But into this Hurry Sundown world one day came The Churl from Nashville, midway on a talent-spotting tour of the Old South. The Churl, the biggest talent scout in the blues-sniffing biz, was a dangerous dude. Bars and pop shoppes hated him. He sucked up every promising act as surely as a 27-cent part-time hooker on duty in the load-bed of a ’51 International Harvester, ostensibly servicing any old carpetbagger gent.
Already Churl-ized were Blues legends like Cardmeal Checkerson, Cooked-Corn Mugbald, Dreena Dendles, Jes’ Cooglin’, and Cavendish Lake-Pan. And with Damp Canders now in tow, he joined the illustrious list freshly plucked from sharecroppers’ verandahs, midnight bars, and Cool John shacks, from Cubsville all the way to Randahannah Corners.
The sun had set over Les-town. It was a deep-fried, mossback-coated, bayou-draining, chain-melting sweatbox of a night at the Creep Room, with only a couple of standalone Feverson fans and one working punkah keeping the cig-cigar-reefer-soul-fude fly ash from coalescing in the region of the ‘stage’. A stage there was: nothing more than a bootblack’s box, lit by two electric-power back-porch lamp cans.
That’s where you got to perform in the Creep Room, and it better be all you needed.
The Churl sat on a half-busted school chair, his butt-flab hanging in curtains on both sides, nudged-up close to a lave-bean sorter’s table five rows back, covered with pots of decanted jug-beer, his Jupiter-sized face glowing carmine, beaded with salt bulbs, in full white suit, white sash tie, and formerly-white, dome-daubing blanket-kerchief. Just another perspiration-oriented white pigboy, but a pigboy with power.
After consuming platter-pork and gravy, he took up a can of alcohol and picked his orange teeth, sitting patiently through the lesser-light performances of Nguna Ishune, Ricker-Dicker Tintype, and a full set by Pewwy Quack-Shixx. Having declared the latter ‘lousy’ to the foxy Knoxville trophy chick who sat beside him, the piss-swill continued to flow, the opium balls were peeled of their trash out back, and the place really got into ultra-late night gear.
All sorts of shit went on that night, most of it under the table, behind the bar, and out rear in the sugar-strewn alley.
Dudes with moth-eaten Bing Crosby hats and untucked shirts. Festival gals with stretch-elastic pants and bigger hair than last week. Round-featured boy dolls and crushy goo-goo girls. Sweatmeat on the get-down floor.
Regular-chicken legs troweled off the broiler at Shedd’s Backroom Basement Grille next door. Lick-wet lips plastered on necks, then whoopee hoots. A few hip white peoples, flat-capped and pomaded, stopping in and taking wine, cool enough, innocuous, integrated, sallow fingers ready for joint-swaps. Barrel-cups. Full-share grub. Rack-chops, blood tissues, sex-sausage, Carroll-cuts of pea-colored flesh. Jumboned terk-fries. Pearl onions in oil. Tray-fish, all sparkled-up with pump-sauce and gremmy-husks. Grape-lard in punch-out powder. Pickle discs in pitchpine brine. Fried gumdrops in lettuce squeezings. Bakes in mayo juice. Gizmo-puddings galore.
The chugging-and-chewing was all fine, all the time.
In the grey mozzie-screened lean-to across the alley, opium pipes drippled, coals glimmered up and down, and users sat back in big collapsed planters’ chairs, taking in the midnight music; no better seats for the show in town. Then there was Josiah Æneas Crumpton Drolls, sitting on the ramshackle remains of his garret up top, albino of indeterminate race, gumming chip-weed. What skin wasn’t covered by bib overalls glowed fluorescent-like in the gloom. And there were those behind the mozzie screen just below – (looking in, can’t see ’em, but looking out, they can see you) – ready to intone, if anyone passing by was to take issue with his presence, ‘Don’t fuck with Josiah Æneas Crumpton Drolls’. Explanation always given, with courtesy: ‘We need Josiah Æneas Crumpton Drolls as our reading light.’ Dragon-smoke always brought wit.
Further down, a couple holdups and paste bracelets lifted. Just laughs after. Jokes flavored by corn and forgiveness. The other way, past the first-and-last-chance out-housings, custom was, drug o’ the day on the Proffering Grounds. Sacred, safe, and civilized.
‘Hey, Wray, got any Bob?’
Back to the Creep.
Wigs lifted on the dance floor. Boogyin’ and shoe scuffin’. The Churl’s KX-ville babe taking breaks in the little girls’ room. Why not turn a few Jill-’n’-John tricks, for jingle money? All around was goodness, action, and momentum.
Here’s what they were here for: nothing really mattered but the music.
And then, a singular figure appeared on the stage. He wore a cheap black blazer, black slacks just mended in the crotch, matte oxfords, and, most unusually, a black clerical collar. He had a formidable look, but mainly because he plowed ahead with grave assurance. There was no wandering in his eyes, which were courageous enough not to require shades. He was home: home with the deep-deep blue-black blues. Accompanied by standup bass, snare and ghatam drums, and occasionally a dry Bengal flute, he took his guitar and sang in a hot-tar voice, drizzled over scratchgravel:
I was alone that night.
That’s the way I wanted it.
So that I could see
What my private life was doin’,
Where it was goin’.
Who it was livin’ as.
On my own –
Not livin’ on a flat old grave stone.
But out boogie-in’,
Out and about,
On my own –
On my own
No one else but mine,
No more in my hand than a dime.
But my own.
On my own.
Now livin’ in town,
Gettin’ on down.
Who, way or where,
Certain end sittin’ there,
Says to me on silvery skin,
Which-in way you’re livin’ in.
On your own –
No more graven stone.
Not givin’ in
No way to win,
Never slippin’ in
Only kissin’ in –
Kissin’ my –
Kissin’ my –
Kissin’ my –
My Nina goodbye…
My Nina goodbye…
My Nina goodbye…
No one in the house even had time to react, so stunned were they at this new paradigm. The effect was impossible to describe. They could’ve booed him for his unorthodox chemistry. They could’ve ridiculed him as a supposed man of the cloth come to this den of iniquity, on this fœtid eve. But they didn’t. Sweat balls cascaded out of the performer’s refined pores in accordance with the climate of the room, but that was all that challenged him this night. He had not only won them all over, he had wowed them all over.
It was The Churl who first clicked into Conquer Mode, for which he was (in)famous. He put down his spatula of late-menu fry-mash spudatoes and adjusted the string tie he’d just put on to replace the sash splattered with his mastication spray. His collar was tight as a blowout-brace on a pressure vessel, but he had to be properly dressed for the occasion – and the procedure to come.
Aligning his white suit with massive hitch-ups and scoot-arounds, firm-packing the jelly within, and buckling up his matching porter-style overalls (serving as easy-install grandad pants), he did a big-thrust stand-up, planted his Baby Fauntleroy hat on his shrimp-pink pate, and bellied his way backstage.
And there, under the rays of a refrigerator-grade lightbulb in a beat-up red lampshade, he presented his greasy but corporately connected gallon-jar mug to he who was obviously the paramount talent of the night.
‘You is somethin’, singer!’ quoth The Churl in a fakey southern accent (put on to win over the locals).
The reply from the collared one was surpassingly erudite.
‘I am singing of the wrapping of the soul. I call it, quite simply, Wrap, sir.’
‘Well now,’ said the big sweat-blob, ‘that’s jest what Ah’m a-lookin’ for. Fries?’
The Churl held out a paper tray he’d copped on the way backstage. TABP partook, for h
e was genuinely famished after his gig.
‘Paper?’
The Churl unfolded a sticky-with-gut-sweat standard contract. Then he thought better of it, withdrew the sheet of paper and barked, temporarily without accent.
‘Wait!’
Pigboy and Priest froze in mutual gaze in the meltdown hallway as Nuggins K-Nuts started his set onstage.
As Nuggins howled, The Churl grimaced, as if to say, ‘He bad. You good. You different.’ But that wasn’t what he said. Even in his swinish ways, he knew that such insulting, stereotypical bullshit wasn’t too good an idea just now. He relaxed his expression, then continued.
‘Pen?’
In a show-off pantomime, The Churl energetically fiddled with his support girdle, then produced a fancy quill-tipped writing device, and a travelers’ bottle of Quink from some pocket within, and right then and there, on the beer-hall table by the back door, drafted, prepped, ’n’ presented a full-power, artist-rights contract to the music-maker, on behalf of mighty Possum Records.
Astonishingly, TABP duly signed it, but later that eve, only after close but collected scrutiny amidst the hubbub, for he knew it was made of gold. There was no need for The Churl (or anyone else down the line) to ever attempt to screw TABP out of anything he deserved. This supposedly sleazy pigboy had had the foresight to see as much glory as he saw dollar signs. Thus, his fairness – occult at first, but forged in iron always – was the secret of his success. TABP knew it the first moment he saw him.
‘Yoah name. Should I be callin’ you ‘The’, or ‘The Angry Black Priest’?’
‘I don’t care what you call me, as long as you don’t call me late for chow.’
‘TABP?’
‘You’re catching on.’
‘Pleasure doin’ biznuss wid’ ya, bo – Yeah-well-uh – Mister TABP!’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And eh, who’s this – this Nina, anyways? Yoah inspiration?’
The Churl smiled thickly, his remaining enamel coated with fry-husks and cartilage-worms, still.
‘Ah’d shore like to meet her.’
‘I don’t know no Nina.’
From that tiny, funkadelique venue, the bright shadow of he, The Angry Black Priest, grew long and large, and when the toll of his contribution to music was added up early on, it came equal to Louis Armstrong; with Muddy Waters; with Picklemeat Cham; with Sergei Prokofiev; with Packer Chembleton; with Philip Glass; and with others.
Hell, it’s called eminence.
He was The Angry Black Priest, and all knew his names and powers.
His face looks to the future…
…We dissolve, as filmmakers in the style of George Stevens are wont to do, nicely and slowly, and with a solemnity, so as to portray a contemplative passage of time. Flashbacks, even when they do not concern the main core of a story, must be made crystal-clear, so as not to interrupt an audience’s train of logical thought. To do otherwise would be to disassociate said audience from their rightful pleasures as benign voyeurs. Disassociation has been attempted in many instances, but viewers tend to stay away in droves. So it’s back to the present we go…
…The lap-dissolve finally fades from TABP’s mighty visage, into a bare encampment located in the heights above Hollywood, on a morn of sullen cloud.
A stillness all around. Then, a stirring.
The flap of a modest and impromptu tent was folded back, and the face of Butterbugs emerged to greet the rising day. Though time within love is immaterial – neither enemy nor friend – hours of the day are nevertheless recognizable to those under love’s influence.
‘What has another day to offer me?’ he murmured.
There was no need to ponder it.
‘If this be Maybe-Love, For-Sure-Love soon will be bliss, and only bliss!’
Vonda on his mind, of course. She came first in his mind. In addition, her career got the special consideration it deserved, but in a distant second place. So taken with her was he, he couldn’t even recall any ‘movie talk’ that had ever passed between them.
Here, on this humble but exalted spot, Butterbugs dwelt, and, by waiting with devotion, served. Due to the grace of his mistress, and because of her instructions to Da GardzADaBody, allowance was made for Butterbugs to make this his bivouac. To him, it was on sacred ground.
She whom he served was not here. There had been a big picture coming up, ‘Bad JuJu’ (Goldwyn), a major story that extended far into the esoteric coils of voodoo in Haiti. It was a vehicle crafted solely for her by the distinguished scriptor Harrian Hartbest, and according to her contract, her presence had been respectfully requested on location in the Haitian heartland. Already behind the cameras, Francis Ford Coppola awaited.
‘It will be your most important role yet!’ was the last line of his email, received just before she took off for LAX. This, from the man who gave the world ‘Apocalypse Now’ (UA, 1979).
‘You got the place to yourself, lover,’ Vonda had told him with casual passion a few minutes before her departure on that memorable day.
‘I humbly decline, Vee,’ Butterbugs had replied. ‘Your people would have a hard time accepting it, as would I.’
‘Not good enough?’ Then she gave the puppy-smile she gave quite a bit these days. ‘Scared?’
‘Well, I –’
‘You’d have my whole thang, right here. All of me – without me, of course, for just a little while.’
She hadn’t the heart to tell him that it was a 19-week location shoot. She’d tell him when she got there, and fix it with Francis to fly him down, after the set mellowed out.
‘But look –’
She gestured around the sumptuous chamber, cross-defined with sophisticated lighting plots, even during the day.
‘You can, uh, sleep in my bed! You can even wear my panties! You know I’d like that.’
He smiled, with a growing confidence in actually experiencing the close proximity of a mind-blowing star.
‘No, not that. What I mean is, I’m not scared at any rate. – The bit about the bed and lingerie is tempting, though. – No. Not ready yet. When we have more time.’
His statements were showing a marked maturity, perhaps attained by long study and a certain understanding of the dramatic roles in his repertoire.
‘OK, baby. Anything you say. If I didn’t have this stupid picture to go do right now…’
‘Oh, but Vee, it’s an important picture. I’m so excited about it. It’s going to be the best.’
‘Yeah, I know. I know. I’ll go ahead…’
‘That’s it!’
‘I just can’t believe how lucky I was to run into you that night on Sta. Monica. You changed my life, sweetah!’ She paused. ‘Sorry I called you ‘cracker-head’…’
‘Err, I think it was…uh… ‘cracker-ass’!’
‘Oh, baby! That’s sooo funny! Sooo fucking stupid of me!’
‘Vondy, you are soooo cool! Cool! That’s a word you’re probably sick of me saying all the time.’
‘Not at all, babe. Cuz I’m not tryin’ for cool anymore. I don’t need to prove a thing to you, except, maybe… Maybe…’
‘I’m changed too, you don’t know how much.’
‘We’re getting really close now, aren’t we?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘Now listen, lovestar, what you want, then?’
‘Well, if I could be… nearby…’
‘Sorry Buttered-buns, closed set all the way through. Haiti can get crazy. Great peoples, but kind of a loose scene. I did ‘Raise The National Palace’ (Sparkhall) in Porta-Prince. Fuckin’ wild. But this time around, security’s gonna be blow-out proof.’
She didn’t want to get his hopes up until Francis flipped on the green light. She’d have to deliver some pretty ass-kicking scenes for him before he’d accede to having lovey-doveys on set. But she’d make it work, for sure.
‘No, I know.’ Butterbugs was all reason and understanding. ‘I didn’t mean that. I couldn’t even hope for it.
If I could just dwell hereabouts – but on the threshold. Maybe a sleeping bag…’
She laughed.
‘No lover of mine’s gonna be out on the mucking street like a bum…! We’re not going back to Sta. Monica, ya know!’
He smiled.
‘No, Vee! You know what I mean! Just a tent or something. I’m used to camping out. It’d be fun. And sexy, too!’
‘Dreaming of me?’
‘How could I do anything else? To do it right, I’d need to do it as a, you know, retreat, or something! That’s what this could be.’
She was completely impressed by his inventiveness.
‘Hmm!’
He anxiously waited for a real reply.
She squinted at him with a faint and dreamy smile. Sure signs that she was indeed turned on by the prospects in front of her.
‘Baby, you know you can.’
He was elated, but kept things quiet, to match her style. Elation was not something he was used to, so it was easily contained.
‘I’ll watch for you down the lane, down Flowertown Lane. Every day!’ He paused, just like in the movies. ‘For when you return.’
‘Oh you babe! You know what? You is sweet, un-curdled butter – all the way!’
She started to dissolve into happy tears of longing.
The lump behind his Adam’s apple grew. ‘Yeah, well, I’m all churned-up, though!’
She laughed through her tears.
‘You’re everything to me! You know that?’
‘I can’t believe how lucky I am! I’ve just got to believe it.’
‘All you hafta do is just start doing it. Can you try, honey?’
‘Anything!’
Then she grew solemn, looking profoundly at his soul.
‘I’m – I’m on the verge!’
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