raunchy, gut-bucket blues and straight-ahead rock ’n’ roll. Much of their repertoire was inspired by classic Delta bluesmen, neglected old duffers whom the band would seek out and recall from extreme destitution. Students of musical history as well as accomplished musicians, the band members venerated these old men, some of whom were in advanced stages of illness and disability. They bought them whiskey and dispatched willing groupies to wash their bunions (and sometimes drink the water like broth). They were a diverse bunch, the Psychopimps, versatile, streetwise, and racially mixed, a fact that consolidated their singularity among Southern players. A chief supplier of their recreational stimulants via Lamar, I was a tolerated hanger-on of the band, something in the nature (I liked to think) of a mascot.
You better tell McNamara, tell Curtis LeMay, J. Edgar Hoover, and LBJ , they sang, we gonna pitch that wang dang doodle all night long …
With their combination of electric and traditional instruments, they made a joyful ruckus that turned your intestines to live wires: Elder Lincoln alternating effortlessly between keyboard and kit fiddle, Jimmy Pryor scratching his washboard like a breastplate with fleas, Cholly Jolly vexing the strings of his guitar with a bottleneck to set your teeth on edge. A cause célèbre among regional blues buffs, the band nevertheless disdained record deals, as if success would dilute their authenticity and betray their mentors. They sang about kingsnakes, hellhounds, dead presidents, and crosscut saws, items that mingled with the ingredients of the mild chemical cocktail in my brain to giddy effect.
As the music conspired to reverse my ill humor, a quaint phrase wormed its way into my head: “Faint heart ne’er won fair lady.” Did I really want to win her, and what would I do with her if I did? But the fact that an alternative life—unexamined though it was—perhaps awaited me in Muni Pinsker’s book made firsthand experience seem somehow less hazardous lately. So damning the consequences, I approached Rachel’s table and stood there some seconds before I was noticed, when I had to shout over the din to be heard:
“Was I just some degrading episode you had on your to-do list?”
I hadn’t meant to sound so hostile, but as all three ladies cupped their ears, I was forced to repeat the question at even greater volume. Rachel’s friends looked to her, as did I, for an answer, and saw an angry crimp in her satiny brow. I read her lips more than heard her reply: “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I made an effort to grin to stave off what emerged as a full-throated sob.
Rolling her eyes toward the string of colored lights overhead, Rachel let go a querulous sigh then excused herself. Rising, she callipered my arm with her fingers and escorted me through the jangling music to the front of the bar. I half-expected her to shove me out the door and slam it behind me, but while she did push me onto the sidewalk, she stepped outside as well. She was wearing a shaggy cable-stitched sweater and a pair of distressed blue jeans, which on her looked a little like a costume, as if she’d dressed for a night of slumming. The wind whipped strands of her hair across her face, which she brushed away as if swatting locusts.
“What’s wrong with you?” she hissed.
I wiped my snuffling nose with the back of my palm and straightened in an effort to recover some dignity. “I don’t need your pity,” I said.
She exhaled. “Does this look like pity?” she asked, presenting an implacable expression—tight ocher lips, hard hazel eyes—i lluminated by the streetlight. “Do you think showing your vulnerable side makes you more appealing?”
I decided her pity might be preferable after all.
The scent of rotting refuse that pervaded the city, even despite the February chill, had drifted as far as North Main. The power station down the block was winking like a wrecked constellation, and from
You better tell McNamara, tell Curtis LeMay, J. Edgar Hoover, and LBJ , they sang, we gonna pitch that wang dang doodle all night long …
With their combination of electric and traditional instruments, they made a joyful ruckus that turned your intestines to live wires: Elder Lincoln alternating effortlessly between keyboard and kit fiddle, Jimmy Pryor scratching his washboard like a breastplate with fleas, Cholly Jolly vexing the strings of his guitar with a bottleneck to set your teeth on edge. A cause célèbre among regional blues buffs, the band nevertheless disdained record deals, as if success would dilute their authenticity and betray their mentors. They sang about kingsnakes, hellhounds, dead presidents, and crosscut saws, items that mingled with the ingredients of the mild chemical cocktail in my brain to giddy effect.
As the music conspired to reverse my ill humor, a quaint phrase wormed its way into my head: “Faint heart ne’er won fair lady.” Did I really want to win her, and what would I do with her if I did? But the fact that an alternative life—unexamined though it was—perhaps awaited me in Muni Pinsker’s book made firsthand experience seem somehow less hazardous lately. So damning the consequences, I approached Rachel’s table and stood there some seconds before I was noticed, when I had to shout over the din to be heard:
“Was I just some degrading episode you had on your to-do list?”
I hadn’t meant to sound so hostile, but as all three ladies cupped their ears, I was forced to repeat the question at even greater volume. Rachel’s friends looked to her, as did I, for an answer, and saw an angry crimp in her satiny brow. I read her lips more than heard her reply: “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I made an effort to grin to stave off what emerged as a full-throated sob.
Rolling her eyes toward the string of colored lights overhead, Rachel let go a querulous sigh then excused herself. Rising, she callipered my arm with her fingers and escorted me through the jangling music to the front of the bar. I half-expected her to shove me out the door and slam it behind me, but while she did push me onto the sidewalk, she stepped outside as well. She was wearing a shaggy cable-stitched sweater and a pair of distressed blue jeans, which on her looked a little like a costume, as if she’d dressed for a night of slumming. The wind whipped strands of her hair across her face, which she brushed away as if swatting locusts.
“What’s wrong with you?” she hissed.
I wiped my snuffling nose with the back of my palm and straightened in an effort to recover some dignity. “I don’t need your pity,” I said.
She exhaled. “Does this look like pity?” she asked, presenting an implacable expression—tight ocher lips, hard hazel eyes—i lluminated by the streetlight. “Do you think showing your vulnerable side makes you more appealing?”
I decided her pity might be preferable after all.
The scent of rotting refuse that pervaded the city, even despite the February chill, had drifted as far as North Main. The power station down the block was winking like a wrecked constellation, and from
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