Power Pickers of the '60's

Greg & I played two gigs last wknd, one of which we actually got paid for!!! That was the one at the Knitting Factory Brooklyn, where we wowed ’em in the FrontBar and helped them sell more hootch than they usually do, accding to this great looking chick who played there earlier this summer and sold less booze than they usually do. Did you get that? Good, now you can explain it to me. Never mind, I’ve bored myself to sleep already.

We worked Borders again the nite before to a difficult audience with what I wd have to call mixed results. We certainly had mixed emotions about it. But we survived and rocked at the Knitting Factory the following nite, but, see?, I’m getting boring again.

Greg has the soundtrack to the Borders gig (the video part turned out to be a meditation on a couple of our limbs and a window, owing to misplacement of the camera), which I will get and put on here, as well as some stills when I get them. In fact, imagine my surprise, here’s one of those stills now.

This just in:  my wife says there IS video of some sort from the Borders appearance.  If it’s true I’ll get it on YouTube right away. In fact, shut ma mouf, it is true, and here they are! There are two ‘Tubies (the titles of which I carefully reversed here),  Rocky Road Blues, a Bill Monroe song (tho I don’t think he used a clarinet in his version), and  Cocaine Blues , about guess what, where we do some fancy finger-picking. Okay, plain finger-picking.  When you’re finished with these you can see a set list from the Knitting Factory show. Everything just got exciting again,  didn’t it?

This post is NOT edited or even read back by me.

Here’s another scene from the JIMMIE RODGERS Script.

SCENE XXIV – PEACHTREE HALL

EXT: Atlanta, late afternoon. Two limousines drive down Peachtree Ave. toward Peachtree Memorial Hall, downtown. In the lead car Jimmie sits beside the black driver, Edward. In the back seat are Arnel and the Bragan brothers, Cal and Ferguson, two white musicians in the band.

Cal: If they wuz rallying we’d of seen ’em by now, Jimmie. Anything happens in this town, it starts here, at Peachtree and Ninth, right, Edward?

Edward (scrunching head down to see where sun is): Uh, maybe, maybe not, Mr. Bragan. The Klan don’t like to muster whilst there’s any sun in the sky atall. They don’t want no light around for their business.

As the cars approach the Hall we see more and more people heading toward it, too. Someone sees the mini-caravan and the word spreads like wildfire.

Fans: Hey, Jimmie! Yodel-lay-ee-oo! Jim-mie? Hey, Mister Conductor, where you takin’ this train? Jimmie, you got the blues tonite? Etc.

Jimmie (out window): Excuse me, but isn’t this Atlanta?

Fans: You bet it is, Jimmie. Where else could it be? And how. You bet your butt it is, etc.

Jimmie: Then how could I have the blues?

Fans: Hooray! You said it, Jimmie! Welcome to Atlanta, Mr. Brakeman, etc.

EXT: Alley behind Hall.

The two cars pull in. Fans, all white, cheer as the musicians get out, grab their instrument cases, make their way to stage door. Crowd lavishes its attention on Jimmie and the Bragans, treats blacks like porters, i.e., doesn’t see them. Stagehand opens door.

INT: Darkness of Hall’s backstage area.

They straggle down dark corridor single file behind Stagehand. He runs on ahead, unlocks door to rehearsal room, disappears. Cal, walking at front of line, twists around and talks over his shoulder to the others

Cal: Well, I think if we ain’t seen a flaming cross yet we ain’t gonna. They gotta be outside the Hall, that’s what the Constitution says. I been reading up on this, and–

Band chatters to each other until they get to doorway of rehearsal room, then stop dead, bunch up one behind the other, like RR cars behind a derailed locomotive.

INT: Rehearsal room is ruined. Walls, windows and floors are thickly tarred a deep brown-black, furniture hacked to pieces. Music stands are bent and twisted, grand piano is tarred and feathered, inside and out. In center of room is a single gallows with an effigy of a black man wearing a sign saying, “Niggers (& NIGER-LOVERS) Dont let this Curtan Rise on YOU!”

JR (after long silence): Looks like somebody couldn’t read the Constitution. (Beat) Boy, if there’s one thing I hate, it’s an illiterate lynch mob. (Ponders a moment, then…) Guys, why don’t you go to your dressing rooms, and we’ll just rehearse in the–

Arnel (who’s been exploring): Uh, I don’t think so, Jimmie. It looks like they used up the rest of their tar on our rooms. Jimmie, listen: Cal and Ferguson can give you all the backing you need tonight. There’s no reason for you–

JR (pointedly ignoring him): Tell you what: we’ll rehearse in one of the storage rooms. Heck, we really know our stuff by now, anyway, leastwise we should. Besides, we might not even get a chance to play a whole set, once the “cur-tan” rises on us “Niggers and Ni-ger-lovers.”

INT: Peachtree Memorial Hall.

Hall is quickly filling with quietly buzzing people. No hollering and friendly catcalls now that word has gotten out about the Klan’s message. EMCEE walks up stage stairs, touches mic to make sure it is on.

Emcee: Ladies and gentlemen… ladies and gentlemen…that includes you boys from Local 231, ha ha ha… (There is no cheering) ladies and gentlemen… The Peachtree Memorial Hall Association has a special treat tonight: besides seeing and hearing the greatest yodeling blues singer that ever lived, the one and only Jimmie Rodgers (polite, reserved applause), you’re going to hear some of the wonderful musicians that have helped Jimmie make the music y’all love to hear. Now, some of these amazing–and I do mean amazing–instrumentalists are–

Heckler: Niggers!

Emcee (ignoring shout): –amongst the foremost entertainers in the land, playing with such–

2nd Heckler: NIIIIGGERRRS!

Emcee (pausing, still trying to ignore): –highly acclaimed

recording acts as–

3rd Heckler: “Coonhead Cal and the Tar-babies.”

Crowd: Nervous titter.

Other Catcallers: “Li’l Black Sambo.” “The Nappyheads.” “Junglebunnies.” Etc.

Crowd titters some more, grows restive.

Emcee: Uh… (looks futilely offstage for help). Now, some of these here players have actually gone to academies in order to–

Catcallers (starting pseudo-African chant): “Unga-bunga, Unga-bunga, we don’t want no jungle-bunnies,” etc.

A few members of the crowd have star to pick it up as JR suddenly appears with guitar from behind curtain, nods to EMCEE, who leaves stage gratefully.

JR: Thank you, thank you, thank you, Frank Earle. What a wonderful introduction. Honest, too. In fact, that was the Frankest introduction (stage winks to audience, still restive) we’ve ever gotten. (Calls to band offstage) I’n that right boys? (Silence). I said, “Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”

Band Members (Offstage, nervous): Right, Jimmie. You said it, Boss. Uh huh, etc.

JR (gesturing toward EMCEE, who is fleeing out side door): Frankie Earle, ladies and gentlemen, the Voice of Atlanta… Radio W-A-N-T, 20,000 watts of “Peachtree Perfection,” with a 140-foot tower right in the middle of town! (Quieter, more intimate) Lordy, me, why, that’s just a hoot and holler from where we are right now, i’n it, folks? Athens of the South, isn’t that what they say?

Crowd noise levels off, catcalls less frequent. JIMMIE drags plain kitchen chair from Stage Right, sits down, lowers mic.

JR: You know, folks, on the way over I was thinkin’ ’bout what I wanted to play for you tonight (tunes guitar)… and at the same time, you know, I got another recording date comin’ up with the Victor people…(tunes) and I thought maybe I could kill two birds with one song, if ya know what I mean. Whyn’t you take a listen, tell me what you think.

Shoots a private smile to crowd, strums a few chords, works into a bass run and comps an up-tempo E7 chord, setting up a blues in A.

It’s “G” for Georgia,

“G” for “guarantee”

“G” for Georgia,

“G” for “guarantee”

They’ll treat you right in Atlanta,

You can take it straight from me.

Yodel-layeee-yaheee-layhee

Audience begins to quiet down. The curtain behind JIMMIE rises to reveal six other musicians, three white, three black, standing behind him. They join him on the second verse, and the sound is suddenly big and solid, anchored by pumping rhythm from upright bass and tuba.

JR: It’s “G” for Georgia,

“G” for gasoline

“G” for Georgia,

“G” for gasoline

Took a whole lotta drivin’,

Just to get here from Abilene

Yodel-layee-layee-layhee

Crowd gets noisy again, but mood is different from before. People yell things like, “Damn right, Jimmie,” and “Welcome to Georgia, Jimmie.” It’s a good accompaniment to the driving music.

I love your peaches

I want to shake your tree.

Love your peaches

Hope you let me shake your tree

I’m proud to play Atlanta,

And I hope you like my boys and me.

Yodel-layee-layee-layhee

Crowd belongs to the Jimmie Rodgers Entertainers. They’re clapping in rhythm to the rollicking beat of the band, and, to a man, woman and child, beaming the wide, ingenuous smile of the loving toward the beloved. JIMMIE has completely won them over.

And here’s that set list from the Knitting Factory I promised. In case you forgot how excited you were when I first told you about it.

Hugs,

Country Al

Before the trail freezes over I have to tell you that Greg and I played Borders Mt. Kisco last Sat. nite and it seems it was quite a successful show. About 30 people were there for most of the two sets, and the applause during the second one (set list here is for first one) grew in strength til the last number, Full Moon Flashlight,  which got a loud, sustained response and even a couple shouts of approval as you might be able to hear at the end of the second of the two set sequences we’ve linked to here.

Greg and I felt very good about it, and people came up afterward to  tell us how much they like us. The guy who gets us their (Border’s) sound system (Mgr?) said we were welcome to come back anytime and we’re thinking about one more show, in mid-August (14th?), which Greg has dubbed his “swan song” of New York appearances since he’s going back to Atlanta at the end of August. Bummer. I’ll miss him.

I hope to have some pix and a link to the video soon. In the meantime, you can fixate on that set list for awhile, and maybe take a quick look at a scene, “WWNC,” from the Jimmie Rodgers screenplay.

“WWNC”

[Asheville, April, 1927. Control booth of small radio station, prob. the only one for a hundred miles in any direction. There are three or four men in the control booth chatting amiably as a trio of dowdy women, accompanied by a piano player, harmonize a mawkish ballad into a microphone on the other side of the glass. Clearly, the men in the booth are not listening to the performance; they could be at a cocktail party or church mixer; in fact, they’d rather be. All, that is, except for the Announcer seated at a low counter with headphones on, fiddling with toggles, dials and other do-dads from the early days of radio. The girls hold the last note of their dirge, as Announcer motions to the other people in the booth for silence.]

Announcer (solemnly into mic): THE PEABO SISTERS, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, FROM DEEP GAP, RIGHT HERE IN NORTH CAROLINA, NOT TWENTY MILES AWAY FROM RADIO STATION WWNC, “WONDERFUL WESTERN NORTH CAROLINA,” IN BEAUTIFUL, BUSY, DOWNTOWN ASHEVILLE. [pause] “MOTHER’S NOT DEAD, SHE’S ONLY A-SLEEPING.” I…I CAN TELL YOU-ALL, THERE ISN’T A DRY EYE IN HERE, RIGHT BOYS?

[Motions to other guys, who solemnly murmur agreement in the direction of the mic]

Various: YOU SAID IT, MR. STENTZ, I WON’T FORGET THIS PERFORMANCE, REMINDS ME OF THE POOR LITTLE FLOWER GIRL USED TO…, ETC.

Ann’r: IN FACT, I AM SO SURE THAT MR. PEER, FROM VICTOR RECORDS, IS GOING TO GIVE THEM A RECORDING CONTRACT, THAT I THINK I’M JUST GOING TO TAKE THIS OPPORTUNITY…

[One of the men in booth, well-groomed and patrician in white suit and bucks, steps to the right of the broadcaster’s desk, where the glass between the studio and the control both ends and there is only wall between him and the Peabo sisters and shakes his head vigorously to the announcer, at the same time pretending to hang himself, tongue thrust out, eyes crossed.]

Ann:…TO THANK YOU THREE LOVELY LADIES, AND YOUR PIANO-PLAYING FATHER, FOR COMING ALL THE WAY DOWN TO WWNC, HERE IN ASHEVILLE, TO ENTERTAIN OUR THOUSANDS OF LISTENERS. I KNOW WE’LL BE HEARING FROM YOU REAL SOON, SO DON’T GO TOO FAR AWAY, NOW. REMEMBER, “IF YOU CAN’T GET WWNC ON YOUR RADIO, YOU’RE TOO FAR FROM HOME.  AND NOW, SPEAKING OF VICTOR RECORDS, HERE’S ONE THAT’S JUST ALL THE RAGE WITH EVERY AGE–GENE AUSTIN, WITH HIS VICTOR RECORDING HIT, “DAD GAVE MY DOG AWAY.”

[Cues up a record, hits a couple of switches, looks at a couple of meters, turns his mic off and turns to Ralph Peer]

Ann: WELL, I’LL TELL YOU, RALPH, YOU’RE A HARD ONE TO PLEASE. YOU’VE HEARD EVERYBODY’S BEEN ON THIS STATION SINCE WE OPENED. PLUS, WE HAD A REAL GOOD TURN-OUT FROM THOSE LEAFLETS WE PUT ALL AROUND TOWN. I THINK EVERYBODY IN BOONE COUNTY’D LIKE TO BE A VICTOR ARTIST. FRANKLY, I’M A LITTLE SURPRISED YOU DIDN’T LIKE THE PEABO SISTERS. THEY’RE REAL POPULAR ON OUR REGULAR THURSDAY AFTERNOON SHOW. AND THEY CAN SING IN FOUR DIFFERENT KEYS.

Peer: AND I APPRECIATE THAT, DALE, REALLY I DO. AND THEY’RE GOOD, DON’T GET ME WRONG. BUT WE HAVE A LOT OF SISTER ACTS RIGHTNOW, AND THE VICTOR PEOPLE, WELL, THEY DON’T KNOW WHAT THEY WANT, BUT THEY TELL ME THEY’LL KNOW IT WHEN THEY HEAR IT. LISTEN, WHY DON’T YOU LET HARRIS, HERE, RUN THE SHOW FOR AWHILE, AND YOU AND I GET A CUP OF COFFEE. YOU LOOK LIKE YOU NEED A BREAK.

Ann: (Looks at HARRIS, his engineer) HMMMM.

Harris: GO ‘HEAD ON, BOSS. I’LL BE FINE. AIN’T DOIN’ NOTHIN’ BUT WEARIN’ OUT THIS NEEDLE ON VERNON DAHLHART. NOTHIN’S GONNA HAPPEN WHILE YOU’RE GONE, BELIEVE ME.

[PEER and STENTZ leave the studio and the building, cross the street to a diner and go in.]

John, I just got an idea. And I mean just. We could add to the preceding scene intercuts of four guys in a beaten up old Dodge racing along country roads trying to get to the station before the talent search is over. Could be real Keystone Koppy, or Bonnie and Clyde. Lots o’ action. But with or without intercuts…

[Just as PEER and STENTZ go into the coffee shop a ratty old Dodge clanks and smokes its way up to the curb in front of the station, parks at an angle, and vomits out four dishevelled young men carrying instrument cases (guitars, uke, banjo) onto the sidewalk. They lurch to the station’s front door and start pounding on it. After a few seconds a middle-aged woman opens it, and they all disappear into the building fast enough for one of them to have to hold his hat on his head.

WE SEE ALL THIS FROM THE POV OF PEER AND STENTZ DRINKING COFFEE AT A WINDOW BOOTH IN THE DINER, BUT THEY’RE TALKING TO EACH OTHER AND THEY DON’T SEE IT. IT IS NOT UNTIL THEY START HEARING WEIRD SOUNDS FROM THE RADIO STATION–THE DINER IS PLAYING WWNC FOR PATRONS TO LISTEN TO–THAT THEIR CONVERSATION FINALLY GETS SIDETRACKED.

[STENTZ listens once more to the sounds of chaos in his studio before bolting up, throwing some coins on the table, and racing across the street to the station, with PEER right behind him. They burst into the studio door, the red “ON THE AIR” flashing hysterically over it, and are greeted by a loud argument between HARRIS and the four guys who’d just piled out of the car.]

Stentz: GODALMIGHTY! WHAT’S GOING ON HERE? HARRIS, WHY IS THE MICROPHONE OPEN!? TURN THE MICROPHONE OFF, FOR GOD’S SAKE.

Harris: I’M TRYING TO, SIR, BUT THEY KEEP TURNING IT BACK ON.

Stentz (to the guys): WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THESE ARE THE PUBLIC AIRWAYS! THIS IS A SACRED TRUST GIVEN TO ME TO BROADCAST ONLY WHAT THE FEDERAL COMM…

JR: I KNOW THAT, MR. STENTZ. AND I APOLOGIZE FOR ALL OF US. BUT THIS JAMOKE KEEPS SAYING THE TALENT SEARCH’S OVER, AND ME AND MY BOYS JUST DROVE 320 MILES JUST TO SEE IF WE COULD–

Stentz: LISTEN, MISTER! IT IS OVER. AND YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO COME INTO A STUDIO WHEN IT’S ON THE AIR AND DISRUPT A PROGRAM THAT’S ALREADY–

JR: I AM SORRY, MR. STENTZ…ALTHO’ IT WAS JUST A VERNON DAHLHART RECORD YOU WAS…

Stentz: WHAT DO YOU MEAN, “JUST A VERNON DAHLHART RECORD?” LISTEN, BUD, WHEN YOU’VE SOLD 20,000 RECORDS, THEN YOU’LL HAVE A RIGHT TO…[looking more closely at JR] HEY! I KNOW YOU, DON’T I?

JR: UH, I DON’T THINK SO, MR. STENTZ. I DON’T BELIEVE WE’VE EVER–

Stentz: YES I DO! YOU WERE ON THE THURSDAY SHOW WHEN WE FIRST WENT ON THE AIR. SANG SOME…BLUISH SONG, OR SOMETHING, I HAD TO TURN YOUR MIC OFF AND GO TO A RECORD. IT’S ROBERTS OR SOMETHING?

JR: [Smiling broadly and extending his had]: RODGERS, SIR. JIMMIE RODGERS. THE BLUE YODELER. AND THIS HERE’S JACK GRANT AND HIS BRO–

Stentz: I DON’T CARE IF HE’S ULYSSES S. GRANT AND HIS BROTHER. GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! ALL OF YOU. YOU CAN’T JUST COME INTO A FEDERALLY LICENSED RADIO STATION WHENEVER YOU FEEL LIKE IT AND PUT YOUR OWN SHOW ON. ESPECIALLY YOU, ROBERTS–

JR: RODGERS, SIR.

Stentz: WHATEVER. YOUR SMUTTY LITTLE DITTIES DON’T BELONG ON THE NATIONAL AIRWAVES WHERE THEY CAN GET INTO THE HOMES OF CLEAN, RELIGIOUS FAMILIES WHO LOOK TO US FOR MORAL GUIDANCE AND SPIRITUAL LEADERSHIP. DON’T YOU THINK I’M RIGHT, MR. PEER? DON’T YOU THINK THIS KIND OF TRASH DOESN’T–

JR: (Looking back and forth from Stentz to Peer): UH, EX…EXCUSE ME, SIR, BUT ARE YOU RALPH PEER? FROM VICTOR RECORDS?

Peer (Looking sheepishly at Stentz): UH, GUILTY, I’M AFRAID.

JR: MR.PEER, WE JUST DROVE ACROSS TWO STATES TO MEET YOU. I MEAN, IF THE DARN DODGE HADN’T SPRUNG A RADIATOR LEAK–

Jack Grant: MORE LIKE A HEMMORHAGE–

Ernie Grant: AND TWO TIRES WOULDNA BLOWED OUT…

Joe Somebody: AND THE MAGNETO HADNA GOT WET–

Peer (Holds up the palms of both hands for silence and looks at Stentz. Actually, there’s lots of looking back and forth between everybody).

Stentz (after a pause): AW, RALPH, HOW CAN YOU ASK ME, AFTER THEY CAME IN HERE AND JUST ABOUT HIJACKED MY RADIO STATION? I MEAN, IT’S SO DISRESPECTFUL WHAT THEY–

Peer (taking out his wallet): HOW’S ‘BOUT A FIN FOR YOUR TROUBLE, DALE? AFTER ALL, THEY HAD THEIR NERVE TO–

Stentz: REHEARSAL ROOM, TWO DOORS DOWN ON YOUR RIGHT. BUT SHUT THE DOOR TIGHT. I DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO LISTEN TO THE FILTH THAT COMES OUT OF THEIR, ETC.

[PEER, JR and the rest of the band leave the studio thru the control booth and walk down the hall. There’s some unimportant mumbling between Peer and JR about the illegality of what they just did. They get to the rehearsal room, go in, and unpack their instruments. They look dumbly at Peer.

Peer: WELL? GO ON. SHOW ME WHAT YOU JUST DROVE THRU THREE HURRICANES AND A TORNADO TO SHOW ME.

JR: (unsure of himself, to the other boys): OKAY, BOYS, LET’S DO “I’VE RANGED AND ROAMED.” READY, EVERYBODY? ONE-TWO-THREE, TWO-TWO-THREE…

[It’s a waltzy/schmaltzy, moralizing tear-jerker, dull as dirt)

“I’VE RANGED, I’VE ROAMED AND I’VE TRAVELLED

I’VE BEEN A NO-GOOD THEY SAY

MANY YEARS OF MY LIFE I HAVE WASTED

BUT I’VE STOPPED LEADING THAT LIFE TODAY.

“I HAD A DEAR OLD MOTHER

A DAD AND A SISTER, TOO

BUT I WAS THE YOUNGEST AND SPOILED, SOME SAY

BY MOTHER, AS MOTHERS WILL–

Peer (interrupting): UH, EXCUSE ME GUYS, BUT THAT SONG CAN’T BE THE  KIND OF FILTH STENTZ WAS TALKING ABOUT. (Starting to put on his jacket.) I WOULDN’T HAVE WASTED THAT FIVER IF I’D KNOWN YOU WERE PLANNING A CHURCH SOCIAL IN HERE. HECK, I CAN GET THAT SORT OF–

JR: WAIT! WAIT A SECOND, MR. PEER. WE, UH, WE GOT SOME OTHER STUFF. (turns to the other guys, has a brief conversation, nods his head, starts snapping his fingers.) A-ONE, A-TWO, A-ONE, TWO, THREE–

[It’s jazzy, upbeat kind of blues, you could dance to it. Infectious rhythm and melody. Jimmy carries the vocals.]

“PUT OUT YOUR CAN,

HERE COME DE GARBAGE MAN.

PUT OUT YOUR CAN,

HERE COME DE GARBAGE MAN.

I’M NOT THE PLUMBER

OR THE PLUMBER’S SON

BUT I’LL PLUG THAT HOLE,

‘FORE HE COMES

PUT OUT YOUR CAN,

HERE COME DE GARBAGE MAN.

PUT OUT YOUR CAN,

HERE COME DE GARBAGE MAN.

I’M NOT THE BUTCHER

OR THE BUTCHER’S SON,

BUT I’LL HOLD THAT MEAT,

‘TIL HE COMES

PUT OUT YOUR CAN–

Peer: (interrupting again, but laughing, and maybe even grooving a little bit to beat): OKAY, OKAY, OKAY. YOU MADE YOUR POINT. DO YOU THINK YOU CAN SHOW ME SOMETHING IN-BETWEEN? MAYBE THE WCTU WOULDN’T LIKE IT, BUT I WOULDN’T GET ARRESTED IN MY OWN HOUSE? LET ME ASK YOU SOMETHING: YOU EVER WRITE ANY SONGS YOURSELVES? YOU KNOW, JUST KIND MAKE SOMETHING UP TO A MELODY YOU MIGHT ALREADY KNOW, OR…WHATEVER? I’M JUST ASKING.

Boys in the band: HMMMM. GEEE. MUMBLE MUMBLE.

[Then…]

Jack Grant: HEY, JIMMIE. WHAT ABOUT THAT “T-FOR-TEXAS?” YOU MADE THAT UP, DIDN’T YOU? I MEAN, I NEVER HEARD IT ON NO RECORD OR ANYTHING, I DON’T THINK.

Boys in the band: YEAH. GO ON, JIMMIE. THAT’S A GOOD PIECE OF MUSIC. YEAH, AND NO ONES EVER HEARD IT BEFORE, ETC.

Jr: JEEZ, I DON’T–

Jack Grant (starts singing without accomp):

“T FOR TEXAS,

T FOR TENNESSEE…”

JR: [Strums a few notes, picks up the melody himself]

“T FOR TEXAS

T FOR TENNESSEE…”

[Rest of the band starts playing with him. A wry, won’t-I-ever-learn kind of country blues]

“AN’ IT’S T FOR THELMA,

THE GIRL WHO MADE A FOOL OUT OF ME.

EE-OO-LAY-HEEE, LAY-HEEE, O-LAY-HEEE.”

[Finishes the song, and lets his guitar hang loose around his neck, resting his picking hand in the hollow of the guitar’s body. He looks a little wistful, but says nothing. The room is silent a long beat. Finally, Peer breaks the silence.]

Peer: UH, WAIT HERE JUST A SECOND, WOULD YOU BOYS? I NEED TO ASK SOMEONE A QUESTION. I’LL BE RIGHT BACK.

[He goes out the rehearsal room door, walks the short distance to the broadcast studio, steps in. Stentz and Harris are at the controls, talking to each other. A record is spinning on the turntable and on the air.]

Stentz: HEY, RALPH. YOU SEND ‘EM HOME, YET?

Peer: JUST ABOUT TO DO THAT, DALE. RIGHT NOW. LET ME ASK YOU SOMETHING. THIS JIMMIE RODGERS, HE COULD NEVER BE ON YOUR STATION, RIGHT? I MEAN, THERE’S NO WAY YOU’D EVER–

Stentz: NOT WHILE THE LORD SEES FIT TO LET ME RESIDE IN HIS GLORIOUS ABODE.

Peer: OKAY. JUST WANTED TO MAKE SURE. SEE YOU LATER.

[Peer leaves the studio and goes back to the rehearsal room, where Jimmie and the boys wait breathlessly. He takes a small card out of an inside pocket in his jacket, pulls a pen out of another pocket and writes something on the card. He hands it to Jimmie]

Peer: MEET ME AT THIS ADDRESS, TOMORROW MORNING, TEN A.M. SHARP. BRING YOUR INSTRUMENTS. SEE YOU THEN.

[He turns and leaves the room.]