Last weekend I found myself kidnapped and forced (practically at gunpoint) to travel to Beale Street, coerced into drinking bad scotch and wasting a whole pack of lies on strangers.

It would have served a better purpose if I had declined or at least left earlier than I did and written them lies down and sent ‘em to The Panolian.

At least that way I could remember what they were about so I won’t tell them again to the same audience.

To tell the truth, the crowd we were entertaining was probably as scotched up as we were and won’t remember much more of the show than we do.

I do remember that the affair was hosted by the Memphis Songwriters Association and they are a talented collection of miscellaneous and curious individuals with a wide diversity of styles and strange habits.

They are not  above (in my opinion) putting their lives at risk in pursuit of their vocation.

I mean, this was a Midtown club and I was informed beforehand that there wasn’t any chickenwire to protect the band from the audience, and my pistol permit is no longer valid in Tennessee.

Let me state here that in view of the facts aforementioned, I did the prudent thing.

I restrung my guitar, reviewed my list of funeral songs, double-checked my last will and testament, made arrangements with my next of kin to be godfather to my dog, dug my best flak jacket out of mothballs and mustered out with the band.

I’ve a few words about the band and their habits for your enlightenment.

They accurately tune their instruments and play in key. The bunch I used to tour with in Arkansas wouldn’t have a clue about that and would have considered it an insult and a waste of time. These boys endorse that idiosyncrasy as a matter of course.

Next, they do not partake of alcohol (unless you take into account whiskey or beer) and they drive to every gig they play with enough gas in the bus to actually get back home.

They don’t smoke except for cigarettes or cigars and they go to church regular (on Christmas and Easter during Leap Years).

None of them are convicted felons, so as you can see they can hardly qualify to be a band except for their musical talent.

It’s gonna be a great adjustment getting myself accustomed to musicians who actually consider musical talent or ability requisite to play any significant role in a guitar slinger’s state of mind.

On the upside, the general crowd up there loved us and proved it by donating a variety of tips in great abundance while we were performing.

These tips were generously submitted in the form of garden produce and eggs of obvious antiquity, and we talked about it among ourselves all the way home.

Loyal fans, we really needed that food, and as fond as we are of historical tomatoes and jurassic cabbages and an occasional package of frozen peas like were sent our way, these products as tips tend to litter up the stage and stick to the instruments and the frozen stuff is prone to disable amplifiers and raise blisters and bruises on the performer who didn’t see it in time or forgot to duck.

Now don’t get us wrong, we’re not complaining, but sometimes I hear we might get more than we could haul home and in the bus and that would be wasteful.

While I’m told there are some third world musicians who would take any excess produce from our future engagements, it would be impractical to deliver due to prohibitive shipping costs.

With that thought in mind we humbly request that in the future you limit these tokens of appreciation to cash or Walmart gift certificates, as these commodities keep better in transit.

If you would like to check us out live and in person to see if we’re worth cash or cabbage, Jim Ellis and myself along with Robert Reed will be shellin’ out songs and telling lies at the spillway restaurant in Sardis on Friday, March 18 at 10 p.m.

If it turns out to be cabbage, please double check it for freshness as the last donations were a little past ripe.

Pickin’ and grinnin’

Ricky Harpole