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nearthegiantcementarchflankedbytwostatuesofGeorgeWashington:soldier and statesman. A tall hurricane fence surrounds the entire structure so that no one can pass underneath it, which I think is kind of the purpose of an arch, being passed underneath. The fence was built to discourage the local artists-at-large, whoarehavingahardtimeofitthesedays,especiallysincesomescientist,probably Giuliani’s sister, invented the Teflon subway car. My girlfriend was raised in Queens and remembers the good old days when every square inch of every subway car was art. Eyeingthatarch,Jimsays,“Yeah,eventhoughthere’sabigsignonthatthing that says, LET US RAISE A STANDARD TO WHICH THE WISE AND HONEST CAN REPAIR, they still sell crack right under it. I used to laugh like hell about that.” HelaughsnostalgicallynowwhileIwatchadrugpeddlersearchingthecrowd for a hungry eye. We talk a little more about New York and how hard it can be on the artist soul. Jim was a student at the NYU film school and used to finance his filmsoncabtips,workingfifty-hourweeksformonths,thenquittingandspending it all in one week of production. He’s earned money in stranger ways, too: as a professional surfer in Florida, a professional model in Europe. But whatever hardships he has endured, he has at least put them to good use in No Such Place, hissecondalbum,twoyearsoverdue.(Jimlookstobeinhislatethirties,likeme; anyway,webothcallthemalbums.)NoSuchPlace isahauntedcollectionofsongs, its poetry filtered between realms, leaving Jim’s voice with the lonesome and, at times, disembodied sound of a Patsy Cline record played over a PA system to an empty midway on the closing night of the state fair. WhenIwasakid,afriendoncetoldmethatyoucouldlistentodeadpeoples’ voices on the shortwave radio. I believed him and used to sneak out of bed and intomydarkclosetlateatnightandslowlyspinthatdiallisteningtoallthestaticeatenghosts .Thisnotionthatvoicesneverdiehasstuckwithme,andit’snottoo farremovedfromwhatyougetlisteningtoJimWhite’sbrokenballads.Thisghostin -the-machineeffectisstrongestintheduskyremakeofRogerMiller’s“Kingof theRoad.”AsJimtellsthestory,hefirstperformedthesongwhiledeathlyill,battling disease and depression in a Florida beach house. Some friends had come overtocheerhimup,theyclaimed,andafterawhiletheydemandedhejoininthe reverie. Half delirious, Jim dragged himself out of bed and moments later found himself speaking in tongues for real. “Somebody shouted, ‘Sing something!’” he recalls now. “And like I was possessed , I suddenly started singing ‘King of the Road’ like David Byrne.” Here Jim beltsoutafewlinesinthatshoutingdeliverythattrademarkedtheTalkingHeads. “I’d been playing guitar for twenty-five years, and I’d never learned one song by anotherperson.Idon’tknowhowtodoit.Ijustdon’thavethepatiencetositand learn.It’saformofnarcissism,liketheonlythingyou’reinterestedinisyourself. Ilearnedhalfof‘StairwaytoHeaven,’andIlearnedthefirsthalfof‘FireandRain.’ 102 THE OXFORD AMERICAN 1SMIRNOFF_pages.qxd 8/27/08 10:43 AM Page 102 Anyway, the record company hated the song [‘King of the Road’],” he adds, smiling grandly. “It was like pouring vinegar in their eyes.” It wasn’t the only battle won over Warner Brothers, the parent company of LuakaBop.Fouryearsearlier,duringtheproductionofJim’sfirstCD, Wrong-Eyed Jesus,ByrnegotworriedthatJim’smusicmightbecomingacrossabittoohostile andremoteinsteadofswampyandmystical,soheadvisedJimthatwhatthatfirst album needed was a “handshake to the world.” “Yeah,Davidtoldmeitwasastrange,interestingalbum,butyouneedtothink ofahandshakefortheworldbecauseifpeopleknowyou,they’regoingtolikeyou. AndIthoughtaboutit—IwenttofilmschoolhereatNYU,rightbehindyou—and I remember that during the first film I showed, there was a kid in the class who said,‘Ifeelstupidwatchingthisfilm,andIdon’tlikefeelingstupid,soIdon’tlike thefilm.’Nowtherewereacoupleofpeopleintheclasswhoknewmeandtheway mymindworksandloveditandwerededicatedtoit,andIthought,Wellhowcan Igetpeopletoknowme?Iftheyknowme,maybethey’llunderstandallthesesurrealist hillbilly references, for lack of a better term. So I sat down and wrote ‘Wrong-Eyed Jesus.’” “The Mysterious Tale of How I Shouted Wrong-Eyed Jesus” is of all things an accomplished short story included with the liner notes inside that first CD, and it went on to receive rave reviews. Even the one mixed review I found concededhighpraiseforthestory ,whichtellsthesagaofateenager,hitchhikinghome from a minor drug deal one night, who gets picked up by a dirt-farming pervert. TheinclusionofthestorydoesexactlywhatByrnehadhopedfor:ithelpsground themusic,whichattimestendstowardtheethereal,intotheverysolid,Southern landscape of Jim’s childhood. “Anyway,Ipresentedthestorytotherecordlabel,andYale,theguywhoruns thelabel,saidno.WarnerBrotherswasnevergoingtopaytohaveastoryinafirst album. Then David read it and said, ‘Let’s see what we can do about this.’ So we fought this big inter’nesting war where we were fighting against our own people. WewereshootingeachotheratWarnerBrothersbecausetherewerepeopleready to lose their jobs for the sake of keeping the story in the album, and there were people who were willing to lose their jobs—you know, Over my dead body that thing’s going in there—and we got away with it in the end, and I’m glad we did.” In fact, Jim has always considered himself a writer first and a musician second .HeisfaithfultobothWilliamFaulknerandCormacMcCarthy,butaboveall toFlanneryO’Connor:“Ididn’thaveaclueaboutmyquote-unquoteliteraryvoice until I read Flannery O’Connor, and once I read that, particularly a story called ‘TheRiver,’IfeltlikeIknew—likeyou’dbeenlostforfiftyyears,liketheIsraelites inthedesert,andsuddenlyyouseeIsrael,andyousay,Okay,that’swhereIhaveto settle. That’s how I felt when I read Flannery O’Connor.” His favorite novel, however, is a bit more obscure, a little-known Mexican BOOK OF GREAT MUSIC WRITING 103 1SMIRNOFF_pages.qxd 8/27/08 10:43 AM...

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