.jpg)
c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(8-25)
After my first encounter with the Old Drunken Buzzards, via Facebook, it was easy to imagine more projects that involved writing song lyrics and recording demo versions to share on social media. Originally, I had filled many audio cassettes with such one-off creations, generally after dark, when time alone permitted such work to happen without interruption. My output was consistent for a long time, beginning with basement tracks captured during high school days in Pennsylvania. A fertile period in the 1970’s. This creative streak lasted until the 90’s, when I was married for the first time, and living in a tri-level condominium with an underground studio. Eventually, as I transitioned to newspaper work, this jones for playing guitar and penning poetic projects subsided. Yet I never completely abandoned the notion of being active as a songwriter.
My chance meeting with the fellows from Seattle had rekindled that flame.
Upon adding the band to my friend list, I began to see other posts that they offered. A second instrumental recording tweaked my Blues sensibilities, with a curious inflection of familiar chording, turned on its head. I sat up straight in my chair, like an eager puppy waiting for a treat. Upon playing the video several times, my head began to nod, rhythmically. Then, I took another sheet of paper from my desktop printer. And in longhand script, started to jot down word formations that came to mind. As in olden days, with my friends from New York, the ink flowed freely. I was in a groove, and glad to be inspired.
Drunken Buzzard Blues
“Drunken buzzard on the prowl
Stumblin’ bumblin’ flightless fowl
Gonna roam the streets and play
Rock & Roll bird of prey
Steppin’ out where losers fear
Suited up in leather gear
Gonna start a riot quick
That crafty, clawed, son-of-a-bitch
In the alleys where they hide
Rock & Rollers, boys that ride
Jumping right onto the stage
Marshall stack is all the rage
Yeah, there’s a sound takin’ flight
Party pumpin’ gonna go all night
Might drink whiskey with the crew
The old buzzard gonna do what he do
Drunken buzzard on the loose
Belly full of bourbon juice
No excuses made or heard
That’s one hardass, rockin’ bird
Ladies love to see him fly
Wings out, crossin’ the sky
Jimmy Page on a Zepplin cruise
Turn that shit up to ten, and juke
Police said, “That’s too much noise!”
But that didn’t bother those boys
Buzzard rubbed his beak and said
‘You can kiss my ass instead!’
Yeah, it’s a goodtime run
Wheels spinnin’ into the sun
Somewhere at the end is our reward
He’ll be soaring over the clouds
Yeah, soaring over the clouds
That ol’ buzzard gonna work it out
Work it out and kick
The crowd dancin’ and flickin’ their Bics...”
As before, I brought up their original post on my iMac, and then howled vocally over that solid foundation. My phone offered no mixing capabilities, but captured the intent of this improvisation, effectively. Once again, their reaction was positive. I guessed that a measure of disbelief must have widened their eyes, and caused every jaw to droop. Though separated by such a great geographical distance, we were on the same wavelength.
Reflecting on this achievement, I revisited my YouTube channel to take stock of other ideas that had been translated into listenable product. There, I remembered having uploaded a variety of Country and Folk ballads, generally inspired by bouts of soul searching and introspection. Along with vintage clips from my other points of entry. I guessed that these might provide some background as to how I had arrived at the current time and place. Where being an interloper of sorts did not make me feel shy or ashamed.
I sent links via the Messenger app. Though a direct response did not materialize, I reckoned that it offered a suitable commentary on my personal history as a wordsmith.
Farther down the west coast, Kookshow Baby continued to languish in willful anonymity. I started dreaming of her again, in a variety of social situations. Often with Terry and Tiffany DuFoe playing host to our interactions at the abandoned drive-in of Cult Radio A-Go-Go. There were cats and collectibles and celebrities, everywhere. During these sleepy adventures, I yearned to see California, again. And, the scream-queen entrepreneur. She bubbled with enthusiasm, and flirty, feminine charm. Her dyed pigtails bounced wildly with every head-tilt and gesture.
I hated to wake from these visions. My appetite for sharing more of her company remained strong.
Eventually, my allies from the DuFoe encampment asked if another trucker getaway might be possible. But when I quizzed my neighbor with the big-rig about upcoming opportunities to hit the road, disappointment took hold.
Carter Polk III flexed his tattooed arms while thinking. I could tell by the expression on his bearded mug, that any repeat of our journey was not likely, at least for the near future.
“Nah, y’all know that was fun, bruh! And I made some good coin haulin’ ass as an owner-operator. But that route has dried up fer now. Kin ya believe it, they’re rolling out driverless trucks right now, sort of a test phase, I guess. That’s fucked up, I think! Ya need somebody at the wheel on those long trips. It ain’t safe to trust a damn computer program fer drivin’ all that way, on satellite control. There’ll be some crazy mess happening, I guarantee it! But, this has to run its course, I figure. Y’all will be welcome fer sure, when I get tapped to do another long run like that. It just won’t happen right now...”
His expert assessment made my heart sink. But I trusted his opinions. When I called my hillbilly maiden to explain, there was no answer at her landline number. I remembered that she had a vintage, rotary-dial phone, on the wall next to her kitchen cabinets. It was an odd shade of pea green, something that matched other accents and fixtures in her doublewide trailer.
My day ended on the porch, with a cold brew. It had been overcast throughout the afternoon, and rain began to fall as I took a seat on my bench.
I huddled over my knees, while drinking. A curse of loneliness escaped from between swallows of beverage alcohol.
“Dammit Kookshow, why did you have to be so pretty? Now I’ll never get you off of my mind!”
No comments:
Post a Comment