c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(7-26)
Offering my acoustic rendition of the beer song from yonder days was intended to dampen interest in the mysterious career of Rodney Dean. I looked upon it as being something of an outlier, compared to other lyrics written over the years. A sort of attempt at blue-collar comedy that might have been welcome on Hee Haw. But fan reaction online was immediate, and overwhelmingly positive. My contact at the record label, T. Randall Squire, had pegged it right. The hillbilly character I had unwittingly created was one that consumers of Country Music were willing to embrace, once they had been assured that this shaggy crooner had not been birthed from an artificial intelligence program.
My virgin account on TikTok received thousands of hits after the live performance.
For the professional promoter who was hawking my material, this yield was a sign of bigger and better things to come. Yet for me, a different sort of reaction was aroused. One that found me going blank at my desk. Any interest in continuing the charade I had sired was gone. I quit writing for several weeks. And therefore, had nothing relevant to post on my newspaper blog.
Internet speculation grew about what had transpired. Some thought that I must have entered a treatment program for alcoholism. Others figured that I wrecked my pickup truck, and had been institutionalized for rehabilitation. One persistent thread on Reddit even suggested that I had been involved in a love triangle, and been shot in a fit of jealous rage.
But the strongest reaction came from my entertainment contact. Having waited through a long stretch of weeks and months, he finally messaged my cell phone with an angry rant about lost revenue and missed opportunities.
“GAWDAMN IT BOY, WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YER SENSE OF THE ZEITGEIST? WE HAD A TIGER BY IT’S TAIL, AND YA DECIDED TO LET GO! I DON’T GET IT! YER LEAVIN’ MONEY ON THE TABLE! THAT’S A SIN IN MY BOOK! WHAT THE DEVIL IS WRONG WITH Y’ALL?”
I was amused that he actually included the word ‘zeitgeist’ in his voicemail. I was still grinning when returning his call.
“Sir, I’m done with this little farce of ours. It was a hoot to play my guitar and sing for an online audience, but that is as far as it goes. I’ve exhausted my repertoire of cowboy tunes for the moment. I’d rather go in a different direction now. This is becoming a bore...”
Squire started coughing as if he had choked on his cigar.
“NAW, NAW, NAW, NAW! DAMMIT BOY, Y’ALL KNOW BETTER ‘N THAT! YER APPALACHIAN BLOOD IS STRONG! I KIN FEEL IT IN EVERYTHING YA WRITE! THAT’S PURE REALISM RIGHT THERE, AND IT’S WHAT PEOPLE ARE LOOKIN’ FER! THERE’S SO MUCH POP GARBAGE OUT THERE, BULLSHIT SLUNG AROUND BY FANCY PRODUCERS AND STUDIO HACKS! WHAT YER OFFERIN’ LISTENERS IS SOMETHIN’ GENUINE! RUDE AND CRUDE, AND RAW! THAT’S WHAT WE NEED, MORE HEROES FROM UP THE HOLLER! YA CAN’T QUIT NOW!”
I had a feeling of gravel churning in the pit of my stomach.
“Sir, there’s nothing real about me as a cornpone songwriter. I studied through Cornell University, I wrote for a national magazine, and I had a prosperous career as a business manager. All before my life fell apart maybe, but that was the foundation for what came later. I used to be clean-cut and erudite and all of that...”
My friend the music mogul burst into a spasm of raucous laughter.
“I GET IT! I GET IT! Y’ALL MADE A FEW BUCKS AND THEN THAT HOUSE OF CARDS CAME CRASHIN’ DOWN! IT LEFT YA BROKE AND DIVORCED, AND LOOKIN’ LIKE A DAMN FOOL! THAT’S THE REALISM, BOY! HEARTBREAK AND LONELY NIGHTS! GETTING’ DRUNK AND FIGHTIN’ WITH YER NEIGHBORS! MAYBE EVEN GETTIN’ DRAGGED OFF TO THE HOOSEGOW BY YER SHERIFF! YEARS AGO, PORTER WAGONER USED TO WRITE ABOUT THAT SHIT! NOW IT’S YER TURN! DON’T GET OUTTA THE SADDLE JUST YET!”
I was oddly uninterested in his sales pitch. Being disabled and retired had given me a new perspective on living.
“Sir, I’ll just say it plainly, you’ve got mad skills as a talker, but none of that connects with me right now. I don’t need money or fame, or the glare of a spotlight. My ambition died a long time ago. I hobble around here in my singlewide trailer, drink beer in the afternoon and evening, and generally ignore everything else. If somebody stops by to share a brew, that’s great. If not, I’m content to be by myself. I don’t care about being sociable, or popular. And I certainly have no interest in becoming a music star, on stage!”
His voice morphed into an edgy growl over the virtual telephone line.
“Rodney, yer not thinkin’ clearly! I don’t want ya to dump this confabulation of ours so lightly. Let it sit in yer head fer a little bit. I kin keep stringin’ the listeners along fer a while. Let me work my magic. Meanwhile, get back to writin’ songs and recordin’ them at yer desk!”
This time, I had settled on making a break with the record label that would last. His argument did not change how I felt.
“No sir, with respect, I will pass. I’ve run dry with the sort of material you want. My wandering days out on the road are long gone. I can hardly walk now, even with my canes. My body is a high-mileage wreck. I’m at the end of a wild ride, and glad that it is nearly over, to be honest. I’ve had some interesting experiences...”
Squire paused while stubbing out his stogie. Then, began to whisper over the wireless connection.
“I know yer type, boy. Y’all kin say that stuff right now, and think ya mean it, too. But there’ll come a day when ya get that tickle of inspiration in yer noggin. It might happen at any time, anywhere. That spark will light yer ass on fire again. And y’all will be scribblin’ out new words and new melodies. That’s when I’ll be there, waitin’ and watchin’ fer a second start to happen. Count on me! I will damn sure be there!”
Once our conversation had ended, I sat on my porch with a jug of Kentucky bourbon. A burn of high-proof liquor lingered in my throat. And my head drooped low, as I pondered the words still echoing in memory. The words my music mentor had so wisely spoken.
Because, I knew he was right.
No comments:
Post a Comment