence…

The night before: I was tired, on my way to bed when I heard this sound. Austin City Limits was on and they always have a great show, so I sat down again. The guy singing and playing the keyboard was surrounded by unusual stuff; a wired fiddle, a big bongo, a full set of drums, a midsize accordion, a Dobro, a bass guitar and an attractive young lady whose only instrument was vocal, a bell-like soprano offset to the male voices who came in on the refrain. I wasn’t tired anymore. This was energizing, high on the power curve. Were I to dance I’d be up and whirling, knocking over lamps and alarming the dogs, making the wife laugh uncontrollably. She’s a dancer. I was not issued that sim card. But in my head I have rhythm, and when I hear danger/roadhouse music like this I am alert. Also this: some of the band looked like they had tunneled out of John Knox Village. (For you distant readers, that’s an elder home in KC) But their white hair belied their kickass. I was being treated to Terry Allen and The Panhandle Mystery Band.

 The Bandleader Makes Stuff…

I’ll let the video make the point. But Allen’s creativity is without bounds; he’s not only a storied and prolific singer/songwriter, a revered outlaw musician up there with Kris Kristofferson, he’s an artist and sculptor to boot, and a very accomplished one. Here’s a link to some of his bronzes. These are not the work of a wanna-be. This is modern art museum quality work. What an impressive guy he is. And his band is full of achievers too. The more you find out about this handpicked outfit the more awe it inspires. When you’re cruising his sculpture, look for “Corporate Head.” That and this Chevy are my favorites right now.

A couple of books...

 I read Nick Flynn’s “Another BS Night in Suck City” some time after it had been published; I guess the title put me off and I figured it was just one more weirdly titled book to bring in the young’ns. But that would be dismissive. It’s an odd book but an impressive one. The book chronicles Nick Flynn’s father, Jonathan Flynn, bank robber, bon vivant and self-described ‘world’s greatest author,’ and Nick’s mother, her boyfriends, and Nick. And all their swirling, buzzing demons.

 The words. Sometimes he puts words together like a syntax magician. At other times he inserts a play that could have been left out. Mostly, the word combinations etch, so be careful; your brain could be a litho stone and his words will transfer to it. You may hear and see afterimages. Still, I recommend this book.

 The movie, Being Flynn, was made due to this book—I haven’t seen it, and I don’t encourage anyone to spend money or time on what a Rotten Tomatoes moviegoer described as Robert DeNiro screaming for a couple hours. I prefer to see Nick’s father as a Jason Robards Jr. type with delusions. In a torn Brooks Brothers seersucker suit. He was homeless for years. Had DeNiro asked “What’s my motivation?” perhaps someone would have said, “Staying alive after sub-zero nights sleeping in a garbage bag and having your toes amputated, Bob.”

 Oh well. The next book, same author, is Stay. It’s full of fragments. Many of them took my breath away. In a word, it’s a sonofabitch. I’d read and re-read some passages and said whew. But I would recommend reading Another BS Night first. Stay is not a book you just sit down and read; you pick it up like a sullen cat that might scratch, and read some pages, some thoughts, look at some collages. (Flynn makes collages on first days in new towns from things found on the street. They are sometimes powerful.)

 Then there’s this book, which explains, in part, how Flynn writes. About how writers you enjoy or who transfix you write. This is another book you read for the fragments, the sentences about sentences. Tom McGuane, a big favorite of mine, endorses it. So I sent Amazon some money.

And that’s all I got.

Have a great February. It’s the first part of a year in which the Chiefs come out on that field of dreams again and make everybody, especially the opposition, nervous.

XO, ol’ G.