RANDY TRAVIS

Randy Travis. He recorded Honky Tonk Moon in 1988, and it was a number one hit in October of the same year. The money from that song has made a lot of things possible for me over the years, and I'm grateful. Now it appears he's in a world of personal difficulty, and dare I say, some emotional pain. I hope he pulls out of it. I never met him. Would have liked the opportunity, but it never really presented itself. Good Luck to you, Randy, sincerely. Turn it around, make the big comeback that people love, almost as much as they do the initial crash and burn.

And So It Goes....

Two weeks ago I get a call from a friend informing me that a woman has contacted him, looking for an entertainer for a private party. He describes me, lays out what I do, the particulars. Have him call me, she says. I call. Her name is Jane. Sounds fiftyish. I give her a thumbnail of who I am, some of the things I've done, and what kind of music I play. Well, she says, that sounds great. She's having an outdoor party for sixty or seventy people. How much would I charge? Two hundred and fifty bucks. More than fair, I think. As a matter of fact, when I hang up I kick myself for not asking twice that. Ah, well. The party is on a weekend. It's not too far, within the county. I give her my web site address where she can read, look, and listen. This is on a Friday. She promises to get back to me on Monday, which comes and goes without a word from her. I wait till Thursday, call, get the answering service, and I leave a polite message. Remember me? The party is scheduled ten days hence. I would like to get confirmation and directions. She doesn't call back. I wait another five days, till today. I call. The phone rings, rings, rings, and I await the recorded message. But she picks up, it's her, Jane herself, sounding a little harried. I give her Remember me, and What we talked about, and she says, Oh, I'm sorry, didn't you get my email, those darn things, I don't quite know whether they've actually gone through or not. (This is the 21st Century's version of "The check is in the mail. Didn't you get it yet?") No, Jane, I didn't get an email from you. Oh, well, I've decided to go with another group, she says, I emailed you, I'm sorry, but thanks for calling. And she's gone. Jane has disappeared into the ether, gone forever. Okay. No gig. But why? She was enthusiastic at first. Was it the web site and the music and the videos she didn't care for? Then why not call, tell me the truth, or obfuscate a bit if she felt awkward, and tell me, oh, anything, perhaps her daughter had already booked an act, and has just gotten around to mentioning it? Anything. But do me the courtesy of calling as she promised. Nope. She rings off, thanking me for calling. Am I going to be able to fill that date now? Unlikely. Does Jane care? Decidedly not. Right now I imagine she lies abed, snoring, and farting quietly under the sheets.

This is nothing new, nothing that hasn't come before, just under a different guise with a few minor twists and changes. Happens to musicians all the time. Happens to folks in a lot of other professions, too. Except plumbers. Even Jane wouldn't fuck over a plumber.

Where we are now.

Well, I'm in Anderson, South Carolina, trying to jumpstart the music career after a short stint on the Dark Side. And I bowed out of Face Book after a few months, deleted the account. A great deal of noise disappeared with it. This post is a preliminary, a short salvo over the briny and across the grey skies, mostly to wake me up, get a fire going. I importune the Deity on a daily basis, and am seeing results, however small and incremental. That's progress of a sort, isn't it?
D