Peace of Mind

It seems to me that peace of mind is a delicate balance of acceptance and hope.

Legends

It’s not often that I get to play music with a legend, much less four legends.

There are certain advantages to playing friendly music in a friendly band for friendly listeners. Shades Mountain Air is the band I’m talking about. There are no big paychecks, but a few small ones. We get to keep our day jobs, but sometimes cut out early on a Friday to drive to places like Dothan, AL or Blakely, GA or Georgetown, KY to play a Saturday gig for the aforementioned friendlies. We get to play nice instruments but aren’t bothered by endorsement contracts, groupies or dyspeptic promoters. We also don’t hang out with music legends...much.

It’s only the second band I’ve ever played in. Unless you count the two rock bands during my days at Kate Sullivan Elementary. We spent most of our practice time debating a name for the band. I don’t remember what we settled on.

Our little bluegrass/gospel/folk band is never booted or rotten-fruited. Hardly ever booed at or spewed on. We don’t hear our music on the radio as we drive to those not-to-distant places. And I’m convinced that even if the DJs had our CD they wouldn’t get our vibe: relevant but not modern. When most of our songs were written, radio existed only to tap out code from ship to shore. Many are in the public domain, which means we don’t have to pay royalties to record them.

But a few of our songs shine like a lighthouse—those written by our fine guitar player, Gary “Pastor Gary” Furr. Most are about life’s curious curves, baffling four-way stops, or seeming dead-ends. Some are funny. Most are encouraging. All are real. And his gospel songs don’t sound preachy, which I like.

Whether through Gary’s connections, me working the phones, or a quick wave of dumb luck, we sometimes wind up with fairly cool performance opportunities. Like the Kentuck Festival of the Arts in Tuscaloosa. An annual wild game-fry at a Baptist church in rural Alabama. A monastery in Atlanta. A dark, freezing gazebo for a newly-engaged couple. A benefit concert for an anti-human trafficking group. Many, many churches.

But rubbing elbows with real legends? Rare stuff. But it happened a few weeks ago. Somehow, Gary got us on the bill on a church program with the Homeland Quartet, a group made up of four elderly men and a recorded track. These guys don’t really rock any more, but two of them, Ben Speer and Joe Thrasher, are bone fide superstars and, collectively, span the entire history of the sub-genre we now call “Southern gospel” music.

I won’t go into how the Thrasher Brothers (Jim, Buddy, and Joe) performed on the Wally Fowler Gospel Sing at the Grand Ole Opry when they were children in 1948, won Ted Mack’s National Talent Show, and subsequently toured with Mack’s group for two years. Or how they produced their own syndicated TV show called “America Sings” from 1967 to 1976 with a weekly audience of 8 million people. Or how they sold millions of records and (almost) single-handedly brought bell-bottomed leisure suits and a touch of psychedelia to a gospel music world of straight-laced, Vitalis-wearing men and closer-to-God-coiffed women.

The Speers preceded the Thrashers by almost 30 years and were, in my mind, icons of the 20th century. The Barrymores of gospel music, but with less tragedy. It started in 1921 with George Thomas ("Dad") Speer, his wife Lena ("Mom") Speer, and his sister and brother-in-law Pearl and Logan Claborn. Dad Speer added his kids, including Ben, to the group in the 30‘s. Ben became the lead singer as the folks got older. A Gospel Music Hall of Fame induction, dozens of hit records and hundreds of live appearances followed. But to my knowledge, no bell bottoms. Today, Ben’s a producer and music entrepreneur. And a singer, along with Joe Thrasher and two others, in the Homeland Quartet.

Mid-way through their set that night, Joe called up his two brothers from the audience: Jim and Buddy Thrasher. They did a couple of unrehearsed numbers together, and you could see they still had some of the old magic.

Then Joe called up “Gary’s group” and we approached the stage. No microphone stands were present, and no place to plug in our instruments directly. As soon as the quartet, now a sextet, discovered this, they cheerfully positioned their hand-held mics next to our instruments and our mouths. When we performed “Bowed My Head and Cried Holy” they sang with us, which was very cool. Sweet, gracious guys.

I'm standing there playing and singing, but also thinking, "I used to watch these guys every Sunday morning on the 'Gospel Jubilee' TV show before church." Wow. Legends.

At one point, Ben Speer, to my left, gave me an “amen” or something and I turned slightly toward him and leaned in. His head came about to my chin. Although the neck of my banjo was between us, I could have sworn I caught a sniff of Vitalis.

Winning and Losing

I’m out by the pool, it’s sunny and I’m not wise or smart enough to get beneath one of the two beach umbrellas here at the Bally’s Hotel pool. No, not that Bally's. The one in Tunica, Mississippi. It’s really more like a motel. A cheap one, even in comparison with its casino/hotel neighbors. Like a ’78 Vega in a parking lot with a bunch of ’93 Buicks.

And parking is plentiful here in the northern Mississippi delta, just steps from Twain's River. It’s like somebody laid out a future Vegas right in the middle of thousands of acres or rich, black dirt. And waited for them to come. But “them” experienced the Great Recession and since 2008 or so layoffs and lazy occupancy rates have been the rule that proves the exception among these casinos and hotels which, from my assessment, were outdated before the contractors had finished their final punchlists.

We are just south of Memphis, and this weekend the Elvis faithful will be gathering for the Death Anniversary, or whatever they call it. I talk with Lackey, my road trip buddy, about a jaunt up to Memphis for the celebration but we change our minds when the Elvis memorabilia he is eyeing (a laundry slip signed by the King) tops $300 in online bidding. It seems Graceland is running out of space to display stuff--from a laundry slip to Elvis’ solid white grand piano (once played by members of the Beatles). Lackey passes on bidding for that item, too, which auction officials say may fetch a mill.

I don’t have any thing against Arkansas, per se. But apparently, we’re dangerously close to it. On these weekend trips I enjoy gambling low stakes craps with Lackey, and this particular weekend is a kind of consolation prize for missing our annual Vegas trip.

This morning I enjoy a pretty good buffet at the Bally’s casino, separated from this “hotel” by a couple of thousand yards of grass, topping what looks to be a levy. But geography and geology aren’t my subjects. All I know is that a shuttle runs through it. Free if you’re staying at the hotel. A nice older guy named Gary runs graveyard. Tip him well next time you’re through.

I’m enjoying a few hands of post-buffet craps, and all is going well. The atmosphere at the table is relaxed and friendly. The table supervisor is a glowing African American woman name Facia who flashes a grin with a gold tooth. There’s a tanned guy on the other end of the 14-foot table and he’s winning. I’m hopeful. On the come-out roll, there’s a seven. Winner. Then another one.

I overhear Miss Tooth telling the pit boss that, "I'm having a hard time saying goodbye to my baby" and I determine that she's talking about her college-bound daughter. I take a chance and ask her where her baby's going to school, that I've got one getting ready, too.

"State," she says, and I take it to mean Mississippi State, in Starkville. It's a three hour drive from Tunica. "Where's your baby going?"

"Millsaps College, in Jackson," I say.

"Oh, lord, my baby tried to get a basketball scholarship to Millsaps. Wish she had got it. Good school."

"Yes, ma'am. Sounds like you had a high school star."

She shakes her head yes.

All this time I'm winning. A few hands later, I’ve double the forty I had staked for the session. Tap tap on Miss Tooth’s shoulder. Time for her to step away and supervise another table.

Now, the Arkansas part.

In her place is a 40-ish guy with greasy hair and an overbite. I swear I see TWO lounge singer-looking rings on his right ring finger. Two. Maybe I’m wrong. I don’t want to concentrate too long on anything that takes my mind off the game. After a roll, he looks at me and says, “Where you from?”

Birmingham, I say.

“Ah, Crimson Tide fan in the house,” and looks around to the other dealers who apparently don’t care.

Then, looking square at me, he says, “You Alabama, right? And, knowing he means football, partly from the dropped contraction, I nod my head yes. Now, there's no blood allegiance mind you. But ever since the Tide whipped Miami for the 1992 national championship I’ve had a little boy crush on the institution called Crimson Tide Football. Nothing queer, it’s just that they were my heros once and you don’t forget your heros. They redeemed my Florida State Seminoles that year, beating the Miami Hurricanes for the national championship after the Noles had suffered a humiliating regular season loss to the Arrogant Orange.

So, yeah, I’m an Alabama fan.

Well, Mr. Rings starts yabbering something about his Arkansas Hogs and how they gonna take care of business this year in Tuscaloosa. I don't bother to mention that the game is actually in Fayetteville. With twenty bucks on the felt I immediately crap out. That means I lost. He smiles to no one in particular. Not because I lost some money to the casino, but because, I assume, he’s the type of guy that just smiles at odd times to feel some level of confidence.

The roll goes around to others and I’ve got a little sinking feeling. With another 20 on the line, he flashes me his Arkansas Razorback logo that’s on the other side of his casino ID badge hanging from his neck. Another smile. Another crap- out. I’m getting a little pissed now.

A few seconds later, like an idiot, I look at the tall young man next to me, one of the dealers, and whisper “every time that guy says ‘Arkansas,’ I loose.” Seconds later the tanned player at the other end of the table throws a seven, crapping out everyone, including me. My bad that time.

Time to head to another table. This time it's the “crapless” table where you can’t loose on the 2, 3 or 12 part of the crap-out equation. Friendly vibe here. I start winning again. That is until a meemaw and pawpaw step up to the table. I swear, the table supervisor, a fully-packed guy with a wide mustache, doesn’t say a word. But Meemaw volunteers in a Paula Dean-style whine “we’re from Arkansas and this is our first time in Tunica.” Boom. I crap out.

That was it. I was only down a few dollars at that table but decide to call the session off and head to the pool. Just too much Arkansas.

As I crank up my Ford Explorer to leave, Steely Dan is on the CD singing, “They got a name for the winners in the world....they call Alabama the Crimson Tide, call me Deacon Blue.”

I’m a simple man. But that’s all I needed to feel better.