I went down to the Travis County Appraisal Board this morning, to conduct a formal protest of my property tax assessment. It was about as much fun as going down to the St. James Infirmary (I'm guessing), and a hell of a lot less picturesque. And it wouldn't even be necessary if I just inhabited one of those more traditionally bluesy abodes, like the boxcar of a southbound train, or a hollow log, though I suppose the price of everything is going up, and for all I know the hollow log industry now makes all their money on the back end upselling muddy water from the minibar to hellhound-weary single-night occupants. It's just one of the many ways real life does not measure up to expectations, although one of the identifiable pleasures of racking up more years on the planet is the slowly dawning realization of just how sketchy those expectations were in the first place. Although I can say that a few have worked out, such as:
- Yes, dressing the way Michael Bloomfield appeared at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival does make one feel like a mensch onstage.
- Walking into a room full of instruments and a modicum of recording equipment does, on some level at least, feel like arriving at Abbey Road for work in the morning.
- Plugging into a 1965 blackface Deluxe Reverb onstage does feel bulletproof. "Oh, you have that new boutique amplifier? That's cute. I have the real thing." Well, at least, until it starts squealing because I haven't gotten that funky tube scoped out since the last gig (sigh).
But I never wanted to recreate the kind of itinerant chaos that seems built into the blues mythology, and as far as I can tell, neither did practically anyone who actually lived it back in the 20th century. Whether it's Muddy Waters holding court at his Chicago home, Gary Davis taking the royalties from "Tear This Building Down" to buy a split-level on Long Island or Mississippi John Hurt farming for 30 years between recording for Okeh and getting rediscovered during the blues revival, more legends have displayed a rugged, enduring interest in keeping a roof over their heads, and the same roof night after night, at that, than have had rambling, had rambling on their minds.
So I suppose coughing up my tithe for the county beats the alternative, but it does make me cast at least a sidelong glance at the hollow log in the rearview mirror. Then again, as Neil Gaiman says, "Maybe you'll get it perfect the next time." In the meanwhile, speaking of "St. James Infirmary," this week's lesson is all about chord substitutions on that timeless two hundred year old folk lament. You can check it out here:
Chord Substitutions On St. James Infirmary
As usual, as a subscriber to the newsletter, you can get the tab at the link below, without re-entering your name or email:
Get The TabMore soon,
David
