Live Fast, Die Young

by Chris Price

  Cap Rock was easy to spot. A barn-sized yellow outcrop sitting lonely in a wide expanse of desert with nothing for company but Joshua trees and a huddle of smaller rocks at its feet, it takes its name from the flat, rounded boulder which glints on top of it like a cap perched on the scalp of a balding, sweaty trucker. We pulled off the road and embarked on what we supposed would be an arduous search for the sacred spot of Gram's cremation, where the rock is scribbled with fans' dedications to commemorate his passing. I had noted down the complicated directions given to us over breakfast: 'Start out from the car park and proceed in a north-north-westerly direction (NO trail), turning left at the fourth tree past the heart-shaped rock after the weeping cactus.' It all sounded fantastically secret and esoteric, a hidden desert grotto to which all but the most intrepid were denied access.

  In the event it was disappointingly easy to find. Margo could have saved herself the trouble ('It's on the opposite site of the rock to the car park' would have sufficed), but we were learning that there are many minor and harmless embellishments to the GP legend that serve to make the trail that little bit more satisfying in the pursuit.

  We arrived to find two people already there. One was a lean and lithe rock climber type with a bewildering capacity for meaningless chatter and inappropriate candour, preparing to embark on a 'Gram Parsons Memorial Hand Traverse', as tradition has it for the more outward-bound among GP pilgrims. This involves hanging with your fingertips from the uppermost edge of one of the smaller rocks, swinging your legs sideways over a clutch of thorny bushes which crouch menacingly beneath your rear, then sliding your hands along until you can negotiate another foothold. This you repeat until you've made your way along the entire length of the rock, before dropping several feet onto the sand below. All in the name, apparently, of showing Gram just how much he means to you.

  I had planned on completing a memorial traverse of my own, but quickly realised I was woefully unprepared. For one thing I was wearing all the wrong clothes. Our rock climber friend was decked out in all manner of technical gear, including fingerless climbing gloves and rubber-soled pumps that seemed to stick to the rock like Spiderman. Despite this, and his possessing the physique of an Olympic gymnast, he still looked like he was having difficulty, made worse by the fact that he was attempting to hold a conversation with an onlooker as he went. In between grunts he relayed to the second Parsons pilgrim, a bald but bearded, matchstick-chewing biker, the details of his disastrous personal finances and the demise of his last relationship.

  'It all started to go wrong for us – ooh, ouch – when I lost my job. Cindy was the kind of girl that liked the finer things in life, you know?'

  'Uh-huh.'

  'And when I couldn't provide the material things for her any more – whoa! nearly lost it there – things started to go downhill in our sex life too.'

  'Sucks.'

  'We were arguing a lot anyway, which was worse when Cindy got her period – man, she had really heavy periods – and I think the job thing was the last straw, you know?' His left buttock was suspended inches above a nest of thorns.

  'Sorry, man.'

  'That was when I started to hit the booze real hard – ooh! ah! – and Cindy took off with a guy from work…'

  'Bummer.'

  And so it continued, the climber ever more generous with the depressing details of his personal life, the biker always monosyllabic in reply, until finally the climber completed his traverse, dropped onto his feet and with a 'Nice talkin' to ya!' was gone.

  I lingered and read the dedications scrawled onto the rock. Many quoted lyrics from GP songs, often incorrectly, but if the grammar was a little out the sentiment was still there, even in the tribute from one touchingly misguided fan of 'Graham Parsons'. But, as I was later to write in the guest book at the Joshua Tree Inn, we came in search of the spirit of Gram Parsons and found it written all over Cap Rock. We made a quick, unsuccessful attempt to clamber to the top before returning to the car park, where we found the rock climber unburdening himself of some recent health scares to a family of day-trippers. He's fine now though, so don't worry.

  Lunch at Denny's before a haircut at Twentynine Palms' famous Barber Judi, the only hairdresser I have ever visited who faces the customer away from the mirror as they are being shorn, presumably so that (a) your travelling companion can wince theatrically and suck through his teeth as she goes about her toil and trouble, as Joe did now, and (b) you have 'a nice surprise' to look forward to at the end of the whole terrifying experience. Proudly boasting marine-style grade fours, we returned to the Joshua Tree Inn. It was at this point that the day took a turn for the unexpected, if not for the truly inconceivable.

  We had made an arrangement with Yvo at breakfast that morning to interview him and Margo on camera in room eight, possibly to be posted on the website if all went well. When we were ready to roll I popped out to the pool to fetch our interviewees, who were chatting to a group of friends. Yvo introduced them one by one. First a glamorous all-American girly type named Mary, who looked like every sunkissed Californian model hanging off Stephen Stills in Canyon-era rock photography, and second a grinning South American hippie named Arturo. Lastly I found myself shaking the hand of a diminutive figure of fiery red hair and piercing blue eyes by the name of Polly.

  Polly.

  Polly?

  It was a name I'd read many times in books and magazine articles about Gram. Had I remembered it right? Polly Parsons. Yes, Polly was Gram's daughter. And she was stood right in front of me. For years I had devoured every word written about the man, learned every chord of every song, bought every album, reissue and biography several times over, and here I was staring his DNA in the face by the pool of the Joshua Tree Inn where he had died thirty five years before. Gulp.

  I struggled for something to say, very nearly telling her it was an 'honour' to meet her, but fumbling for 'pleasure' just in time.

  She jumped in and spared my agony. 'Great to meet you. I heard about your trip. I think it's great what you're doing for Dad.'

  Did you hear that? Polly had heard of us and thought it was great, what we were doing. She'd heard of us! And she approved!

  Now forgive me while I pounce on a passing remark uttered only to spare the blushes of a man finding himself stuck in a conversational cul-de-sac, but Polly Parsons' endorsement was not something I'd ever imagined this trip would attract. Here was a direct line to Gram himself putting the Parsons seal of approval on the whole ridiculous enterprise. All of a sudden we had a higher purpose for what we were doing. And God knows we needed one. Yee-ha! Yee-fucking-ha!

  The interview with Margo and Yvo was fine. He was monosyllabic and distracted, she engaging and articulate. Joe filmed, I fawned. It passed in a haze. Having just met Polly Parsons, our exclusive interview with Margo and Yvo suddenly didn't quite feel like such a scoop.

  Later we were introduced to another friend of Polly's named Shilah, and learned what had brought them out to the Mojave Desert on precisely the night that we happened to be there. Shilah works in the music industry and an attorney friend of hers in LA – who also happened to be the attorney for one Terra Naomi – had told her about two crazy English guys who were celebrating Gram's birthday by driving across America in search of rock and roll hi jinx, and suggested we hook up. Shilah was promoting a gig nearby, so they'd decided to head out to Joshua Tree and see if there wasn't some fun to be had. Brash, buxom and bonkers, Shilah was the life-and-soul type you warm to instantly. This we did, and an invitation to join them that evening at Pappy and Harriet's Pioneertown Palace was issued. We accepted without hesitation.

  But first we had to take a second drive out to the desert. The sun was about to go down and we had resolved to be sitting underneath Cap Rock when it did, raising a beer to Gram. Cap Rock was the closest thing Gram had to a grave, closer than the Louisiana cemetery where his charred remains were buried following the botched desert cremation. As the place he had spent many a night stargazing with friends,
it was only right that Joe and I should do the same. We sat down, leaned against a boulder graffitied with a cross – the same one embroidered into the nudie suit he wears on the cover of Gilded Palace of Sin – and cracked open a couple of Heinies.

  'Cheers Gram,' said Joe with a clink of his bottle against mine.

  'Yeah, cheers Gram,' I said. 'Hope you like your birthday present.'

  'Thanks for sending us your daughter by the way.' He turned to me. 'So what did Polly say to you?'

  'She said she knew who we were and asked if we'd had much response to the website, to which I lied that we had. And then one of her friends came over and she told her about us. She said, "This is Chris, he's on a road trip to celebrate Dad's birthday." Dad's birthday. I've never heard him called that before.'

  Another clink of bottles and a 'cheers' from us both. From our twilit Cap Rock vantage point, following an encounter with the ghost of Gram himself, it seemed our quest had got off to a pretty good start.

  'I'd love to know what Gram would think of all this,' I pondered. 'He'd probably think it was a really, really stupid idea.'

  'Probably.'

  The sun had gone down and a cold desert chill swept in behind it. We finished the last of our beers, returned to the car and hit the road to Pioneertown, where we planned to party like it was 1969.

  Purpose-built in the forties, Pioneertown started life as an Old West motion picture set. Designed to look like an 1870s frontier town, countless westerns including The Cisco Kid, Jeopardy and The Gay Amigo had been filmed there. The idea had been to create a living movie set, a community in which actors could both live and work. If you've ever wanted to know what it feels like to burst through swinging saloon doors on a darkened and deserted film set, Pioneertown is the place to find out.

  Pappy and Harriet's Pioneertown Palace is a barbecue canteen and live music venue at the end of Mane Street. It was exactly how I imagined a juke joint would be (though in truth I had no idea what a juke joint was) with real life sawdust on exposed wooden floorboards, ginuwine cowboys in authentic plaid shirts and country music so loud we had to shout to make ourselves heard. Spotting Polly and friends at a table near the stage, we shuffled in. We hung back at first, still unsure whether they had us down as fellow music industry types or just another couple of Grampires passing through. Shilah saw us and waved us over.

  'Hey guys! So glad you could make it. Tonight is kind of my night – I'm promoting the show. Really it's more like hosting a few friends. Take a seat.'

  We sat down between Mary the impossibly-beautiful-Californian-model-type and Arturo the Chilean hippie. Polly was on the edge of the group, quietly observing but letting Shilah do all the talking.

  'I hope you can stick around. Marc Olson is playing later on.'

  This was all the invitation Chris needed. Marc Olson is the lead singer of the Jayhawks. The Jayhawks are one of his favourite bands.

  We ordered a round of whiskies and settled in. Shilah told us a little about the group of friends.

  'Polly and I grew up together. My mom knew Gram and took me to see the Burritos when I was a kid. She says Polly and I used to run riot at the Troubadour together when we were three years old! I introduced Polly to her husband Charlie, and I was maid of honour at their wedding.' With the addition of Mary to the group – head of marketing at Amoeba Records, who were releasing some newly discovered Parsons recordings – a girly threesome was born.

  But it was Shilah who took centre stage. Mama Shi, as she is known to her friends, was evidently something of a local celebrity. She ran Sin City Social Club, a marketing company she described as a 'renegade collective of musicians, artists and industry executives brought together by a shared appreciation of Americana'. Apparently the members' list extended to virtually everybody in the place, as was made evident by the steady stream of friends who, spotting Shilah's trademark Stetson hat, would make a beeline for our table to say hello. Every one of them was smothered with a bear hug, handed a drink and invited to join our table. This was a lady who knew how to make a party swing.

  Later Shilah and Mary took us for a midnight tour of Pioneertown by torchlight. We strolled past the Bath House Hotel, the law office and the jailhouse.

  'So what about you guys,' probed Shilah as we crossed Mane Street towards the saloon. 'What's your story?'

  I scuffed a trainer through the dust. 'Well it's not as interesting as yours. I'm a fan of Gram's music and wanted to see where it all went on. And apparently Joe and I can't have a perfectly ordinary exchange of birthday cards without it turning into a four-and-a-half-thousand-mile road trip.' I explained how the Butch Cassidy birthday card had started it all.

  'Well you're in the right place for some Butch and Sundance action, that's for sure. But what about you Joe, I still don't get what's in it for you.'

  'That's a question I've been asking myself for three years.'

  'And?'

  'God knows. I don't even like country music.'

  'You don't like country music?!' squealed Shilah, discharging a full-throated Marlboro guffaw. 'That's the funniest thing I ever heard!'

  'I pretty much hate country music in fact. Except for Johnny Cash, obviously.'

  'Well you've got that right at least,' said Mary, 'they don't come much better than Johnny. Even Gram would tell you that. Hey, let's go rob that bank over there!'

  She galloped to the entrance of Pioneertown Bank, Joe trotting after her. With palms clasped and held tight to their chests, index fingers tucked under their chins like Smith & Wessons, they pressed their backs to the wall on either side of the entrance and surveyed the street for officers of the law. The coast clear, first Mary then Joe disappeared inside.

  'It's pretty amazing what Joe's done for you,' said Shilah as we shuffled a little further along Mane Street. 'Coming here, I mean.'

  'It is, isn't it? Especially when you consider this was all his idea.'

  'That's a true friend you've got there.'

  'Yes ma'am,' I attempted in my best Southern drawl. 'It sure is.'

  A silence hung heavy in the darkness. It was Shilah who broke it.

  'Are you planning on going through Nashville?'

  'Not a chance I'm afraid. I'd have loved to, but Joe's been before and hated it. Probably something to do with all that country music. We're heading south to New Orleans instead.'

  'That's a shame. A friend of mine in Nashville – Jack Fripp – might be able to hook you up a visit to Johnny Cash's place in Hendersonville.'

  'Really? That would be incredible!'

  'It's a long shot, but worth a try. Johnny's son John Carter is running the studio down there now. It's in a cabin in the grounds of the estate. But I guess if Joe hates Nashville he won't be in a hurry to go back.'

  'I guess not.' I shrugged.

  Joe and Mary crashed through the doors of the bank, whoopin' and hollerin' in celebration of their imaginary haul. We chased after them.

  'Let me speak to Jack,' panted Shilah as we reached Pappy's. 'He owes me a favour.'

  More whiskey ensued, followed by the worst Mexican food we'd ever eaten at a drive-thru on the way back to the motel (Joe: 'We're eating dog food aren't we?'), followed by more booze and an impromptu jam session with Marc Olsen in room nine. It was quite a night. Later, as I lay awake in bed enjoying a particularly rousing rendition of Joe's now nightly olfactory symphony, I reflected on the day's events.

  I imagined being able to talk to the eighteen-year-old version of myself, a fresh-faced university undergraduate arriving at Gram's music via The Lemonheads, The Charlatans and Primal Scream, and discovering an artist that would change the way he thought about music forever. Gram's songs taught me to let go of any notion of cool when appreciating music. His stock in trade, after all, had none that he didn't give to it himself. Back then country music, with only very rare exception, was the preserve of rednecks and racists. He turned it into rock and roll.

  I tried to imagine what that eighteen-year-old me would think of all
this. I pictured his reaction to the news that in his early thirties, the love affair with Gram's music undiminished by fifteen years of familiarity, he would meet Gram's daughter by the pool at the Joshua Tree Inn, she would be sweet and welcoming and open and – get this – she would approve of what you're doing. I'm not sure he would believe it.

  But something was nagging at me. Shilah's words, about what Joe was getting out of this, what a friend he was for even being here let alone suggesting the whole thing, were running around in my head. What was he getting out of this?

  I reached over and switched on the bedside lamp, then prodded his arm.

  'Joe, wake up.'