05-06-2018, 06:46 AM
Baseball caps pointed backwards,
small-town lowriders cruise
across Texas plains in hydraulic rigs
with over-size chrome mag tires.
Four old ranchers stand in a circle,
telling stories and laughing
as dusk moves in over the palisade.
Hank, complimenting the cowboy tableau,
sings Honky Tonk Blues on my radio,
as dusk moves in over the palisades.
Below along the river bed, cottonwoods
huddle together in the evening breeze.
Blues, make me an island behind this wheel
every tune a bone-tingle transformation.
I dial in an R&B station, Johnny Ace belts out
Yes Baby, Big Mama Thornton on harp.
After the 1961 graduation prom, Mary Ann
interrupted our fumblings with each other
in the back seat to say - Oooh-Ooh - JJ –
that’s beautiful? It’s the way I feel right now.
Christmas Day in Houston, 1954, backstage after
his final encore of Pledging My Love, Johnny,
pie-eyed, was playing with a pistol, Big Mama
told him, Don’ mess with that gun, Johnny,
somebody gonna get hurt. I’ts OK, it ain’t loaded
Mama. He squeezed it off and his microphones
backfired; the final note faded into blue smoke.
On the long drive into the mountains,
Johnny’s voice on the radio is bold,
sharp as the first tune he turned to gold.
(Orig.)
Small-town lowriders
in baseball caps
pointed backwards
cruise across Texas plains
in low-rider rigs
with hydraulics
and under-size tires.
Four old ranchers
stand in a circle,
telling stories
and laughing
as dusk moves in
over the palisade.
Below, along the river bed,
cottonwoods huddle
and shiver together
in the evening breeze.
The high-pitched crooning
voice of Hank Williams
comes out of the radio speakers
like a preacher’s.
Blues, make me an island
behind this steering wheel,
every tune a transformation;
all the world be praised,
shakin’ it, shoutin’ it
to the rooftops, to the hills.
I dial in an R&B station,
Johnnie Ace belts out Yes Baby,
Big Mama Thornton on harp;
it shoots me back to fumbled kisses
and exploratory raptures out on
Mission Point with Mary Ann.
At a Christmas Day, 1954,
Rock Jubilee in Houston,
after he sang Pledging My Love
for an encore, backstage
he held a pistol to his head
to show his piano player
it was empty, squeezed it off,
and all his microphones backfired,
like the snap,
the final note.
On the long drive
into the mountains,
Johnny’s voice
on the radio
is bold, as sharp
as the first tune
he turned to gold.
Curtis Tillman, who witnessed the event, said, "I will tell you exactly what happened! Johnny Ace had been drinking and he had this little pistol he was waving around the table and someone said ‘Be careful with that thing…’ and he said ‘It’s okay! Gun’s not loaded… see?’ and pointed it at himself with a smile on his face and ‘Bang!’ — sad, sad thing. Big Mama ran out of the dressing room yelling ‘Johnny Ace just killed himself!'"
small-town lowriders cruise
across Texas plains in hydraulic rigs
with over-size chrome mag tires.
Four old ranchers stand in a circle,
telling stories and laughing
as dusk moves in over the palisade.
Hank, complimenting the cowboy tableau,
sings Honky Tonk Blues on my radio,
as dusk moves in over the palisades.
Below along the river bed, cottonwoods
huddle together in the evening breeze.
Blues, make me an island behind this wheel
every tune a bone-tingle transformation.
I dial in an R&B station, Johnny Ace belts out
Yes Baby, Big Mama Thornton on harp.
After the 1961 graduation prom, Mary Ann
interrupted our fumblings with each other
in the back seat to say - Oooh-Ooh - JJ –
that’s beautiful? It’s the way I feel right now.
Christmas Day in Houston, 1954, backstage after
his final encore of Pledging My Love, Johnny,
pie-eyed, was playing with a pistol, Big Mama
told him, Don’ mess with that gun, Johnny,
somebody gonna get hurt. I’ts OK, it ain’t loaded
Mama. He squeezed it off and his microphones
backfired; the final note faded into blue smoke.
On the long drive into the mountains,
Johnny’s voice on the radio is bold,
sharp as the first tune he turned to gold.
(Orig.)
Small-town lowriders
in baseball caps
pointed backwards
cruise across Texas plains
in low-rider rigs
with hydraulics
and under-size tires.
Four old ranchers
stand in a circle,
telling stories
and laughing
as dusk moves in
over the palisade.
Below, along the river bed,
cottonwoods huddle
and shiver together
in the evening breeze.
The high-pitched crooning
voice of Hank Williams
comes out of the radio speakers
like a preacher’s.
Blues, make me an island
behind this steering wheel,
every tune a transformation;
all the world be praised,
shakin’ it, shoutin’ it
to the rooftops, to the hills.
I dial in an R&B station,
Johnnie Ace belts out Yes Baby,
Big Mama Thornton on harp;
it shoots me back to fumbled kisses
and exploratory raptures out on
Mission Point with Mary Ann.
At a Christmas Day, 1954,
Rock Jubilee in Houston,
after he sang Pledging My Love
for an encore, backstage
he held a pistol to his head
to show his piano player
it was empty, squeezed it off,
and all his microphones backfired,
like the snap,
the final note.
On the long drive
into the mountains,
Johnny’s voice
on the radio
is bold, as sharp
as the first tune
he turned to gold.
Curtis Tillman, who witnessed the event, said, "I will tell you exactly what happened! Johnny Ace had been drinking and he had this little pistol he was waving around the table and someone said ‘Be careful with that thing…’ and he said ‘It’s okay! Gun’s not loaded… see?’ and pointed it at himself with a smile on his face and ‘Bang!’ — sad, sad thing. Big Mama ran out of the dressing room yelling ‘Johnny Ace just killed himself!'"
