”The free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it.” Charles Bukowski

Recently I had dinner at a local restaurant/music venue. I can’t remember the name of the band. The music was clean, tame and well, dare I say it, muskrat love-ish. Some of their offerings were a little bluesy and at the same time, very civil. The musicians were dressed as though they were headed to Sunday school. Their musicianship was exemplary. As a rock musician who pays attention I must say that they never missed a single note. Very impressive. I left feeling like I had been sterilized. Sort of a soul vacuum. What was missing in their musical act is the subject of this blog.

I was born an outlaw, a skeptic and at times an all out nihilist. I reside in the world of Blues/Rock musicians because, after all, that is where such characters in the music world reside. In order to penetrate a listening audience who are true fans of the Blues/Rock genre a band must be believable. They must have soul. Let’s call it the “it” factor. I’ll be the first to admit that there have been music artists out there that have enjoyed commercial success who aren’t the least bit believable. No soul connection whatsoever.

e.g. Kenny Wayne Shepherd , Joe Bonamassa, The Monkeys, Vanilla Ice, Billy Ray Cyrus

What’s missing from such performers is that soul, along with the “it” factor along with an aura of nonconformity. Stevie Ray Vaughan had “it”. His artistry penetrated the soul. When he stood there channeling his music you immediately believed it. Vaughn came from relative poverty, from the blight of Oak Cliff in Dallas, from the wrong side of the track. Though technically amazing, artists such as Kenny Wayne Shepherd seem unable to channel blues, heartache, joy, suffering, celebration, or gritty realism with any believability. These are the essential elements of an original, came out of nowhere, believable artist in the blues/rock genre. Kenny Wayne emerged as a coddled, upper middle class soccer league child, born of innocence with little, or no, believability. Along with it, a critical lack of non-conformity and soul. It’s not his fault that he isn’t Freddie King.

Back in the fifties the “beatniks” along with the rock musicians of that era defined a generation of non-conformists. Their views and style of dress, according to Webster, were, “pointedly unconventional.” Out of this movement came an expression, “real gone cats” used to describe these beatniks, musicians and the simultaneous emergence of rock and roll or more specifically, “rockabilly” music.” Collectively these characters dominated the pop culture of that time. The prevailing sentiment became that of kicking back, relaxing(in manner of dress and attitude) and enjoying the musical offerings of these non-conformist miscreants. It came to dominate the American zeitgeist. Dwelling within this movement was a special kind of magic that drew people in. If only for a moment these people wanted to be non-conformist and well, bad. Somehow it penetrated their soul. There was a proclivity for the “it” factor in the overwhelming majority of these acts. It was magnetic.

If the legendary blues icon, B B King, had ever entered a guitar playing contest, competing with the world’s greatest guitarists, he wouldn’t have even placed. But B B made you feel it without the technically fancy guitar licks. His distinguishing factor was this—-he was a free soul—-and it, “it”, came through.
🎶 The Thrill Is Gone, the thrill is gone away🎶. We all know what he was talking about don’t we? But it took B B to convey that to us in a way that penetrated.

I play in a band, The Bossier City Torpedos, that is rife with rawness and imperfection but at times a shimmering frisson of soul connection. We miss notes occasionally and start off in the wrong key. But we have a loyal and faithful following who call themselves Torpedo Heads. I feel the connection in the midst of our performances, but I can’t adequately explain it. Perhaps there is a free soul in there somewhere. You know it when you see it.

Do you fly fish?  If you do then you are likely a lunatic. If you will contact me privately I can give you the number of a good psychiatrist who specializes in treating fly fishing lunacy. I’m a little worried though because I haven’t been able to reach him lately. I heard he took up fly casting for tarpon down in Florida which means he himself may have fallen off the fly fishing lunatic wagon. 

I, myself, had a relapse last week and busted off up to the Little Missouri River.  I had become bored with posting anonymous snark on yik yak and had the sudden urge to drive. The fly fishing report was that the rainbows and browns were jumping into landing nets and that the barbless hooks that we are forced to use were actually catching trophy size trout. Ha! If you are a lunatic you will believe anything. I was all in.

I packed up all of my fly gear and drove away, dreaming, like most fly casting lunatics about landing old hootie, getting a pic of the new Arkansas record catch to send to the kids and then hamming it up for the Little Rock TV station that would theoretically be covering my rare and amazing catch. 

Feeling adventurous that day, I decided to take the un-recommended driving route. The self-mapped scenic route. Forget Waze and Apple maps.  Who needs that crap?

Giddy with excitement I drove along I-49, anticipating the glory that would be heaped upon me and the endless stories that would be told about my fly casting expertise and prowess. Are you feeling the lunacy yet?

First of all, and I can’t impress upon you how important this one piece of advice is; if you find yourself on that same un-recommended road less traveled, which happens to be old highway 67, don’t ever stop at a place called Boll Weevil’s. I can’t talk about it yet. Just don’t. 

I rolled into Murfreesboro at around 9:30 A.M. (trout don’t care about early) and I  figured that since Katherine wasn’t there to monitor my dietary selections I would slide into the EZ Mart and grab some flamin hot Cheetos and an extra large Dr Pepper, a form of pure ecstasy known to many aging white males. 

My brother, Don, tells me that when a trip goes off the rails it morphs into an “adventure.”  That’s pretty much what happened that day. 

Once inside the EZ Mart I was laser focused on the facilities. Long drive, lots of coffee, the whites of my eyes had turned yellow. Wow, what a relief.  I then scanned the store for the delightfully hot, orange, spicy and crunchy bag of diet poison and the dispenser of sugary caffeine laced soft drinks I was craving. As I approached the check out counter I was in for a surprise. Have rednecks started using makeup?

Yes, apparently they have.  There at the checkout was an oversized, burley and notably unattractive man, replete with classic redneck garb. 501’s with rodeo belt buckle, slightly soiled sweat shirt, bulging gut, work boots, John Deere ball cap, a dip of skoal under his lip, and yes, full makeup. Like a woman would wear on a night out. And the look on his face was as deadpan as it gets.  I mean blank. Serial killer quality. Can you see the Cadillac red lipstick? Following the transaction I backed away slowly, then goose stepped all the way to my truck. Whew.

Who said fly fishing trips can’t be interesting?  I caught myself wondering if this dude knows Pud Rutledge.

Do you know Pud? If you remember, Pud did ninety days for making off with the Posados tortilla making machine in the middle of the night. Yep, the Mexicans themselves chased him down. How dumb can you get. 

In addition to that, they nabbed Pud five years ago in the now famous pixie bobcat smuggling scheme. He said he was “relocating” them to his Australian Barking Deer Ranch over by Athens, Texas. Apparently the northern border of Honduras was wide open.  I’m keeping an eye on Pud. But that’s a different story. 

I found my way out to Muddy Fork Road, my favorite access point on the crystal clear and indescribably beautiful, Little Missouri River.  As I was rolling up to the parking area I imagined the rainbow trout hammering my home made woolly booger fly, breaking the water, arching its back in angry defiance that I had fooled it into taking the bait. I was borderline euphoric—-really. 

Reality check.  The river was wide open. Rolling like the Proud Mary. Zut alors! Yes, the Corp Of Engineers were busy lowering Lake Greeson and simultaneously destroying my day. It looked more like the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon than a picturesque stream in mountainous Arkansas. Totally un-fishable. Turns out that the “generating schedule” was wrong. They reserve the right to release water, massive amounts of water, without notice.  They were exercising that right!  And there I sat with my pre-rigged tandem midge larva and pupa tippet.(fly boy lingo meant to intimidate rednecks.)

The Cheeto on my lips fell into my lap. The surge of joy I was riding had suddenly vacated my soul.  My reality was rapidly melting into the gravel my vehicle was parked on. 

My soaring day dreams had crashed into the cheeto bag. 

Suddenly the acid began rising in my esophagus as I burped the now sour Dr. Pepper.  It would be a long drive home, my tandem midge larva and pupa tippet flying in the wind behind me.