"I hate to leave you, but I got to went"

Precious Bryant

1942-2013

Purveyor of the Chattahoochee Blues, truth-teller, friend

Bad night's sleep

Bad night's sleep last night. And in the haze of this morning's lamplight -- just the latest thing to prevent me from giving over to unconscious -- I see my own pulse, under my biceps. It's not coursing; it's gently pushing.

Such a fragile thing. And such a remarkable thing, that for us, life often lasts 70, 80, 90 years. (In 2006, a turtle named Adwaita that was born in 1760, died.)

My father died this year, at substantially fewer years than that turtle. Too few years, his friends and my family and I would all say. Yet, we all say he lived a full life. So which is right: Full life or too few years? Or is it a third option, I can only voice tentatively, and only now with distance and reflection on: A year too many?

That was Eastertime. He was taken from us during the season of birth and new life. So now that it's Thanksgiving, should I be bitter, sardonic and cursing the gods? Is the happiness in life just a mask we project on what is actually bound for a horrible end for us all, either suddenly and tragically or slowly and painfully, as Will Sheff says?

No, not horrible.

I'm going with too short -- be it at 37 years, 75 years, or 255, and sifted through the filter of quality of life. May the knees stop working before the mind. And be thankful.

Tonio K. addendum

The good wife still doesn't like Tonio K., by the way. "Maybe I'm just listening to him too late," she says.

Or maybe I should've gone crazy-go-nuts with the song selection instead of middle-of-the-road. In any case, I still like the mix disc.

The Strange Case of Tonio K.'s 'Best-Of' Disc

The first Tonio K. I knew was the kinder, gentler one. The one who was singing keyboard infused love-song pop. NOT the one who once semi-famously sung, to Jackson Browne, "'Fountain of Sorrow,' my ass, motherfucker, I hope you wind up in the ground."

AllMusic.com calls the Tonio K. I was listening to the "post-conversion" version. As in, conversion to Christianity. But if you look at his early stuff ("Dear John," is a rather endearing letter to John the Baptist), it's clear he was always a believer. Just one who didn't mind spitting curse-infused venom to purge his demons.

So who the hell is he? He's a former member of Buddy Holly's Crickets — well after that plane crash, when the band was a tribute act. But his proper career began in the late '70s when released a

couple of raucous, angry major label records. These were big, loud songs, with K.'s husky, car-mechanic voice espousing bits of philosophy and arts criticism atop music that was punk rock as filtered through both Mellencamp and Meat Loaf. Stereo Review magazine called one of these records, or maybe both of them, "the greatest album ever recorded." But that didn't equal hit songs. In the '80s he tried again, this allegedly post-conversion K., with two records on Christian music's What? label. If you were gonna be raucous in Contemporary Christian Music, What? was the place to be. But it may not have really mattered. They were good records, but the energy, anger and glee seemed gone. The humor, too. Where were the songs about vampires, the songs about the angst of choosing who to kill — himself or his "philandering bitch"? Sigh. In the '90s, while K. was busy co-writing with T. Bone Burnett and Charlie Sexton, Gadfly started reissuing his early stuff and coaxing out demos and a full album (the fine "Olé," wherein some of the anger, at last, returned) that had never seen the light of day. The "new" stuff was quite a mixed bag.

So what's this story about, anyway, Brad?

Well, the good wife has never listened to Tonio K. Despite — or maybe because of — my insistence that he's a genius. So this week I grabbed my comprehensive collection of his discs (I'm only missing the "La Bomba" EP. I should track it down, as the title track is a reworking of "La Bamba," as an allegory about the "comico atomico," completely in Español) and set out to create a custom "best of" disc for her.

And that's where it got surprising.

I'm now debating if a song is good if its only merit is being, well, memorable. I found myself cutting out some of the songs I loved best — "Living Doll," a call-and-response bit of synth-cheese, and the dadaist "Merzsuite" amalgam, with its "futt futt futt, I am stupid!" refrain — because I couldn't imagine a positive reaction to them by virgin ears. The stuff that holds up is the mid-tempo rootsy stuff. But it's also his less interesting work. I've begun wrestling with the very concept of relevance. Is relevance even important? Is a body of work the criteria by which we judge a man — god help us — or do we see how far he has pushed back the frontline using only his anger and his rapier wit?

In the end, with this disc, I tried to please the audience. An artist might, should, call that pandering. But if my goal was to have my wife listen to and enjoy this music, it was the only way.

The leadoff track will surprise K.'s fans. "Another Day in Limbo," is a song he didn't write. Mark Heard did. Tonio recorded it for a tribute album after Heard's untimely death. The song's production is so sparse as to be almost not there. Macho guitar strumming and a jugular-pulsing vocal turn make it a good show-starter without misrepresenting what is to follow.

The final surprise for me was the song I now identify as my favorite: "We Walk On," from "Olé." It's not a character study, or a folk tale, or a love song, all of which he does so well. It's not bitter and bleak. It's not wry and funny. It begins:

like my father before me, i consider a past
i can't understand
as i grasp at a moment that slips through my hands

and i stumble toward a future concealed in a haze
half faith and half fear
and my innocent vision's no longer so clear

i walk on

It's a rare glimpse at the grownup Tonio K., who's been beaten up by the world, but not beaten down by it. It feels post-apocalyptic, and by the end of the song it's as if he's standing at the throne of judgment, and boy is that light bright.

It was tempting to place the song as the closer. But it also felt disingenuous to that full body of work I've been blathering on about. Instead, I nestled it square in the middle, between "H-A-T-R-E-D," with its Jackson Browne shout-out, and "American Love Affair." Those two songs represent better the anger and the cynic of the man. And I ended instead with a little pick-me-up called "Everything, Including You, Disgusts Me."

With apologies to ABBA, thank you for the music, Tonio.

Here's the full track listing for my custom "best of," for the curious. And no, I'm not posting the mp3s. Get you over to Amazon.com and buy 'em, or check a few out on his MySpace:

01. Another Day in Limbo

02. Practically Invisible

03. How Come I Can't See You in My Mirror?

04. The Executioner's Song

05. I'm Here

06. What a Way to Live

07. Girl Crazy

08. Indians and Aliens

09. H-A-T-R-E-D

10. We Walk On

11. American Love Affair

12. You Don't Belong Here

13. The Night Fast Rodney Went Crazy

14. You Will Go Free

15. Pardon Me for Living

16. Children's Crusade

17. Everything, Including You, Disgusts Me

Boys at the Hood (show)

For Patterson Hood's encore set, the entire crowd bum-rushed the outdoor stage at Waverly, Ala.'s Standard Deluxe. It was dark at this point, with the glow from the stage only supplemented by a string of Christmasy lights overhead and the occasional burst of glee from a firefly.

Hood, of the Drive-By Truckers, spent last Saturday night telling stories, as he'd do with the whole band in their early, "18 Wheels of Love" era. But this encore was a high-energy jolt that proved to be the highlight of the night, including a now-rare performance of "Nine Bullets."

To no fault of Hood's, though, the frat-boy following he and his band draw continues to detract from their live show. "Mama Bake a Pie," the guy behind me screams all night, until Hood gamely played the song (which he didn't write). Then, two songs later, the dude's refrain begins again: "Mama Bake a PIE!" It's unclear if he doesn't remember Hood already played it or didn't care. The brainless dude is lost in the shuffle when we all run to the stage for the finale. But others step into the role.

"Ain't this great? Patterson never plays solo shows anymore," screams one guy to his friends, standing 8 feet from the man who is in the middle of a song, trying to play one of the rare shows. "There's an afterparty with Doc Daily," the guy continues. And all I can think is, "You know what it's the afterparty to? The show you're ignoring RIGHT AT THIS MOMENT."

Good lord, I'm getting old.

Hood's a professional, and he's dealt with worse. He was unfazed, if he even heard. And it was a great show, highlighted by some new tracks from a forthcoming (and still unrecorded) third solo record. "If y'all will come back and bring a friend, I'll come back around this time next year, and I'll bring TWO friends," he promised.

Now if we could only figure out how to leave a few of these people at home...

Willie's Bridge

So here's the deal. I recently uploaded a short story of mine to the Kindle store. Fun times.

I don't have a Kindle. But my wife does. So, in a strange twist, she made me spend a few hours typing in an old story -- it was my first published piece of fiction -- and creating an online account so I could upload it.

So she could buy it for her Kindle.

Yeah, I don't get it either. But it's a pretty good story called "Willie's Bridge," and I designed a cool cover for it. You can buy it here. Please do. And if you like it, pass the word on to your friends. And, turns out you can get the Kindle app for just about anything, from PC to Mac to Droid to iPhone. Just not on the Nook. (Sorry. And B&N doesn't make it easy to self-publish material for their device either, despite their desperate need for income right now.)

I'm working a couple of new pieces right now. A short story and something bigger. The something bigger -- a novella most likely -- will probably see both a digital release and a limited-edition craft printing. Stay tuned for details on that there stuff.

It's just too easy

Where? To? Start?

Driving through Alabama last weekend, making fun of candidates' names -- Twinkle? Really? -- I saw this one. Seriously, best name ever. The campaign totally writes itself:

"I trust Alabama's money with Young Boozer."

"Don't be a loser, vote for the Boozer."

You get the idea.