by Chris Price
I stopped and read some of the signs. 'What's the connection with Montreal?'
'Just that I go there a lot and I love it. I like to be in a country where everything is misspelled. Makes me feel like I'm out of the United States. It's what I really liked about Holland, everything was misspelled.'
'Why does that make you feel better?' I asked, resisting the temptation to point out that the words weren't so much 'misspelled' as 'in another language'.
'Because I don't know what the fuck it says! It makes me feel like I'm on another planet.'
The swearing threw me off momentarily. Coming from this cuddly, boyish personality, it was like Barney Rubble breaking character and swearing at the kids. I pressed him further. 'Why does it feel better to be on another planet?'
'Because I am from another planet! I'm from planet Pluto. And I can prove it to you, right here.' Edging back and looking up, he pointed to a sign under the eaves of the porch: 'Bienvenue Planet Pluto.' 'I figured out a long time ago that I'm an alien from another planet. I just don't fit into that place on the other side of the fence. I don't really belong here. I'm not interested in war, I'm not interested in capitalism, corporations or religion. In fact there's really nothing on this planet that interests me other than music and having fun.'
'So everything you need is here?' I asked, getting caught up in the idea of Gram's Place as a kind of Neverland that Mark had created around himself in order to pretend that the 'real' world didn't exist.
He sidestepped me. 'Well I'm just doing the best I can living in a place called Tampa. I'd much rather live in Canada or Europe. I envy you guys that live over there, I really do. I'm not happy in America. We have a dictator for president, we have the illusion of elections and a fascist police state. We live in the Divided States of Illusions.' His face dropped, then suddenly lit up again. 'Hey, let me show you Little Amsterdam!'
Skipping three yards to the left, he announced: 'Now we're in Little Amsterdam.' A lime-green, European-style telephone booth stood by the fence next to a tall rubber plant, Dutch flags hanging on bunting above.
'Where does your fascination with Holland come from?' I asked.
'Well, my last name is Holland. So I figure why not?' This was the answer I was most – and least – expecting. That you happen to share a name with a country is both the best and worst reason for crossing an ocean to see it. But then who I was I to talk – I had just crossed a continent as a birthday present to a man most people have never heard of. 'Up here is the Crow's Nest,' said Mark. 'It's like a Huck Finn, Robinson Crusoe kind of thing. Go on up.'
We followed a staircase up onto a network of wooden walkways which wove between the buildings and led onto a lookout platform at the top of the hostel. Looking down over both properties I pressed on with the interview. 'How long has it taken to get this place to where it is now?'
'Twenty-nine years. That's my whole life. I was a young man when I came here. Actually it's all illegal. The city is making me re-zone.'
'What does "re-zone" mean?'
Barney Rubble broke character again. 'It's another term for extortion and bullshit. The government makes you buy products and services that you don't want, need or get. And if you don't buy them you become a criminal.'
'I'm still not sure I know what you mean?' I said, guessing he was talking about taxes, but I wanted to hear his own interpretation.
'It's all about "You have a wallet, and we want that wallet from your pocket into our pocket". That's what re zoning means.'
This was getting a little heavy. I changed the subject. 'Do you manage to make a comfortable living out of Gram's Place?'
'Well I don't get a pay cheque, but it pays the bills. I don't do this for money though, I do it because it's a passion. I just like to share the music. It's called Gram's Place but it's not about Gram so much as what he stood for – sharing music.'
Gram's Place seemed to me like an unruly younger brother to the Alley rehearsal space in LA. Like the Alley, it had the look and feel of a film set. Take the Lost Boys' hideout in Spielberg's Hook, swap piracy for music, stick it in Tampa and you're there. Nothing matched; not the doors, nor the furniture or the rooms. But it had been put together with massive personal drive and care. Yet like a child's train set it seemed once a room or area was finished it was left to gather dust while Mark took his excitement to another part of the house. It was a schizophrenic, manic environment, the closest I've ever come to walking around the inside of a man's head. Gram's Place was the physical manifestation of the mind of Mark Holland: musical, eccentric, passionate, sprawling and slightly troubled, with hidden corners holding unexpected oddments and idiosyncrasies. It was utterly unique.
While Joe blogged, I chatted to Mark some more in his office. We talked about his interest in Gram, how in 1980 he had started the Gram Parsons Foundation to 'share, perpetuate and educate', and how he had shot the first ever television documentary made about him, The Legend of the Grievous Angel.
He asked if I wanted to jam a couple of songs on guitar, but I made excuses, saying Joe and I needed to find somewhere to eat, maybe later. I feel bad about that. Mark's passion for music was unquestionable, his belief in its unifying power admirable. That he seemed to invest all of his energies in it to the exclusion of everything else however, made me uncomfortable – perhaps this was what it meant to cross the line from fan to fanatic? Gram's Place was a lively musical playground, but one run by a boyish character who resented paying taxes and felt persecuted by the authorities. That he rejected all of the trappings of 'the world beyond the fence' made Gram's Place seem less welcoming to me, not more.
And frankly I was feeling nervous about how all this reflected on me. Hadn't I just driven 4,500 miles across America to celebrate the birthday of a man most people have never heard of, much less care about? Hadn't I crossed the line myself?
Two thoughts consoled me. The first was that Shilah, Polly Parsons' best friend and partner in crime, had mentioned in Joshua Tree that she had met plenty of Grampires in her time and could confirm – bless her – that we were categorically not Grampires ourselves. Phew.
The second thought was that the whole thing was Joe's idea anyway. Weirdo.
5 NOVEMBER
EXIT MUSIC
Strum, strum, strummity… shit. Strummity… shit. Strummity… shit!
Today we would end the journey by commemorating the life of a man rated eighty-seventh most influential artist of all time by Rolling Stone magazine. And there in the Country Room of Gram's Place I was proving beyond all doubt that I was something like ten billion places behind him. Strum, strum, strummity… shit.
I had planned by now not only to have mastered my chosen instrument, but also to have acquired a deep appreciation of the style of music I was to perform. I hadn't. With my extravagant ukulele purchase, I was the snowboarder who hits the slopes in a bank loan's worth of Puffa-wear and then sits on the chairlift the wrong way round. 'All the gear, and no idea' or, as they say in West London, 'all the kit, and still shit'.
There were just sixty miles between Tampa and Winter Haven. It was late morning and I had until some time after lunch to learn an instrument and to love these songs. I could have lied, told Chris that I got it, trucking songs are great, now play the one about the car. But that wouldn't have been right, and I'd still be shit at the ukulele. I just needed more… time.
But Chris was in a hurry to get going. Mark appeared to have found a new best friend and was reluctant to let him leave before they had made beautiful music together. I jumped in the passenger seat, waving goodbye from the topless Grievous Angel. Chris prised his hand from Mark's, threw the bags in the boot and slammed it shut. Then he climbed into the driver's seat and reached for the ignition. 'Have you got the key?'
'No, you've got it.'
'Ha ha. There's no time for this, I want to get out of here.'
'I haven't got the key!'
'Where the fuck is it then?' said Chris, starting to panic.
'It woul
d appear,' I smiled, 'that you have performed your party trick again, would it not?'
'Check your pockets.'
'I haven't got it!'
Pockets were emptied, ashtrays opened and slammed shut, seats pulled forward and pushed back. He'd done it again. And this time he had really outdone himself. This time there was no Dollar Rental lot attendant on hand to help us out, just a man who would much rather we stayed for several more weeks. We returned to Gram's Place. Chris buzzed.
'Oh, hi guys,' said Mark, confused to be seeing us again so soon. 'Everything OK?'
'Do you know of any locksmiths? We, er… I… appear to have locked the car keys in the trunk.'
'Oh man, bummer! There's a place around the corner on MLK. I'll go give him a call.'
We waited. Chris fumed.
'He'll be here in a couple of hours,' said Mark, emerging from his office. 'Just enough time for a drink. Lucky Parsons Pub never closes!'
It was a long two hours.
Finally a portly Samoan locksmith rolled up armed with keys, a can of lube, a knife, small rubber truncheon and a flinty determination to see it through. We would soon be on our way. He was a cuddly chap; by the time he'd waddled across the road he was sweating and licking his top lip like a bull dog. After twenty minutes of squeezing, turning, wrenching, twisting and lifting, his orange work shirt was sodden, and we were still stood on the pavement.
'You guys' – huff, puff – 'have got two options.' Deep breath, sucking of teeth. 'You can drill out the lock and pay for a new trunk at the airport. Or you can stay here and wait for the rental company to send out their own guy. But I doubt they'll come out today.'
Noooooooo!
Then a thought appeared to flicker across his sweaty brow. 'Or, there's one last thing I can try.'
This sounded good. It was dangerously close to Michael Caine and his 'great idea' at the end of The Italian Job, but we were desperate. The 'last thing' in fact involved simply pulling out the moulded back seats of the Grievous Angel and beating the shit out of the thick fabric wall that separates the boot from the car. A car drove past and slowed to take a look. It probably did look strange: three guys casually watching a fat man beat up a car.
Huff, puff. 'We're in!' The titanic struggle had created a small hole in the lining approximately the size of a coffee cup. 'Only I can't get my arm through.'
This called for the weediest person present. I stepped forward, climbed into the rear seatwell and fed my right arm through the hole like a vet delivering a calf. There was a bag – no – move across, what's that? Oh, guitar case. Carry on, what's this? Metallic, jangly… yes!
We repaired the car as best we could, threw fifty dollars at the locksmith and, restating our goodbyes to Mark, hit the road for the final time.
With less than five hours until the return of the Grievous Angel to Dollar Car Rental, less than two until 'Return of the Grievous Angel' performed on guitar and ukulele in Gram's birthplace of Winter Haven, two men drove east along US570, Gram Parsons on repeat, punctuated by the sporadic, clumsy chords of a ukulele being impatiently abused.
In the late afternoon we arrived in Winter Haven, a sprawl of retirement community chic squeezed into the gaps between the Chain of Lakes which fleck the central Florida landscape like droplets of spilt milk. The lakes, as if to emphasise to the old folks of America that 'this is the place for you', had names like Henry, Alfred, Mabel, Maude and Bess. Or they promised lazy Sunday afternoons on Hammock Lake or Lake Easy. The hygiene-conscious octogenarian could even live on Lake Sanitary. As we drove through, expansive pools opened up suddenly to our left and right like inland seas. For us, as for many of the people living there, Winter Haven was the end of the line.
Had we found the spirit of rock and roll America? Certainly not here. But we had found it in a cosy cabin in Nashville and a tiny motel room in Joshua Tree. We had shaken its hand at the Cash studio and re-enacted westerns with it on a real-life movie set in Pioneertown. We had tasted the loneliness of the 'Wichita Lineman', the sinful excess of a Church's Chicken economy bucket on the crossroads in Clarksdale, the peanut butter and banana sandwich that finished off the King. And in a way, though it pre-dated anything that could be called rock and roll by about 160 million years, we had seen the true birthplace of American music in Monument Valley, the original Wild West.
Had Joe learned to love the music of Gram Parsons? No. Did I think he would? Not really, but it would have been nice. Isn't it natural to want your friends to share the things that are important to you? And he tried. But that bit of the experiment was doomed to failure from the start. A month-long immersion in all things Parsons was as likely to succeed in making Joe like Gram as a Dave Matthews poster campaign.
And of all people I should have known this. A good part of my career has been spent making playlist choices based on the persistent overtures of record label promotions departments. Of the thousands of new artists presented to me by radio pluggers as the next big thing, the ones I remember – the ones whose careers I am proudest of having a hand in starting – are the ones I discovered myself. That's part of being in love with music – discovering it for yourself. When it's shoved down your throat it becomes as palatable as a plate of funnel cake on a Scrambler.
And Joe's outlaw heroes were all from the silver screen – Butch Cassidy, The Magnificent Seven – while mine were from the grooves of a longplayer. He had Cliff Michelmore to thank for his memories and I had Waylon Jennings (OK, Daisy Duke). He had no nostalgia for country, I had none for westerns, and we never would. But it had been fun trying.
The trees hung still in the breezeless air as we drove around Winter Haven looking for a suitable place to complete the quest. The town centre looked like every other pedestrian precinct in every other town in America. We carried on. Winter Haven hospital, where Gram had entered the world, just looked like a mall. The crossroads in the centre of town was the regulation rainbow of traffic lights and fast food outlets; performing in the car park of Popeye's Chicken & Biscuits didn't seem right. We drove back along East Lake Howard Drive where, reaching out over a lake turned golden by the setting sun, we spotted a jetty.
'That's the place,' said Chris with convincing finality.
We parked and walked out onto the water, Chris' guitar casting a moody silhouette on the wooden planks. Two kids were fishing by the water's edge. Seagulls wheeled above.
'Right,' said Chris, 'can you remember the chords?'
'Yes.'
'Can you remember the order?'
'Not so much.'
'Well, let's give it a go.'
'Won't you scratch my itch, sweet Annie Rich
And welcome me back to town…'
I really wish I could say I gave a faultless performance. I wish I could say I got all the notes right, that I hit the strings more often and with more conviction.
'Billboards and truck stops passed by the Grievous Angel
Now I know just what I have to do…'
I wish I'd been able to give Gram a more fitting tribute than I did. Even if his music hadn't moved me, I had come to realise from talking to the people we'd met on the trip that this guy meant a lot to them. He had spoken to them, changed their lives, inspired them. And here I was butchering his sixtieth birthday tribute so badly that it was starting to look deliberate.
'I remember something you once told me
And I'll be damned if it did not come true…'
Did Chris think I had brought him all this way and screwed up the punchline just to make a point? I hoped not. And most of all I hoped that a musician who died five months after I was born, who lived fast and died young, wherever his soul may be, didn't think I was taking the piss.
'Twenty thousand roads I went down, down, down
And they all led me straight back home to you.'
We sat in silence for a few minutes and watched the sun set over the lake.
I was the first to speak. 'You know, I think I might keep the cockduster. I've grown to like i
t.'
'You should. It suits you,' said Chris, stroking his.
'Gonna keep yours?'
He thought for a moment. 'I don't think so. It's just not me. It's uncomfortable, slightly stupid and makes me feel a bit self-conscious.'
Silence for a few seconds. 'That's exactly how I feel about country music.'
EPILOGUE 1
TWO YEARS LATER
I was driving along the Uxbridge Road in West London when it happened. I switched radio stations and a familiar, swooping pedal steel lit up the dial on Radio 2. As it did, a great big stupid smile spread across my face.
As the song played, credits rolled in my head. The credits to a film about two guys who drove across America looking for the soul of American music and ended up unsure of whether they had found it.
The credits scrolled upwards on the right-hand side of the screen while bleached-out highlights of the movie played on the left. As the tune played on, soundless visual highlights flickered by, each one ending in a brief freeze-frame before fading into the next. Laurel Canyon. Punk Rock Mike. Joshua Tree. Monument Valley. Wichita County line. Wolf River. The Crossroads. Cash Cabin. Courtney. Charlie Daniels. Billy Joel.
And for the first time in my life, 'Return of the Grievous Angel' by Gram Parsons made me happy. Not because the singing was soulful, or because Emmylou's harmonies were perfect, or because the lyrics were so sweetly metaphorical. It was because it took me back in time to a silly experiment which seemed to have failed, but which, I realised now as my Converse tapped the footwell and my lips sang silently along, in its own small way was a success.