Hurtin', Leavin' and Longin' (29)—Bubba Shot the Jukebox

Click here to read the introduction to the Round and Square series "Hurtin', Leavin', and Longin'..."

[a] Painholder RF

In last week's Hurtin' post we took a look at the notion of self-conscious pain-creation in various cultural forms. I argued that songs such as "I'd Be Better Off In A Pine Box" seemingly search around the vulnerable listener until the soft underbelly of loss and misery can be found. They often succeed and (as we have discussed in this series) cause people to burst into tears.

We began to explore a little bit about the Gisaro ceremony among the Kaluli of New Guinea, and found some parallels to our country music elicitation of melancholy. Today, I would like to consider a further angle. The classic ethnographic work on the Gisaro ceremony is Edward Schieffelin's The Sorrow of the Lonely and the Burning of the Dancers. It is well worth reading from cover-to-cover, whether or not you are an aspiring anthropologist (or a grizzled one who somehow missed it in your batches of reading). Last week we focused on The Sorry of the Lonely, and I would like to spend a few paragraphs here cementing that theme before proceeding to all that burning stuff. Here is what Scheiffelin has to say about the matter.

As evening falls, torches are lit in the aa. When word is received that the Gisaro dancers are ready, [the dancers and drummers]…cease and dismantle their costumes. With the end of their constant drumming, an awkward, restless quiet pervades the aa…Expectant tension fills the air. To feel more at ease, men seated on opposite sides of the hall laugh and shout jokes at each other. Presently, to the shouts of women on the outside veranda, the men of the Gisaro chorus quietly enter the front door. A hush falls over the longhouse as they move quietly up the hall and divide into two groups facing each other across a space of about twenty-five feet…[1]

Everything is set for the emotional intensity of the ceremony that will follow.

[c] Ceremonial RF

The four dancers are painted and costumed exactly alike, so that as one sits down and another stands up, throughout the course of the night, the figure moving in the middle of the longhouse remains the same…The effect is magnified by the dancer’s isolation. Moving in the firelight, the dancer seems to be the only living thing in the vast, motionless interior. When he suddenly leans forward and approaches along the torchlit dancing space, he seems larger than life amid his waving plumes and streamers. Coming through the avenue of lowered torches, he seems remote, archetypal, a figure emerging from an infinite distance, another time an place. His single voice sounds far away. But then, as the chorus breaks in, the sound swells to fill the whole house, surrounding him with song. The effect is powerful. A person is startled, Kaluli say, when the dancer approaches because in his masklike face he recognizes his dead brother (or other relative) who danced in Gisaros in times past. Only when the dancer has come close does one recognize him. When recognition comes, the figure has an immensely lonely quality that exerts a many-sided appeal to Kaluli nostalgia…[2]

And then, in waves of released frustration and despair, they take their torches and attack the dancer. They achieve a kind of emotional retribution that is no less visceral for its acknowledged (and anticipated) role in the ceremony.

[As the emotion in the audience builds, the dancer] is suddenly descended on by the torches. The men and boys stamping and yelling, the man with the cordyline thrusting it wherever he can, water being poured on from bamboo tubes, incredible pandemonium and stamping, some people waving axes. Others run to relight their torches to jam them again into the dancer’s back. During this time he hasn’t faltered or flinched, although he is sometimes shoved forward by the force of the torches in his back, an done grinning man holds a torch to his face to watch his reaction. Finally, the dancer turns back to his original spot. There is a smell of resin, smoke, and burned meat. Another torch is put out on his back. An older man throws his arms around him, bursts into wailing, and then runs out the back door to wail on the veranda. Finally, the dancer reaches the end of his song and sits down.[3]

I sincerely hope that you did not skip over the quotations (a bad habit, made even worse when reading history or anthropology...or literary analysis). If you did read the passages above, you understand something about the emotional fury and sobbing anxiety caused by song, dance, and appeals to lost and gone loved ones.

***  ***

[d] Pastflash RF

Well, it's sort of like a sad country song, and this week's Hurtin' post is not so much about causing new pain as understanding the emotional reaction to it. Once, during a difficult period in my life many years ago, a friend told me to be sure not to listen to country music. I thought he was kidding, but he was serious. "You're not strong enough for it," he said, matter-of-factly. Interesting.

I am thinking about something even more intense than sobbing quietly in the corner of a bar and nursing a stale beer while listening to echoes of Merle Haggard or Patsy Cline. I am thinking about burning the singers with torches to relieve my pain—something like the Gisaro ceremony you read about, above.

Do we have any parallels to that in the annals of country music?

Yes. Indeed, we do. You see, Bubba was sitting in Margie's Bar one evening when a song came onto the jukebox and roiled up a big ol' stew of misery. There were tears...and then there was anger. Finally, Bubba ran out to his truck and got his, er, torch, so he could "burn the dancer." Take a listen. This is my favorite kind of video. There is nothing on it. Just listen to the rather strange mix of reflexive lyrics and country rage. Please note that the person who posted the song mistook "Joe Diffie" for "Mark Chesnutt."

Bubba Shot the Jukebox 3:08

[e] Target RF

I should add that this song was chosen as an expression of emotional payback—a retributive volley reminiscent of the Gisaro ceremony among the Kaluli of New Guinea. I cannot argue for any particularly sublime qualities in the lyrics, but the song does provide a fine parallel to the idea of "...the burning of the dancers." Take a read.

     Bubba Shot the Jukebox

        Artist: Mark Chesnutt

        Songwriter: Dennis Linde

-->

We were all down at Margie's bar
Telling stories if we had one
Someone fired the old jukebox up
The song it sure was a sad one

A teardrop rolled down Bubba's nose
From the pain the song was inflicting
And all at once he jumped to his feet
Just like somebody kicked him
 

[f] Mired RF

Chorus

Bubba shot the juke box last night
Said it played a sad song, it made him cry
Went to his truck and got a forty five
Bubba shot the juke box last night

Bubba ain't never been accused
Of bein' mentally stable
So we did not draw an easy breath
Until he laid that Colt on the table

He hung his head till the cops showed up
They dragged him right out of Margie's
Told him, "Don't you play dumb with us, son
You know damn well what the charge is"

[g] Aim RF

Repeat Chorus

Well, the Sheriff arrived with his bathrobe on
The confrontation was a tense one
Shook his head and said, "Bubba Boy
You was always a dense one"

"Reckless discharge of a gun"
That's what the officers are claiming
Bubba hollered out, "Reckless, hell
I hit just where I was aiming"

Repeat Chorus +
Well, he shot the juke box, stopped it with one shot
Bubba shot the jukebox last night

Well, he could not tell right from wrong
Through the tear drops in his eyes
Beyond a shadow of a doubt
It was a justifiable homicide


Bubba shot the juke box, stopped it with one shot
Bubba shot the jukebox last night

There are no real parallels in East Asian poetry, so I will keep it very simple this week (especially since you have already endured a long set of passages from Kaluli ethnography). I have chosen a brief little selection of poems from Yang Wanli (1124-1206). Aptly titled, both poems give a sense of wistful and melancholic vacancy.

    Songs of Depression, Two Selections
       Yang Wanli (1124-1206)

                                 [1]
       I don't feel like reading another book,
       and I'm tired of poetry—that's not what I want to do.
       But my mind is restless, unsettled—
       I'll try counting raindrop stains
                                        on the oilcloth window.

                                 [2]
       I finish chanting my new poems,
                                         and fall asleep—
       I am a butterfly, journeying to the eight corners
                                         of the universe.
       Outside the boat, waves crash like thunder,
       but it is silent in the world of sleep.[4]

[h] Wistful RF

Notes
[1] Edward Scheiffelin, The Sorrow of the Lonely and the Burning of the Dancers Second Edition (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), 171
[2] Schieffelin, 176-177.
[3] Schieffelin, 191-192. Quoted from Schieffelin's fieldnotes.
[4]  Wu-chi Liu and Irving Yucheng Lo, Sunflower Splendor: Three Thousand Years of Chinese Poetry (Bloomington IN: Indiana University Press, 1974), 150.

Bibliography

Schieffelin, Edward. The Sorrow of the Lonely and the Burning of the Dancers Second Edition. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004.

Liu Wu-chi and Irving Yucheng Lo. Sunflower Splendor: Three Thousand Years of Chinese Poetry. Bloomington IN: Indiana University Press, 1974.

NEXT

Sunday, November 27th
What Mattered Most
There are lessons in life, love, and...historiography in next Sunday's ode to cluelessness and loss.

Hurtin', Leavin' and Longin' (9)—Too Cold

Click here to read the introduction to the Round and Square series "Hurtin', Leavin', and Longin'..."

[a] Frosty  RF

The last few days in Wisconsin have been cold days in June. I, of course, mean that the weather was unseasonably chilly. This week's country lyrics take that basic idea and move it to another level—one that is instantly recognizable to anyone who has ever engaged in social interactions of any kind, especially intimate ones. Take a listen and a read.

Trivia question: what is the exact date referred to in the audio "pre-song" in the link below, just as ol' Mark Chesnutt is driving up to the bar? The answer can be found at the end of this post.

Too Cold at Home  4:33

For advice on how best to "engage" the lyrics, click here.

       Too Cold at Home
           —Mark Chesnutt
           (Bobby Harden) 

           Well it sure feels good to come in here, and just pull up a seat
           A frosty mug of a cool one helps to beat the heat
           These old dog days of summer, Lord I'll be glad when they're gone
           It's too hot to fish, and too hot for golf
           And too cold at home

          Well that baseball game on TV takes me back to when I was a kid
          We proudly wore those uniforms, just like the Dodgers did
          Yeah we won a few and lost a few, and for me it still goes on
          It's too hot to fish, and too hot for golf
          And too cold at home 
     
          Well I only planned on one or two, I might stay for three
          If that good looking thing in the corner keeps smiling back at me
          It's so easy not to care about what's right or what's wrong
          It's too hot to fish, too hot for golf
          And too cold at home 
          Repeat 

          It's too hot to fish, and too hot for golf
          And too cold at home

Is it Cold in Here...?  3:47
Is it Cold in Here...?  3:45

For advice on how best to "engage" the lyrics, click here.

        Is it Cold in Here?
            —Joe Diffie

 (Danny Morrison;Kerry Kurt Phillips;Joe Diffie)

There's something wrong
Lord I'm feeling a chill
That runs through my heart
Like a torch cuts through steel
You haven't said a word
Are you feeling it too
Is it cold in here
Or is it just you?

Chorus
Did I leave the door wide open
And let the chill just kill that old desire?
Should I put my arms around you
Or put another log on the fire?
Is it my imagination
Or did the temperature just drop
A notch or two?
Is it cold in here
Or is it just you?

There's no warmth at all
When I try to hold you near
You stare into space
As if I wasn't here
Did our love just die
Or is it just about to?
Is it cold in here
Or is it just you?

Chorus

Oh is it cold in here
Or is it just you?

[b] Ripples  RF

This week's East Asian poem comes with a twist. It will be our first Japanese verse, and comes in the rich context of the Tales of Ise, a tenth-century compendium of stories and poems that is one of the most memorable and distinguished classics in the Japanese tradition. I have already referred to the Tales on Round and Square in an "Endings" post several months ago, and it is always a pleasure to return to one of my favorite books. Although I enjoy translating, I think it would be far better to let Helen Craig McCullough's fine rendering of the passage stand on its own this week.

As always, remember that the East Asian poems are meant to be juxtaposed with the country lyrics, not echo them. I say it every week, and will continue to do so. Juxtaposition often creates interpretive fireworks that are resonant and lasting. Trying to find cross-cultural "echoes" of themes often mires us in a cultural kind of "common denominator" pursuit that gets us nowhere. Enjoy the contrast the Tales of Ise give to the "too cold" images above.

Tales of Ise

4

Once when a Grand Empress was living on Gojou Avenue in the eastern sector of the capital, a certain woman occupied the western wing of her house. Quite without premeditation, a man fell in love with the woman and began to visit her. Around the Tenth of the First Month, the woman moved away without a word. The man learned where she had gone, but it was not a place for ordinary people to frequent, and he could do nothing but lament the wretchedness of life. In the First Month of the following year, when the plum trees were in full bloom, poignant memories drew him back to her old apartments. He sat and looked, he stood and looked, but it was hopeless to try to recapture the past. He burst into tears, flung himself on the floor of the bare room, and lay prostrate until the moon sank low in the sky. He composed this poem with the preceding year in his thoughts.

               tsuki ya aranu                                                   Is this not the moon?
          haru ya mukashi no                                          And is this not the springtime
               haru naranu                                                      the springtime of old?
          wa ga mi hitotsu wa                                          Only this body of mine,
          moto no mi ni shite                                            the same body as before...

He went home at dawn, still shedding tears.[1]

[1] Helen Craig McCullough, Classical Japanese Prose: An Anthology (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990), 41.

Bibliography
McCullough, Helen Craig. Classical Japanese Prose: An Anthology. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990.

Trivia answer: June 12, 1990 (Ryan pitched the no-hitter the evening of June 11, 1990.
 

NEXT
Sunday, July 3rd
Kentucky Rain
Elvis is on a quest to find his loved one in the cold Kentucky rain.

Hurtin', Leavin' and Longin' (8)—Meetin' Hank

Click here to read the introduction to the Round and Square series "Hurtin', Leavin', and Longin'..."

[a] Twilight (in Montgomery)  RF

There is something about icons. Their relevance never fades, and where stories of lesser figures might start to veer into cliché, theirs seem to deepen and thicken. One of the greatest American poets is like that. Hank Williams (1923-1953) continues to generate interest, almost sixty years after his death. In fact, as can be seen with certain other icons in world culture, death often has everything to do with it. Yes, we do occasionally encounter the iconic elder statesman or (wo)man of letters. Think hard; there are a few. Yet we seem drawn—is this "cultural" or is something else going on?—to those who die with unfinished business.

Among my favorite introductory lines in any book (it appears in the third paragraph) are those from Colin Escott's biography of Hank Williams:

[b] The suit  RF

Death is a sound career move if it can be timed right, and Hank Williams's triumph was to avoid growing old disgracefully. Not for Hank the haggard mask of senility. In terms of forging a legend, he could have done no better than to burn out at twenty-nine before his fire grew dim and the face of country music changed. Had he lived, he might have become a poor parody of himself, shamelessly hustling tepid remakes of his greatest hits on cable shows. As it is, his premature death left what is still the most important single body of work in country music, as well as the tantalizing promise of what might have been. In life Hank Williams defined the argot of contemporary country music; in death he set the standard by which success on every level—even self-destruction—is measured.[1]

Think about that. He rose to the top, created a truly formidable body of work that has seared its way into the American cultural soul (your cheatin' heart; there's a tear in my beer), and burned himself out—all by the age of twenty-nine. Don't doubt me on this, people. If you think I am just talkin', why don't you check out the list of Hank Williams tribute songs? Yup, just songs about Hank—one of America's premier poets.

My dad used to tell me Hank Williams stories, and I loved listening to the old 45s that he had saved since his own childhood. The songs with both Hank and Audrey singing were, well, memorable. One line from my father's stories stuck with me, though. I am not sure if it was a throwaway line or a warning, but I'll never forget it. You see, the old boy, Hank, was a worker. As my dad said: "It's hard to drink yourself to death at twenty-nine; it takes determination...and even a kind of plan."

The details of Hank's life and death are everywhere. A reasonable place to start, if you are interested (and anyone, anywhere, who loves good writing should be) is the Hank Williams fan club. It has its ups and downs (they are fanatics, after all), but there is a great deal of information there. You can't beat it for a solid start.

Today's post is about Hank, the legend. I have two songs (in three versions) for you. They can all be characterized as:

runnin' into the (dead) legend—and that would be Hank...

songs, and form a little sub-sub-genre in world poetry. Yes, this theme goes beyond American poetry, as you will see, below. If you are a careful reader of literary traditions beyond the United States and China, you will come up with more examples. They are out there (and please do post a comment if you have a favorite).

The first song is an absolute masterwork by the highly successful country music star (and under-appreciated songwriter), Alan Jackson (and Donald Sampson). This song is so good—so chock full of references to Hank's life and music—that it deserves its lofty status among Hank fans and "readers." I would like to go through it line-by-line, and may do someday, in another post. I hope you listen and read carefully. If you can catch even the twenty clearest references, you are doing well.

Midnight in Montgomery 3:52

For advice on how best to "engage" the lyrics, click here.

             Midnight in Montgomery
                    —Alan Jackson
                   (Donald Sampson, Alan Jackson)

                    Midnight in Montgomery, silver eagle, lonely road
                    I was on my way to Mobile for a big New Year's Eve show
                    I stopped for just a minute to see a friend outside of town
                    Put my collar up, I found his name, and felt the wind die down

                    Then a drunk man in a cowboy hat took me by surprise
                    Wearing shiny boots, a Nudi suit and haunting haunted eyes
                    He said "Friend it's good to see you, it's nice to know you care"
                    Then the wind picked up and he was gone
                    Was he ever really there?

                   Chorus
                    'Cause it's midnight in Montgomery
                    Just hear that whippoorwill
                    See the stars light up the purple sky
                    Feel that lonesome chill
                    'Cause when the wind is right, you'll hear his songs
                    Smell whiskey in the air
                    Midnight in Montgomery
                    He's always singing there

                   Well, I climbed back on that eagle, took one last look around
                   Through red tail lights a shadow moved slow across the ground
                   And off somewhere a midnight train is slowly passing by
                   I could hear that whistle moaning
                   I'm so lonesome I could cry

                   Repeat chorus
              
                  He's always singing there
                  Oh, Hank's always singing there

There are many more Meetin' Hank songs, and I am just going to give you one of the most entertaining and downright fun versions that has been popular recently (remember, I teach history, so "recently" means "since 1970" to me). The lyrics start this way:

While I was huntin' wild turkey and sippin' on Jim Beam...

You can imagine where it goes from there.  Just listen to the rest from both Mark Chesnutt and George Jones, who originally recorded this together back in the early 1990s.

Talkin' to Hank  3:17
Talkin' to Hank  2:47

For advice on how best to "engage" the lyrics, click here.

                  Talkin' to Hank

                  Mark Chesnutt & George Jones
                  (Bobby Harden)
                  While I was huntin' wild turkey and sippin’ on Jim Beam
                  I walked up on something like I’ve never seen
                  So deep in the woods where I thought I was alone
                  Stood a structure where something or someone called home.

                  I saw a shotgun and guitar and six-pack of beer
                  A sign on the front door said "guess who lives here?"
                  An old red bone hound that looked older than time
                  And an old man that swore that he was only twenty-nine.

                 Chorus
                 I swear he looked just like ol' Hank
                 I wouldn’t bet a wooden nickel that he ain’t
                 I got goose bumps and dizzy and felt kinda faint
                 I think I’ve been talkin’ to Hank.
              
                Instrumental

                He said I’ve played that old guitar in a drifting country band
                Played coast to coast and a few foreign lands
                (He said) some crowds were big and some crowds were small
                Somehow I hope I let ’em know I loved them all.

                I said you’re mighty skinny, he said would you believe
                That it only took one woman to do this to me
                But you gotta get your hat son, just get on out of the way
                When they start hatin' to love and start lovin' to hate.
                

                Repeat chorus

                Instrumental

                Repeat chorus
                Lord, I feel like I've been talkin' to poor old Hank... 

***  ***

We turn now to another legend-meets-legend theme in a poetic tradition half a world (and more than a millennium) away. In this case, a legend writes about a legend. Li Bo and Du Fu (mentor and disciple, for a time) were among the greatest poets ever to live and write in China. They actually wrote about each other more than anyone might guess. Let's take a quick look at a version or three.

In order to get this posted on-time, I am quoting from other translations of the poems. I hope to have my own (and Chinese text) posted later this week.

             To Send to Tu Fu (Du Fu) as a Joke
                    Li Bo (Tang; 701-762)
                    I ran into Tu Fu by a Rice Grain Mountain,
                    In a bamboo hat with the sun high at noon.
                    Hasn't he got awfully thin since our parting?
                    It must be the struggle of writing his poems.[2] 

                   At the Sky's End, Thinking of Li Po
                    Du Fu (Tang; 712-770)
                    Cold winds                  rise from the edge of heaven
                    True Gentleman          how fares your thought
                    wild geese                   what hour is your arrival
                    river and lake              swell with autumn waters
                    literature                      is averse to good fortune

                    marsh trolls                  relish the passerby
                    you ought to share      a word with the slandered spirit
                    hurl a poem                 to him in the Mi-lo River[3]

[c] Tower view  RF

             At Night, Climbing the White Emperor Tower, 
             Thinking of Du Fu
                    Li Bo (Tang; 701-762)       
                    A mender of mistakes,
                    white-haired, who misses him?
                    Down and out, he sang
                    over all the Twin Streams                

                    and stood on his winged tower
                    as though here tonight.
                    Drifts, gyres of the derelict moon
                    still unchanged—
                    upgraded or cashiered?

                    These things never cease
                    but naive or knowing, man's days
                    have a like deadline.
                    Headwork brings chill:
                    whom can I have a word with?
                    Night's crypt. Gull and egret
                    Lift from sand's edge.[4]

[1] Colin Escott, Hank Williams: The Biography (New York: Little, Brown and Company), ix-x.
[2] Victor Mair, The Columbia Anthology of Traditional Chinese Literature (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994), 203. Translated  by Elling Eide.
[3]Mair, Anthology, 217. Translated by David Lattimore.
[4] Mair, Anthology, 228. Translated by Victor Mair.

Bibliography

Escott, Colin. Hank Williams: The Biography. New York: Little, Brown and Company, 1994.
Mair, Victor. The Columbia Anthology of Traditional Chinese Literature. New York: Columbia University Press, 1994. 

NEXT
Too Cold
Our respite from utter misery has been short-lived. Father's Day has come and gone, and our ode to father figures (Hank, Li, Du) must give way again to heart-rending, lyrical pain. Next week, we'll start to turn up the...cold a little bit with a pair of songs about icy conjugal relations. I'll be waiting (waitin') for you, with a frosty, cool mug and a set of real downer songs.