Do I write about Mac as a person? No, prolly not since he
and I weren’t bosom buds. We did spend some time together after shows over the
years in Texas and North Carolina and yes, that night in Sellersville. (The
photo is from many moons ago at the Lucky Lounge.) Mac treated everyone he met
like a long lost pal so our limited interactions really shouldn’t preclude me
from discussing what a great guy he was. When Mac spoke to you, you were his
only friend.
Do I write about Mac as a musician? Well, I’m not an
academic and my grassroots approach to music appreciation would likely falter.
Mac’s flair and style at the keyboard are unrivaled and yet he was no diva. His
performances didn’t always run perfectly, and some nights he forgot a few
lyrics, but he never forgot to tell a joke or give the audience advice. (“You
can say shit but always make sure you
smile when you say it.”) He was the dude who played his heart out then stole
the hearts of the audience before climbing into a white van with his band to do
it again the next day in another town.
Do I write about Mac as a friend? Not my friend but Ronnie’s
friend. How many times did Mac raise a Guinness toward heaven in Ronnie’s name?
The way he kept a flame burning on Earth for Ron Lane….
Do I bring my dearly departed mother JoAnne into this story?
Well by all means it bears mentioning that she called that time she held me on
her lap each morning before I left home for kindergarten “Itchy Coo Park.” That
takes us back to about 1968 in Louisville, Kentucky, the home of stations like
WAKY radio that I just knew harbored the likes of Paul McCartney and Ian
McLagan in their studios each time I heard a favorite song on the car radio. I
can’t express how ecstatic I was roughly thirty years later when driving my son
in the car in Chapel Hill, I heard on NPR that Mac had decided to give up the
fight and record Itchy Coo again. That day my son rode in the car with his mama,
hearing Itchy for the first time.
Do I write about the set list that night in Sellersville?
Suffice it to say it was a rock and roll show.
I thought I might wiggle out of my seat. For some reason when Mac played
“Little Troublemaker,” I felt I’d never before heard it live, and so for me,
that was the best part of the show. Of course Mac played lots from United States, explaining that he
intended the term to conjure relationships, not a country. I was taking a
course on Pops and Jelly Roll at Franklin & Marshall so I can say with
certainty he played the tantric “I’m Your Baby Now” from that album.
I’m out of control/
I’m jelly roll/
I can’t take it
anymore
Do I write about the night of the show in Sellersville
itself? Well first I should start with that morning. I don’t know how I found
out about the show—likely Facebook. Before I could finish my Rice Chex I had
produced the plastic and bought the ticket. Google maps put the Sellersville Theater
an hour and a half northeast of my town of Lancaster. In actuality it took me
much longer (and Scrappy told me the band thought it took them much longer than
anticipated to reach Sellersville), and once I drove out of daylight and into a
rural area with no T-Mobile coverage, I started to wonder what the hell I
thought I was doing going on this pilgrimage solo, on a school night. You see I was taking two courses in the music
department (for credit) and working my day job. I am the geek who sat in her
Highlander in the parking lot of the Washington House studying minor scales
during the warm-up act. I had paid extra to be close to the band so I was able
to walk right in to a prime reserved seat. By the end of the show I knew buying
that ticket had to be the best decision in my life.
Do I have pix from the show? Yes and no. My BlackBerry takes
blurry shots. It also goes on the fritz when you lay it down on a table. I had
Mac and Scrappy all teed up for a picture when my camera powered off. And being
a BlackBerry, the phone is slow to power up. I expressed disappointment when
the phone stalled, but Scrappy insisted, “Take a mental picture.” They beamed
at each other. I reached up with my
hands and pantomimed the click. I will never forget that sight; it is burnt
into my visual cortex. By the time I had the camera ready again, I still had
Mac but not Scrappy. “Where’d Scrappy go?” Mac asked. “I know he’s your friend;
we need to take a picture.”
Is there a moral to this story? We all need to take more time
to ride on dark roads to live music
shows where we can snap mental pictures of our beloved friends and raise a glass to those friends in the great beyond.
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