THE USUAL NOTE FROM LB: From the summer of 2002 to the spring of 2010, Gwen the Beautiful and I were the proud and often exhausted owners of a beautiful Ozarks property we called Cloud Creek Ranch.
In many ways, the ranch was paradise. But it was a paradise with a price that started going up before we even knew it existed. Here’s another Monday musing about our adventure and the lessons we learned.
Oh, and if y’all detect any irony, please believe me when I say it comes straight from the universe and not your kindly Uncle Larry B.
by Larry Brody
After every music awards show I surf around on the web for samples of work by any winners I don’t know. Sometimes I “discover” someone who really moves me, and whose work becomes part of my life from then on.
Yet many of the best performers I’ve ever heard are unknown. Very unknown. As in, “Ain’t nobody heard of them but their mamas.”
There’s a ton of talent in and around Paradise. Like the Rock Star Telephone Repairman. I met him when he came out fix a problem with the line. As he checked out the wiring inside the house he saw my old drum kit.
“You play drums?” he said.
“Used to,” I told him. “A long time ago.”
“I play guitar,” the RSTR said. “My wife says I’m good.”
“You play someplace where I can hear you?” I said.
“No,” he said. “I don’t play in any bands. But I can bring you a tape.”
A couple of days later he did just that. Gwen the Beautiful popped it into our stereo system—and out came riffs and licks that rocked like you wouldn’t believe. The shy old boy who’d fixed the phone was a genuine rock music phenom.
The RSTR hadn’t stayed to listen. I ran outside and caught up with him as he started his truck.
“You make me want to get back on the drums,” I said. “Want to come over some evening and jam?”
His face looked kind of green. “I can’t,” he said. “Just thinking about playing in front of anybody makes me feel real sick.” And he pulled away.
Then there’s the Young Folk Singer, the only person who came to an audition we held for my old local television show. We wanted someone to “sing the news like it’s the blues” and Folkie gave those of us who heard him a meaty lesson in writing meaningful lyrics.
“That’s it! You’re our guy!” I said when he finished. “We’ll have you on every week.”
“Oh, I won’t be here much longer,” Folkie said. “I’m a rambler, just hitchin’ around the country and payin’ my way with the songs I make up as I go.”
“How about if you come back here tomorrow and we videotape you singing all the songs you can come up with?”
“I’d like that. But you can’t pay me. That’d ruin my cred. I’d like a CD of everything I sing, though, to kinda remember myself by.”
“We’ll give you a dozen CDs,” I said.
Folkie grinned. “Great. See ya tomorrow.”
But we didn’t see him tomorrow. We never saw him again. A few weeks later I ran into the old boy who’d given Folkie a ride to the station. “He hit the road right after he played for you,” the old boy said. “Said he was headed for Jonesborough.”
The most talented of all is Paula the Plumber. She came over to our ranch to fix one of the sinks. When she saw my drums she laughed. “Man, those’re almost as old as me!” Then she went right to the heart of the matter. “I’m the greatest girl singer in the world. Toured for twenty years. Got a voice that’d make Trisha Yearwood quit the business!”
I didn’t believe her. How could I? She also said she was the greatest plumber in the world, but when she left the sink still leaked.
A week later, though, I was at Paula’s place about forty miles south of Paradise. I had to go by on my way to Little Rock and figured I’d stop in and settle the bill.
From her storefront I heard a country band playing, fronted by the best gal singer this side of—well, Trisha Yearwood for sure. And when I went inside there she was, Paula the Plumber, rehearsing with some friends.
“Need somebody to sing at a wedding?” she said with a wink. “I’m your gal.”
Except that whenever I recommend her band to anyone who needs a great gal singer they always report to me that she won’t return their calls. And when I call to tell her about a gig she says, “Sorry, lost the signal,” and hangs up.
So what’s the real difference between the award-winners and those no one knows? I think it boils down to this:
It’s great to be the best at what you do. But first you’ve got to show up for the gig.