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| photo by rick davidson |
There are friends, old friends and then there are the Classics, the vintage amigos of 50 years or more who will fly to Northumberland to bail you out of jail, hold your hand when your universe disappears and have your back when you decide to climb The Matterhorn. You may fall out of touch with the vintage friends but when one of them runs up to the roof and turns on the Batsignal, you put down your Frosted Flakes and respond. Fortunately for me, I have a few of these friends still roaming the city limits of Gainesville and when it came time to sell $100 tickets to the primo Hogtown Opry seats, they each took a 14-seat row (not to diminish newer friends like David Hammer and Gina Hawkins, who did the same).
Harvey Budd was the first accountant we had at the Subterranean Circus. First time we saw him, he looked like the straightest guy we ever had in the store. He looked around, shuffled a few papers and said, “You guys need an accountant.” No shit, we replied, when can you start? We went to our first Jewish wedding, Harvey’s nuptials with the vivacious Ilene Silverman, backed him in his political soirees and offered him space on our Orange Lake thoroughbred farm for his TV antenna. Harvey faithfully accompanied us to our first IRS audit (they got a pittance) and showed up at City Hall, making a nice speech when the City Council was trying to legislate us out of existence.
When Harvey dropped out of the numbers game, one of his erstwhile employees, Richard Allen, took over the accounting job. Richard was a somewhat shy fellow, always the well-dressed gentleman, and married to the unshy Kathleen. They went with me to the thoroughbred races in Miami and I spent hours on their horse farm in Alachua. Once, when I was feeling smarter than I was after a profitable racing season, I borrowed an extra bit of cash from Richard to buy more yearlings than I should have at the annual Keeneland sale. When the funds were slow in coming, I delivered a very nice barter mare to Richard’s farm. He stood there with a quizzical look on his face but Kathleen was delighted.
Michael Davis did not work at the Subterranean Circus but he might as well have. He was there all the time picking up and delivering his girlfriend of many years, Rose Coward to the store. Rose, a human fireball who didn’t believe in keeping her light under a bushel, was once the manager of the shop. Her day consisted of a series of erratic explosions of glee, outrage, passion and telephone-calling. She was Auntie Mame to the Gay colony, always a willing companion for antiquing and sympathetic consultant in matters of the heart. If you bought her the smallest trinket as a gift, she would erupt in laughter and appreciation. To me, living with such a creature was unimaginable. I thought Mike must be some kind of secret mystic for no one else would take on the challenge. They eventually parted and Mr. Davis found succor on golf courses, in bars and among large groups of people celebrating life. There are no known photographs of M.D. in which he is not smiling.
Old friends. There’s nothing better. If you have one or two, better keep them. They’re not making that kind any more.
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| Lucy Becker |
We Love Lucy
The week before the Opry was absurdly active, but not too busy to pick up Lucy Becker, one of Louisa Branscomb’s band members at the Gainesville airport. Lucy courteously sent a photo, but I think her pink fiddle case would have been a dead giveaway. Ms. Becker is 26 years old and only 5-2 in elevation but she had a suitcase that weighed 600 pounds and had bad wheels. I had to tie on a couple of helium-filled balloons to get it high enough to put in the trunk of the car. I didn’t ask, but what are these little country girls up to, anyway?
Lucy is staying at the notorious digs of John and Gina Hawkins, so she might never go home. If they seemed to be having too much fun in Row F at the Opry, that’s because it was Gina’s row. If you hang out with the Hawkins family, dancing is required, and that includes John’s 94-year-old mother, who will school you in cha-cha moves.
On my way to the next appointment, my car was gently nudged by a young college girl whose name we shan’t mention. She must have bumped my rear left tire, because there wasn’t the slightest mark on my car. She had a tiny nick on what used to be called the right front fender. She thought she was in her lane but it’s hard to tell when your phone is in your ear. This was her first accident so she was freaked out about calling her Father. Since I had no damages and was in a hurry, I told her to take the car in and I’d pay the tab, thus avoiding a 60-minute cop wait and the insurance company flying circus which arrives at times like this. Instead, she called her Father and said she was “pretty sure” she was in her lane when the bump occurred. The wary dad talked to me, suspected chicanery on my part and had her call Officer Friendly, who advised her that without witnesses the whole thing was a wash. She asked to speak to me again.
“Are you still willing to pay the bill?” she wondered. “Sure,” I said. “But I’ll tell you what I would do if I were you. I’d bat my eyes at some big lug talented at hammering out dents and take the rest of the money and fly to the Grand Canyon for a couple of days. Maybe Vegas, if that’s your persuasion. These opportunities for exotic travel are few and far between.” Her eyes opened wide and she took a step back, stunned. I haven’t heard back from her yet, but I think visions of Bellagio fountains danced in her head. We’ll keep you posted. If she goes, I’ll insist on pictures with Elvis.
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| Louisa Branscomb |
They Say They’re Gonna Put Me In The Movies (they’re gonna make a big star out of me)
Two days before the Opry, our resourceful pal Tom Shed finagled us an appearance on TV 20. The television people gave us the option of live TV if we showed up by 4:30 a.m. or a taped appearance at 10. I called Louisa Branscomb and told her about the early option. “I’m not good at four a.m.,” she said. “I walk into walls and fall down a lot. My voice sounds like Alvin of The Chipmunks.”
We showed up in fine fettle for our 10 a.m. taping and were greeted by Kristin Chase, who looks like Miss America on stilts even though she gets up at 3 a.m. every morning. Kristin could be a Lake Butler bar-fighter in her private life for all I know but she is the nicest person in the world in public and right away realized we were “amazing.” I have been called a lot of things before but “amazing” is not one of them. I kind of like it and think I would use it on my business cards if I had any.
I said my piece, the girls sang a number and Louisa told everyone in the audience why they should go to the Opry, so job done. We got a bump in sales from our Gainesville Sun article and a double-bump from this one. In the course of events, I had to retrieve Ms. Branscomb’s lost guitar strap, buried in the remote bowels of her swamp-green driving machine, so I now know every one of the 1600 items female country musicians carry around in their cars. Another reason why I am amazing.
The next day, Kristin called and apologized for losing the sound on my part of the interview, which looks a little suspicious to me. All those words of wisdom lost to humanity, such a sad day for television. Miss America mailed me her card, though, and it contained the phone number where I could reach her in the next life in which she agreed to accompany me to my high school prom. Those kids will be SO jealous.
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| Art by Lisa Marie Mercer |
First Night Frenzy
Saturday, May 20, the Hogtown Opry kicked off its First Night at University Auditorium on the Florida campus. 310 optimists paid to get in and a couple dozen comps went to friends of the bands, aides of the Opry and people down on their luck. After 3 1/2 hours and two band breaks, nobody had left, which is a miracle in these days of third-quarter departures.
The Hogtown Opry Band, traveling under an assumed name since all of them are in the government’s Witness Protection Program, started off the proceedings with the set of their lives. Wil Maring and Robert Bowlin, who drove 734 miles to get here, dazzled the crowd with their songs and musical artistry. Louisa Branscomb’s superband rocked the hall and got the customers out of their seats. The finale, which brought Wil and Robert back to join Louisa’s crew, was a fast-paced delight. The audience was gleeful and grateful on departing. A common reaction was “Who knew?” from customers who came to the show on faith. The musicians were stoked with Gainesville’s welcoming response, local artist Tom Shed was honored with a day in his name by the city and Sheriff Will Thacker made it home without any untoward incidents, which is a miracle in itself. A good time was had by all. If you didn’t show up, too bad for you.
Graci, Y’all
These things don’t come off this well without a little help from our friends. People like Gina Hawkins, who pumped out publicity, brought in the green room food and hosted Lucy Becker at her House of Earthly Delights. Gina had so much fun with Lucy, next time she wants to house the whole band. The neighborhood Anti-Sin Patrol is taking a look at that one.
Sharon Yeago and Tom Shed got us publicity in small local publications, every Bluegrass magazine in the southern United States and even the Gainesville Sun. Tom also got us a nice interview with TV20, although the sound part of Bill’s gripping talk was inadvertently lost to mankind. We turned over our event page to Gina and Sharon so if you start seeing events show up like Naked Bluegrass On The Beach Night or Battle Of The Fiddles From Cell Block 9, proceed with caution.
So the big question we keep getting asked is “When’s the next one? Well, as lyricist Hugh Charles might say, “We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when, but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day.”
And the sooner, the better.
Addenda: A Review
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That’s all, folks….
