Hanging With Shepp on the Eastern Shore

7 November 2013

The steel-gray sky predicted a cold November and already most of the leaves were flying off the trees. I thought I heard geese. I definitely heard a gunshot when I pulled into Shepp's driveway. It sounded close. I'm a combat vet. I don't like the sound of gunshots. And sometimes I can almost feel the urge to run toward them. I was a corpsman and that's what we were trained to do in the Fleet Marine Force. Run toward the gunfire and not away from it, like some sort of normal person. Even at my age the habits never go away, even though I wish I could get rid of them. So many other vets have shared with me, "Vietnam will go away when we're all dead!" and I know what they means. It's meaningless to Joe Civilian. He'll never understand, and that's O.K. We all made our beds and slept in them.

I made my way around Shepp's 37-ft. fishing boat and all his strewn-about fishing equipment. Shepp's no amateur. He's in it to make a living like all of his neighbors in this part of Maryland. There was Shepp in the back with a 30 cal. M-1 carbine. When I saw the carbine that little sense of twinge hit me. We confiscated them all the time from dead VC. The U.S. poured thousands of them into the South Vietnamese Army, only to have them end up in the hands of the enemy. So much for our military support programs. A little beauty, if I don't say so myself, even though I won't own a gun or even have one in my house. Guns are for killing people. It's that simple. I've lived through my share of macho. It's a lot more fun to write about it, than try to live up to it in real life. Shepp was firing off a few rounds in the back yard just to kill time before our guitar lesson. His big chocolate Lab came over and licked my hand and seemed used to the gunfire. I put my guitar case down and rubbed the dog's head. Shepp's dog is just a big baby. "You're lucky to get the time," said Shepp. "I'm dog-tired and plumb worn out from the show last night in Philadelphia."
"I heard about it," I replied. "I heard you guys sold the place out."
" No kidding!" he said. "All of this in just a year and we're booking big-time for the summer festivals."
"Janey wants me to get rid of the boat and gear and guitars, too, so we have a nest-egg for the Tour Bus." he continued.

I understood none of it. I didn't even want to touch a conversation about his wife's financial concerns. I could sense the female preparations of what a man would consider as a slow, painful emasculation. The boat, the guitar collection, the guns, all the Coon Dogs and Labrador will go too. She'll talk about how cats are easier to take care of and you'll give in and have to pretend that you like the new pet. You'll have to pretend that you don't mind seeing all her new clothes covered with cat-hair when you go out at night. Every man has his inate fears. I've become fascinated with bluegrass because everything in the music has a sense of grandiosity and exaggerated drama. A murder isn't just a quiet poisoning - it's done with a knife. Revenge isn't a  few loud threats handled with swear-words. There's going to be a murder and then a hanging. The guy being hanged is usually smiling and he's glad the victim is dead. They didn't call Jimmy Martin "The King of Bluegrass" for nothing. Look at his life and his body of work. His life and his music was one great-big drama. And then his demons caused him even more drama. I use the term 'body of work' as if he was some sort of classical composer. He wasn't. He was just Jimmy Martin, a talented man driven by demons and personal problems. Jimmy was in the end, only human.
"Let's get crackin'" hollered Shepp. "I've got a million things to do before I take off for Cincinnati!"
I followed Shepp into a part of the house that was his dedicated music room and office. His Martin D-28 was laying on a couch. Oddly, a Bible and a dog-dish were on the floor in front of the couch, along with a bunch of scribbled pieces of loose-leaf notebook paper. His hand-writing was terrible. Almost illegible.
I picked out a seat and started warming up, and he did too. We tuned up. Something about those first notes that come out of a Martin. Like the way Charles Lamb described bag-pipe music. The chills you get hearing those first notes. And then you're over it very quickly and you want to hear those individual notes and chords turned into an actual song.

"I'm going to fool around with some G-runs and C-runs.  Let's see what you've learned." said Shepp.
I thought I sounded pretty good. I could see Shepp wincing.
"Let's do it again. You have to keep doing it for hours, Man. I mean hours, and then suddenly it hits ya."
Shepp's cell phone rang in the next room. "Aw Christ!" he exclaimed. Then he picked up the Bible and ran his hand over it. "Forgive me, Lord!" He laughed and ran for his phone. "Sorry. I've got answer this." I could easily hear his part of the conversation.
"Hey, babe, how ya doin'?"
(Long pause)
"Yeah. No problem. Me and the Boys can handle that."
(Long pause)
"Really? You're not joking?"
(Long  pause)
"Well listen Alison I've got a lot I need to talk over with the Boys."
(Longer pause)
"But Alison . . ."
(Long pause, but not as long as the previous ones)
"Hey. Yeah. The money's good. Yeah. No kidding. Thanks a bunch"
Shepp came back in the room and threw himself down on the oak court-room chair he had picked up at an Eastern Shore flea-market.
"Let's start this again. Sorry about that. This Cincinnati gig is driving me nuts!"
I didn't ask if that was really HER on the other end of the phone. I didn't want to act like a little school-girl having a fit in front of the Beatles. I'd act nonchalant and let Shepp tell me about it. I'd eventually get the story any how. Plus I guarded my manhood pretty closely. Something about being a man once you decide to also become a guitar-picker down here on the Eastern Shore of Maryland.