stationery destinations: Bakersfield
           This Best Western is next door to Buck Owens' Crystal Palace — an old west façade Buck constructed & performed within most weekends until he ultimately left his namesake street in Bakersfield. I was under his spell there on a few errant occasions. He mounted the stage through a tule fog machine cloud while a king-sized video screen flashed digital lightning bolts striking in quadraphonic thunder overhead as the Buckaroos kicked in their theme. A 70's Pontiac convertible, customized by Nudie with silver dollars, decorative firearms & discriminate embroidery, tilted above & beyond the bar tiers of bottles as an exceptional landmark, rich in manifested myth & its accompanying stereotypes. I always suspected the palace of watered-down drinks — even the night my party was escorted out, a little overelectrified by the spectacle of it all.
In the proper setting, the intoxicating burden of circumstantial proof can be successfully overwhelming.
           Across Buck Owens Blvd is Zingo's Café, a pit stop that offers diner fare in the front, & in the back, a small lounge that serves smashed locals who crush emptied beer cans on their foreheads. On one chicken-fried steak & eggs morning, the booth behind me was seated with two adults & a bawling infant. The couple explained to the waitress that they'd had the kid circumcised earlier & missed breakfast, so they cut the ride home from the hospital short to grab a bite.
Their order was the same as mine, but also consumed to calm the suckling with a gravy-finger teat.
           The Best Western itself holds a karaoke night that, from memory, opens to a stringy man in his sixties still dressed in his USPO uniform culottes to deliver "House of the Rising Sun" while inserting his own biblical lyrics, & peaks with a chunky late-thirties — conjured as a Kern High School District former athletic champ — possible shot-putter — dude choosing Boston's "More Than a Feeling." When it first faded in, the fifty or so in the lounge all paused mid-sip to watch because none of us — as one collective psyche — could believe that this guy would be able to reach that lead vocal high note before the guitar solo. Everyone froze — even the staff — — — & then he did it! — he hit that note dead on! No one could fuckin' believe it! The place erupted like everyone there had just been given a convertible of their own. It was communal rapture awash in a rush of joyous drinks orders — some probably as paid-off bets — in all-embracing celebration. It's all anyone talked about for about fifteen minutes — his fifteen minutes — a cursory star again for about as long as it takes to suck down a fleeting highball.
Where Does the Good Times Go, Buck? Nothing feels the same. Let's close our eyes & slip away.
I love these stories.
Speaking of karaoke, at the peril of maybe (hopefully!) preempting a story from your travels through Melbourne, but I often think of a night out with Richard after a show here around 20 years ago. He had just played an amazing solo show at a club called the Rob Roy and a group of us went out into the city afterwards.
It was late and options were limited, so we ended up at a joint called Charlton's, in the middle of Chinatown, which felt like it could be the scene for a sinister movie involving gangsters and bar brawls.
We all thumbed through the book of laminated pages, choosing songs that we were willing to risk singing in front of our friends and acquaintances - not as easy when they are cool people you hang out with at shows, as opposed to close friends and family that you might more typically end up at a karaoke bar with!
Anyway, when Richard's song came up, we were all obviously curious in anticipation. I wish I could remember the name of the song he chose, but I can't. Whatever it was, it was a million miles away from the cheesy 80's songs that typically get chosen and crucified in a karaoke setting. Instead, it was a song that could have fit in on The Hill - like a proper, beautiful song (if I remember correctly, it had a woman's name in the title... maybe Mary...).
Needless to say, Richard sang it with heartfelt perfection.
You should have seen the faces of the other people in the bar! They didn't know what had hit them. Instead of wincing through an atonal rendition of a song they probably once loved, they were dumbstruck, having their heartstrings pulled by one of the world's best.
I'm lucky to have seen Richard play several times over the years on three continents. Every experience has a memorable story attached.
Love you Buck, and I am so enjoying these Extractions! Keep em' coming!!
I'm always left totally shaking my head wondering....have these things I'm reading really happened to this guy? I'm seriously in love.