I Am What I Am

So we started with martinis at The Catch, which is across the street from The City National Grove of Anaheim. Mine were gin…naked…as in “no vermouth”…with a twist of lemon. The rest of our group were drinking the vodka kind and I have no idea how they make those. One of us was drinking hers “dirty,” whatever that means.

Half the time I have Swiss Movement playing in my head. You know…Les McCann and Eddie Harris…so when I crossed the street over to The City National Grove of Anaheim, I was hearing “Compared to What,” and wondering why someone named my destination The City National Grove of Anaheim, because it just doesn’t sing. The name of the building that is. The song, “Compared to What” goes well with that unique Gin buzz. (I taught English and I just got confused by the pronouns flying about.)

We were, of course, on our way to see Merle Haggard, so I was keeping an eye out for The Mullins, since you just never know.

People who don’t know me are always surprised that I would pay to see Merle Haggard. I guess it’s because I like to blast Jimi’s “Voodoo Child” while coding web sites, or the way I sing along with Janis on “Summertime” when I’m driving home from one function or another with the city’s leaders.

It’s like Mrs. Avery has always said:

Merle Haggard is the Van Morrison of country music.

Somehow we ended up sitting in the front row, which I’ve always tried to avoid because the possibility of a “spectacle” looms large. Anyway, now that Merle Haggard is 76 years old, he’s doing that Black-Man-Blues thing where his kids, from different litters, play the first set. That meant the “spectacle” wouldn’t be looming large for a while yet. Several of our party were confused because “Merle” looked so young, but after much discussion and a few more drinks we got them to understand it was his son, or something. Then about two or three songs into the second set, the real Merle Haggard ambled out. From the looks of things, down there in the front row, Merle has lived life, if you know what I mean.

Not too many people know this, but in my younger days I played drums. Old habits die hard and there’s a special magic when you see someone perform “live,” instead of on television or hearing them perform on cd or an iTunes download. When it’s live that magic grabs you, it takes hold of your soul, and it moves you…dear God, it moves you…and, with Merle, it moved me to start drumming out the beat with my hands on the table in front of me. Old Merle, he stopped. Then he stared. I winked. One of those you “caught” me winks. Maybe it was my wink, but it might have been something else, at any rate, Merle called on me.

And so, as they say, “I hit the stage.” Merle gave me a cowbell and a single drum stick. He leaned in closely and spoke softly right into my ear and said, “Guess what…I got a fever…and the only prescription is more cowbell.” He paused for two beats. "One..two..three..four..the band erupted, so I started gyrating my hips while I explored the space by playing the cowbell. It would have been easier for me to do all that if we were performing songs by Jethro Tull, Ten Years After, or even Blue Oyster Cult.

I knew it was only a matter of time before we launched into “Okie From Muskogee.” And sure enough, ten minutes later:

We don’t smoke marijuana in Muskogee
We don’t take no trips on LSD
We don’t burn no draft cards down on Main Street
We like livin’ right, and bein’ free.

Well that first verse threw me, I gotta tell ya. No smoke, no LSD, no burning draft cards? Mine was 41 years burnt, and that was my draft card mine you…my first joint was burnt longer ago that that. I’ve always considered the way I lived “right,” and that I was “free.” My mind was boggled.

Well, sir, all that thinkin’ must have thrown off my rhythm, because next thing I knew the music had stopped and Merle was a hollerin’, “Fellas…it doesn’t work for me…I gotta have more cowbell.”

And, right then, I looked out into the second row. The light was fading by the time it hit the second row, but I could swear that at table 14 sat Christopher Walken. Six years younger than Merle, Walken sat there with that smile of his. You know the one. “Disarmingly odd,” I’ve always described it. He was holding a can of Miller Genuine Draft in his left hand and a fork in his right hand. Then he began to hit the can of Miller Genuine Draft with the fork in time to “Okie From Muskogee.” More cowbell.

There are people who are so damned good at what they do, they transcend their genre. Merle Haggard is one of these people. So is Christopher Walken. I’m glad I got the chance to see Merle Haggard live, because there is that magic which transports you somewhere and it’s awfully difficult to explain that ride.

Next time you are privileged to enjoy a live performance, you just might want to consider:

“And Gene…really…explore the studio space this time…I mean…really…explore the space.”