Note, this story was also published in the April 25, 2019 edition of the The North Dakota Quarterly magazine.
Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash
“Oh honey you turn me on I’m a radio” (Joni Mitchell)
Hello out there in radio land (and when I say ‘out there’ it’s not like I think you’re sitting by the Magnavox or the Motorola or the Philco or the RCA with your fingers on the volume knob)
But I’m coming at you with some blues this night of nights some from the Delta some from Wyoming (some from my kitchen where three miserable days of dishes have been used by me as ashtrays) because cowboys have the blues too not just in Wyoming for sure but also in Kansas where this signal is coming from me to you nice folks out there.
Because I’m the rocking boogie and blues herringbone washboard tub-thumping fun raising songbird looking at the top of a grain silo where the head of this plastic owl that’s supposed to scare off the crows is spinning around and reminds me of Leon Russell’s spinning head before he takes off his beaver pelt top hat and puts it on the piano to cover up the spots where the booze dissolved the varnish so he can do a little left handed stride keystroking to wake up the dope smoking drummer on this next romper stomper from the Pretenders recorded with dirty socks stuffed up in the bass speaker so that the howl of the night dogs on the windy prairie wouldn’t drown out the moony moanin’ music of Patsy Cline when she was singing and walking pitter patter After Midnight
(At the same moment that I promised my woman I would give up smoking but the sounds of sweet Baby James made me kinda reflective (so I said) and she said ok then one more month but not in the kitchen)
(So as you can imagine the butts sticking up from day old potato salad wouldn’t look so good to her -actually nasty- like the eyes of frosty the snowman after the temperature went up to fifty degrees and the grit hidden inside each snowflake had exploded into dark dots that stain remover never could take out)
Of the flip side of Joni Mitchell’s latest which you are gonna hear at two a.m. in the morning now that she no longer requires me to call her “Joan” says it makes me sound like her latest horn man which is pretty funny since everybody knows she likes all of them to be Maple Leafs fans jabbering and jiveing after each penalty that some over-muscled giant in a helmet would like back now
(Like the penalty I got after I forgot my woman’s birthday and tried to make it up with my own hand written love song that she immediately saw was swiped from Buddy Holly’s version of “Dreaming” that he wrote for the Everly Brothers but they wouldn’t record it for him or any of my songs either because I wouldn’t kick back a piece of my percentage but that’s how music works these days its dog eat dog on the air and off no way to tell how many times my song’s been played since I’m the only one who recorded it anyway)
Like it’s late at night out on the dance floor it’s like a revival a time to testify with your toes and the mirror ball is winking, and the electric bass is shaking so loud its vibrato so deep that there are waves in the punch bowl that somebody says somebody put acid in last year but not tonight
Because it’s the midnight hour when we are all gonna get down low and raunchy while we hear those finger snapping head rapping mouse trapping self sapping hand flapping rhythms from the Commodores in those chunky heels and electric yellow and crimson boas thumping’ the drums thrumming those lip smackin’ hums and snapping those fingers and thumbs as their rhythm guitarist strumming his axe with a killer’s edge takes over all those cats who are bumping and humping and the keyboardist pops his keys to a melody that could sizzle and sail all the way from Midland Texas to Carbondale Illinois (where my old lady’s family comes from and she said that’s where she might be heading although I think it’s more likely Wichita) because tonight freedom’s gonna ring on with a backbeat
And a drop or two of well-earned beaded sweat on the floor from those fine looking women worrying about their makeup in the ladies room after they been struttin’ all night to the tracks I have been laying down (and if one of you is my old lady my hats off to you I’d rather be dancing too) now that we’re wild in the streets
Or are we slowing it down dancing close thinking about asking that special lady to go out behind the ballroom with you to smoke a joint and maybe the two of you are trying to figure why it gives you the shudders when the cloud of smoke that puffs from your lips crosses over the moon’s shadow and you know that the lady staring at you glimpses your soul with those glowing eyes (like my lady’s sapphire eyes) while you could swear that you can hear the Five Satins humming In the ‘Still of the Night’ whether it’s playing on the air or not and you can’t believe it’s going to be possible for you to live without her (the way I can’t imagine existing without my woman)
And that’s the late night show which I recorded today for each and every one of you who wanted to be cheered up after that last nightcap knowing you’ve been rocking for sixty years now and feeling the tunes and tales that tear you up when life wears you down and even though it was afternoon in real time when I recorded my show I bet that these hits helped at least some of you to get your ya yas and you did not even notice that the dancing rhythms echoing out of your car radio weren’t coming live right off that club floor in the wee hours the way I said it while everyone was drinking while the mirror balls were winking (and my eyes had watered up maybe from the cigarette smoke)
(And baby please I’m gettin’ all over cleaning my kitchen and those three miserable days of dishes cigarette butts and all just in case you forget something on your way out and give that kitchen and me that one more chance)
Now that I’ve quit smoking again
So
“Call me at the station the lines still open.” (Joni Mitchell)
— Mike Cohen, 2018