So much wonder, beauty, devastation and destruction. This weekend I played for friendly, interested people who listened close and applauded loudly. I ran on a Gulf beach that has only recently gotten clean of oil and tar—-and that was thanks to Hurricane Ike. I spent a fun night with friends in Mississippi because flooding and threat of tornadoes made travel home seem unsafe, if not impossible. And today may be the prettiest day I have ever seen, even as friends are reeling from the flooding of the homes and waiting to see where a massive oil spill is going to make landfall.

Kimbroughs in Nashville were spared any damage.

I met my Gulf Coast kinfolk in New Orleans yesterday and we shared a fabulous meal at Mandina’s, all of us very aware that only a few years ago, the city and the restaurant were devastated by another storm, another flood, another agonizing wait for the government to fix things.

No water in Boston…bombs in New York and Pittsburgh, floods and tornados in the midsouth, oil spill on the coast. And yet I look out the window at the bluest sky and the greenest trees I have ever seen, thinking back on three great nights of making music among friends in Texas.

It’s all so good and bad. It’s all so much.

I will be at Pirate’s Cove in Josephine, Alabama, this Saturday, April 24th, at 7 pm, with Tommy Womack—the acoustic version of DADDY. Also known as STEPDADDY…

I sat in with Tommy and his band last night—with the lovely and talented Lisa Oliver Gray—for Music City Roots at the Loveless Cafe. It was a terrific lineup: Minton Sparks, Marshall Chapman (with Danny Flowers!), Barry & Holly Tashian, and David Jacobs-Strain.

Stellar group of musical people. For you guitar freaks, be warned—if you have not heard of David Jacobs-Strain, you will. He is one of those insanely good slide players, with touches of Leo Kottke, Blind Willie Johnson.

See you at Pirate’s Cove!

I was playing in Tuscaloosa in the mid to late 1980s. My band, Will and the Bushmen, was in town to play and my friend had hooked me up to open for Alex Chilton at one of the clubs on the college strip. I was such a fan of Alex’—-a fan of his Big Star records, a fan of his whacked out early solo records, a fan of the bootlegs circulating around the fans at that time, a fan of The Cramps, Tav Falco, Lorette Velvette, whatever Alex played on, I owned. He was a topic of conversation among my friends and myself.

I was a superfan.

I played to the pretty well packed club—they knew me and my songs, my choices of cover songs—The Bushmen were a Tuscaloosa mainstay from 1984 to the early 1990s. I went through my set and then decided I’d do “Thirteen”, a Big Star song from their sparkly sad debut album, “#1 Record”. I loved the song; I believed it, and usually performed it with my eyes closed, trying to channel to uber-sincerity of the original. About 2/3 of the way through the song, I took a breath and opened my eyes. About 5 feet in front of me stood Alex Chilton. I was mortified! Thrilled! My hero was impassively watching me play one of his masterpieces. He looked neither impressed nor disgusted. For once, Alex didn’t have that bemused little smile on his face. I was relieved, and launched into my next number, a cover of Gram Parsons’ cover of the James Carr soul classic “The Dark End of the Street”. I closed my eyes again. Opened them after the second verse. Alex was still there. Still just sort of checking me out.

I think “Dark End” was the last of my set, and this being a humble ’80’s Tuscaloosa, Alabama club gig, there was no dressing room, no crew to get Alex’ gear set back up for the show.

Alex climbed onto the stage as I was unplugging and casing up my ’60’s Epiphone acoustic guitar. He leaned over to me and said “If you play an F Sharp Minor instead of that D over F Sharp on ‘Dark End of the Street’, it’s MUCH scarier”.

The master had deemed to speak to the student. Victory was mine and I celebrated by drinking all fifty dollars of my pay for opening. I got drunk and enjoyed Alex’ show. I staggered down the the Booth later and enjoyed more after hours beers before somehow winding back up at my Dill’s Motor Court room with my friend and bandmate Sam.

We slept late and woke up to knocking on our motel room door. It was Alex Chilton. He wanted to check out my vintage Epiphone. He wanted to see if anyone had any pot. He was obliged. Alex asked if we minded if he played us a new song he was working on. We just laughed. The thought that he would ask US was nothing less than hilarious. He played the song. It was ok. Alex had to hit the road. I followed him out—he was traveling alone in a rented Ford Bronco, while his band drove the van with the gear. Alex played me a Jesse Belvin song. I didn’t really get it. Alex asked my birthday. I told him and he got a thoughtful look on his face for a few moments and then said, “Wow, Will. We’re just about astrological twins”.

Alex was into astrology.

He drove away.

I saw him again over the years, including that last short conversation on the hotel balcony in Oxford, Mississippi.

A lot of friends have been telling their Alex stories.

During a recent phone call, discussing Alex’ death, my friend Pat said it best: “Alex was our Beatle”.

Alex was our Beatle. But we could go see him up close in the clubs. We could shake his hand and tell him how excited we were to meet him. And he would give us that bemused little smile.