Another one of those phone calls. I had just driven all the way back to Virginia from Westminster, Maryland - 72 miles. What a great show with some serious bluegrassers at the kind of place you'd never catch me hanging out at. But as performance spaces go, it was unique. Good acoustics and an amazingly spacious new dance-floor to boot. I'm settling in all my camera equipment, checking my e-mails one more time and thinking about sack-time. I usually have a cup of black coffee before bed-time (Yeah, I know, sounds sick and it is, but hey - I'm a caffeine addict). I went into the kitchen and my land-line rings. Who uses a land-line anymore unless it's a family emergency, and who calls at this time of night? I looked at the clock. That's a natural habit of mine as a writer. When a phone rings look at the clock and remember the time in case you later have to talk to the cops. That's the first thing they'll ask you. "Sir, what time did this happen?" If you're ever in a bad car-wreck and you're laying there covered in blood and wondering what happened, make sure you can still see your cell phone so you can record the time. The cops and insurance people will ask you a thousand times when it all happened.
I wasn't going to answer the phone, but that Pavlovian response takes control. After I answered it, I regretted it. Bobby Joe Bettencourt was on the other end. He wanted to tell me about a gig he had just finished down in Old Town, Alexandria. I think he had had a few beers. "That's great," I said. "Nice to see you're getting some work." I didn't really mean it. He described the gig to me and I knew he had done the work gratis. "Did you have a good audience?" I asked, implying that I wanted to know what the house-count was. "Yeah, not many, but the audience was good! We were all happy with that!" Bobby Joe replied. I wonder if the bar-owner was happy with that. After so many more minutes of my bed-time ticking away, and Bobby Joe droning on about upcoming gigs, I finally popped an action question to Bobby Joe: "Great. well . . .Why did you call me? It's late my friend, and I've got a busy weekend." I made a huge mistake by referring to him as my friend. "Well it's like this, you know, I thought you were coming out some night, you know, like tonight to take some pictures and maybe write a story?" I tried to tell him I never made the promise, but I knew he'd never believe me, and besides, considering the hour of the early morning and the fogginess caused by the alcohol it would be tough to try to convince him that I had never made the promise. " I'm tired," I said. "and I've really got to get to bed. Nice talking to you." I eased the phone down and ended it.
Bobby Joe isn't his real name. It's Craig. Later I found out he assumed the name 'Bobby Joe' so he could 'feel' more Southern. I saw his Virginia driver's license once and the 'Bettencourt' isn't real either. I always wondered why he had assumed this disguise and then a friend of his told me he wanted a more French-sounding name since he lived for two years in Metairie, Louisiana. When I asked his friend what Bobby Joe had been doing down there all that time, he answered, "Studying the music, Man! Paying his dues!" This was right after I had seen Bobby Joe Bettencourt for the first time. I had been conned into seeing him. Conned into seeing his act. His name and the name of his band had been posted in a flyer for a local arts festival (we have a lot of them where I live.) You never know what you're going to run into at one of these public gatherings. It's hit or miss. Sometimes I see some well-known people - at least in bluegrass circles. On the rare occasion I'll see somebody who's just starting out and they may be rough around the edges, but you can see promise - maybe a future if they stick with it and run into the right contacts. The flyer said "Bobby Joe Bettencourt: southern music, bluegrass, folk music, and americana. - on stage at 2:00." I got tied up in traffic and then had a hell of a time finding a place to park in Alexandria. I got there late and missed the whole show except for a few bars of Bobby Joe's final song. It didn't sound like bluegrass to me, but maybe I missed the best part. My fault. I tried to talk to Bobby Joe or maybe some of his band members, but they were gone in no time. I picked up one his business cards laying on a chair. I decided I'd save it and maybe try to give him a call later. I'm always interested in new names, new acts. I talked to some people who were still hanging around the performance area and I asked them if they had seen Bobby Joe perform, and I asked them if it was bluegrass. A woman with a toddler in tow said, "Oh yeah, bluegrass, or maybe folk, but they were OK." The woman's husband said "Nah, it was blues. I think it was more blues than folk." Both looked at each other. The disagreement between them could have gotten ugly if I continued the questioning.
I did call Bobby Joe. Quite a few times but never seemed to reach him. When I finally did get through it was after ten o'clock. He seemed in a muddle. "Just finished a gig over in Tacoma Park. Do you know Rance Barnsworth?" No, I said, never heard of him. "One of the best washboard-players in the South. Won some kind of competition once in Baton Rouge. Well, the bastard walked out on me half-way through the set!" That he had a wash-board player in a bluegrass band should have been my first red flag. But it would be the first of many red flags.
No comments:
Post a Comment