The Oxford American Book of Great Music Writing

Guitar Lessons: LEARNING TO PLAY MUSIC IN THE MISSISSIPPI DELTA

greatest forms of magic is the disappearing act. Yeah, that’s it. It wasn’t stolen; it simply disappeared. I walk up the street to the fire station. Fireman Steve Breault looks puzzled andsays,“You’re...”BeforehecanfinishIsay,“That’sright.I’mtheguywhojust had his bicycle stolen on Beale Street.” He laughs and says, “Welcome to Memphis!” Hehelpsmelocateabikeshopandoffersmelunchbeforelendingme hispickuptrucktogobuyanothersetofwheels.Idriveouttothebikeshopinhis truck and buy another Trek ten-speed. When I return, I thank Steve for the fine Southern fire-department hospitality and then I take off on my new bike toward Sun Studio. AllofthiscommotionandIstillmakeitbackintimeforatwelveo’clockhaircut appointment with my bass player’s personal barber, Robin Tucker. Her aunt used to do Priscilla Presley’s hair. After the haircut, I drop a few quarters in the jukeboxwhilehavinglunchatTaylor’sCafeandGiftShop.LamarSorrentocomes bywithapaintingtogiveme.Heordersaglassoflemonadeandbythetimewe’ve swapped some yarns I am out of quarters for the jukebox. I take that as a sign it’s timetoleave.Itipthewaitress(whotellsmeIshouldn’teatthingslikethecheeseburger I just had), buy a couple of Johnny Cash records, and round up the Rock and Roll Cowboys. We board the bus for Graceland. The gold lamé suit is calling. NobodyinmybandhaseverbeentoGraceland.Itseemsanappropriatetopping to an already full Memphis day. We are given a private tour of the mansion, and, after a trip through the trophy room, every one of us bows in deference to Elvis. We all agree on two things: ElvisisstilltheKing,andwestillhaveajobtodotonightattheLadyLuckCasino in Lula, Mississippi. Casinos are creeping like kudzu toward Memphis, but I know the city can handleanythingthatcomesthroughitsgates.Asofnow,thecityishangingonby its roots and looking for a hit. I hope when it’s deal-cutting time, Memphis doesn’t lose any more than a bicycle or two. 364 THE OXFORD AMERICAN 1SMIRNOFF_pages.qxd 8/27/08 10:43 AM Page 364 365 Lucinda Williams TOUGH-LOVE SONGWRITER (as told to) Marc Woodworth Lucinda Williams’s laidback manner and languorous drawl suggest she’s got all the time in the world. If you didn’t know her songs—unflinching and precise accounts of heart-sore retrospection , self-destruction, and the insatiable desire that leads down the dead-end avenues of the soul—you’d hardly guess that her vision is often defined by an urgent darkness. When I ask her what scares her, she gives two answers—death and flying—then calls one of them “unoriginal” and the other “trivial.” Abandoning any semblance of subtlety, I venture, “Then you’re not haunted by inner demons?” “Can’t you see that in the songs?” she asks in response, sounding a little disappointed. The signature blend of blues, rock, and country that defines her most recent releases, Lucinda Williams and Sweet Old World, is required listening. Once you hear her songs, it’s perfectly clear why she’s become such a writer’s writer, a designation borne out by the fact that Tom Petty and Mary Chapin Carpenter have covered her work, and that Bob Dylan invited her to tour with him. Her forthcoming and longawaited album—the first since Sweet Old World in 1992—finds the lanky, half-shy Ms. Williams exploring her characteristic concerns—sex, death, and heartbreak. 1SMIRNOFF_pages.qxd 8/27/08 10:43 AM Page 365 “IwasalwaysencouragedtobeambitiousaboutwhateverIchosetodoandthat’s how I approach music. When I write a song, I can’t do it halfway. I want it to have an edge, something more than the usual pop song. I appreciate a well-crafted hit with a great melody like Petula Clark’s ‘Downtown’ or ‘Monday Monday’ by the Mamas and the Papas. Not every song has to be really deep, but I want to write somethingthatgoesbeneaththesurface.Toworkforme,asonghastolookright when I read it on the page and feel good when I sing it. My dad, Miller Williams, is a poet who was my mentor and critic, so I’ve alwaysseenmyworkfromawriter’sperspective,notjustasongwriter’sperspective .WhenIfirststartedwriting,he’dlookatmysongs,givemehisresponse,and tellmewhatIcoulddotomakethembetter.Hetaughtmetorecognizewhatwas andwasn’tusefultoasongandhowrevisingasinglewordcanchangeeverything. Irememberthathereadthelyricsfor‘HeNeverGotEnoughLove’andsuggested that ‘faded blue dress’ wasn’t right. When I changed ‘faded’ to ‘sad,’ the song soundedmuchstrongertome.Ilearnedfromhimthateverywordandlinemust have meaning and not to waste any words, to get right to the meat of the matter. I looked up to him and writer friends of his who would stay at our house: James Dickey, John Ciardi, John Clellan Holmes, and Charles Bukowski among them. I didn’t realize at the time how lucky I was to be surrounded by these incredible minds, to be able to listen to them talk about poetry, to play for them, and hear theircommentsaboutmysongs.Ineverfeltself-consciousor intimidatedbythe fact that my father...