Hate and Trepidation in Midlothian

By James Alexander, Dr. of Journalism.

After our terrifying ordeal in Coon Springs, we were convinced that we had sunk as low as humanly possible.  That is, until we discovered that our next show was booked for Midlothian, Cement Capitol of Texas.  Midlothian’s main claim to fame is that it is not Coon Springs.  Its second main claim to fame is its sprawling cement factory, which emits incalculable amounts of toxic fumes per year, destroying the ozone layer, contributing to global warming,  and causing genetic mutations to domestic cats.

                There used to be a philosopher’s club called “The Thinkers Asylum” which was just off Main Street.  It shut down, however, after all of its members moved away and the owner was arrested on charges too vile, too sick, too inappropriate to mention here. 

                The town lost out to Waxahachie for county seat, so it ended up without a square.  Instead, its seat of culture is “Eighth Street”.  Eighth Street is home to a couple of Mexican food restaurants and your basic assortment of small-town businesses (including a Chicken Express which recently advertised a new addition of green beans to its menu, which created such a run on the building that the Fire Marshall was called), and an above-average number of out-of-business antique shops. 

Mutant cat spotted near Midlothian.

Traveling north on Eighth Street, you pass a few historic two-bedroom houses with the occasional mutant cat in the yard.  Ah, country living at its finest. 

The houses end and the vacant lots begin, right before the bridge.  The bridge is one of the unresolved mysteries of Midlothian.  It is a beautiful bridge complete with cast-iron railing, a walkway, and Victorian lamp post lighting.  It connects one row of empty lots to another row of empty lots.  It was put there in place of a railway crossing because the city council felt like it would add beauty to the landscape, promote local culture, and possibly attract businesses to the city.  Sadly, it has not fulfilled any of these good intentions. 

However, we are not interested in any of these landmarks, as our only interest at this point in time is in the Midlothian Art and Music Festival held at The Lighthouse Coffee Bar, a hip coffee joint on the outskirts of town.  It is unique in that it has a full menu of sandwiches, an art gallery, and an upstairs office space to rent.  We could not have been more than happy with our venue. 

The day came and we headed off to the festival.  We were running a little late as the Star had been locked in the bathroom all morning applying numerous coats of animal cruelty free 100% organic all-natural-origin plant-derived fair trade vegan makeup, emerging occasionally to model looks that were, quote, “really really cute but so not me today”.  Finally my patience wore out.  “I don’t care whether you are youthful gamine, chilling vamp, soda pop Lolita, Japanese geisha, mime, or the blessed virgin Madonna, “ I yelled, “Put on your makeup or I’ll put it on for you!!”   Thus encouraged, the Star emerged five minutes later, looking the perfect Latina.   “That’s better ,” I said. “Now stop whimpering or your mascara will run.”  I hated to do it but you have to be firm with these diva types.  It’s the only way they’ll respect you.

We arrived at the show in a glory of flash bulbs and press.  Unfortunately, it was for the headliner.  Although the festival had been in progress for several hours, there were still quite a few acts before we went on.  I immediately retreated to the upstairs to talk business with several associates I happened to meet, while the Star wandered off to look at the jewelry booths, which she told me later held, quote, “all this really really cute stuff, it was just so not me today”. 

After chewing the fat with the cream of the promotional world, I came downstairs and made my way back out to the festival grounds.  I was overwhelmed with the booths overflowing with handmade craft items of every description, and was immediately reminded of the hipster credo: “Honesty Before All Else”.  The traditional was shunned for originality’s sake, and the tried and true art forms so embraced by our fathers had been replaced by more heartfelt and spontaneous creations.  “What these people need is a good business manager,” I muttered to no one in particular.  Just then I happened to run into my friend Cody, who was carrying a sack of canvases under his arm.  He seemed distraught, to say the least.  “What gives, old man?” I said.  “What have you got there?”  “Half my paintings were banned from this years’ event,” he said, pointing to the canvases.  “Incredible!” I said, dumbfounded, shocked with a revelation of such un-hipster-like exclusiveness on the part of the art board.  “What was it banned for?”  “Explicit content,” he said. “Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “You’d better hand it over to me!”  I flipped over the canvas and was greeted by a psychedelic explosion of acrylic paint.  Otherworldly figures so grotesque and fantastic repeated themselves and faded off into the corners of infinity.  Swirls of tangerines, fushias, soda fountain reds, and lime greens looped and rolled with childlike abandon.  Even to my cultured eye, there was nothing in the artwork which could be defined in solid terms or related to anything inside the normal human experience.  “Don’t let the Freudians with their Rorschach blots get you down,” I said. “I’m sure your work will be vindicated and the world will recognize you for the genius you are. It always happens to artists after they’re dead.”  With an encouraging pat on the back I left him to his own devices.

Checking my watch, I saw that it was nearly time to go on, so I struggled through the hipster hoards trying to make my way to the stage.  The fumes of triple-vente-lattes and cappicinos writhed up through the air.  Ironic facial hair was in full vogue. Epic mustaches appeared on boys and girls alike, set off with black plastic-framed Buddy Holly glasses.  The shoes had friendly, familiar-sounding names: Bobs, Toms, Dicks, Harrys.  Heavy gauges hung in distended earlobes like the voodoo charms of some African witch-doctor.  I began to feel the fear. 

I somehow made my way to the stage and stumbled through the first song.  As the Star whistled her way through the bridge, I felt a calming influence pass over me.  After all, we are all the same, I thought, searching for answers.  Sometimes searching for questions.  Reaching out to God-knows-what, but it just might be each other.  I heard, it seemed, for the first time, the lyrics to the song.  "Take a step towards belief.  My eyes are wide open and so is my heart."  And it sounded like a benediction.  I felt the urge to start a chorus of kum-ba-ya, or a group hug, and I supposed that this is what the word festival really means.

Hate and Trepidation in Coon Springs.*

By James Alexander, Dr. of Journalism

*names and places have been changed to protect the guilty.

              Ah, the world of promotion.  That gleaming, glittering, tinseled world of fabled showbiz.  That circus-time melody.  That starry-eyed hope of fame, fortune, and indescribable wealth.  I know you’ve heard the stories.  Tales of rags to riches.  Diamonds in the rough.  Lilies among the thorns.  Those are all true.  But tonight, I want to take you on a trip through the muck and filth, to the seedy underbelly of the music scene, a place of such unmatched debauchery, such unimagined depravity, such unbridled obscenity, the equal of which can only be found in the halls of the United States senate.



"Buddy" (Not it's real name)

                I had received a call from one of my many contacts.  The voice on the other end of the line was low and husky.  “I’ve got a lead,” said Dale (not his real name).  “What’s that?” I asked, sensing an opportunity.  “I met the producer for this small-time internet TV show,” he said. “The guy has a studio just outside of town. I told him about you and he’s interested in a meeting.”  “Good work,” I said. “How can he be contacted?”  “His name is Gary (not his real name),” said Dale (not his real name). “You can find him on the web.”  “Perfect,” I said. “Anything else?”  “Well, to tell you the truth, I got this dog,” said Dale (not his real name).  “Yeah?” I said, hiding my surprise.  “Yup, picked him up by the side of the road,” he replied. “Pure bred, by the looks of it. I don’t know why somebody would get rid of a perfectly good dog like that. Probably worth two or three hundred.”  “Really?” I perked up.  I’m always interested in numbers.  “Did you name it yet?” “Yep. Buddy (not its real name),” he said. “Don’t know why anyone would get rid of a dog like that. It might even be worth four hundred.”  “You never know,” I said, my interest intensifying. “What’s it doing now?”  “Just lying in the corner, panting,” said Dale (not his real name).  “That’s not a good sign,” I said. “Had a friend who had a dog that was doing that. Canine leukemia. Dead inside of three days.”  “Poor guy,” he said.  “The friend, not the dog,” I clarified.  “Oh,” he said. “Thought it might be contagious.”  “Could be,” I said. “Leukemia often is. Better let me take it off your hands, I’ve been exposed to it before.”  “I don’t know,” he said after a pause. “It’s an awful nice dog.”  “Yeah,” I said, “but what’s a three, four, maybe even five hundred dollar dog compared to your health?”  “Maybe,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced.  “Well, think about it,” I said. “You know where you can reach me.”  With that, I hung up the phone.

                An appointment was soon arranged with Gary (not his real name) from “Gary’s Music Hour” (not its real name) in Coon Springs (not its real name) Texas (its real name).  In five days The Star and I were sitting in the studio with none other than Gary (not his real name) himself.

                “Now the first thing you need to understand,” he began, after complementing The Star on her “purty dress”, “is that I view this as something of a sacred stage. Even my wife has only been on it once, and that was just for a few minutes.”  “I totally understand that,” I replied, “and we are honored that you would take the time to talk to us.”  “Let me play you a song,” he went on, ignoring my interjection, “so that you can get an idea of the quality of the music we play here. It’s called ‘Louisiana Women’.”

                The song was a country-flavored take on The Beach Boys’ “California Girls” if it had been performed at a Honky-Tonk in the seedy part of New Orleans.  After he was done, he proceeded to play another of his compositions titled “Alabama Females”.  It was much the same as the first.  When he was through with that one, he explained that all his songs were based on real experiences, and he was currently working on a piece called “My Missouri Mistress”. 

                “Impressive,” I said, fascinated.  “Are you planning on going through all fifty states?”  “As soon as I get the material,” he said.  “Well, write what you know,” I said.  “Exactly,” he replied. “I specialize in women, although often I get songwriting ideas by listening to Rush Limbaugh.”

                “Now that you know what goes on here,” he said, “let’s take a tour of the studio.”  The studio was a small room about 15 X 20 feet.  The walls were covered with Pink Floyd posters.  “These are just copies,” he explained.  “The originals I keep in individual airtight containers in my gun safe.”  At that moment a small, average-looking dog scampered over to me.  I crouched down and stroked it gently behind the ears.  “Nice dog,” I said.  “That’s Dolly (not its real name),” he replied. “She’s a purebred.”  “I had a purebred, once,” I said. “Caught canine leukemia and was dead within days.  Such a shame, too. That dog was worth close to six hundred.”  “That’s too bad,” he said. “Canine leukemia. Isn’t that catching?” “Probably,” I replied, “but it’s too soon to tell.”

                “And here,” he went on, “is the stage. It has been graced by that gorgeous blonde, Susannah Pritchard (not her real name). She was a great songwriter. Also by that tall beaut, what’s-her-name? Oh, Louisa Stockton (not her real name). Best female country singer this side of the Mississippi. And Debbie ‘Dot’ Richardson (not her real name). Lordy, what a figure. She could also play a mean jazz guitar. And then last week we had some boy in that played harmonica. Forget his name.”  He stopped and stared at me intently. “I sincerely believe that this is where the future of music is headed.”  “Internet TV shows?” I asked, skeptical.  “No, right here in Coon Springs,” he said. “Anyway…”

                He paused for a moment, staring into space at a future that only he could see.  Coon Springs on the map where it belonged.  He, Gary (not his real name), standing on the Grammy stage where he belonged, his album at the top of the charts where it belonged. Life was beautiful.

                “Anyway,” he said, coming to with a brisk start, “we’d love to have you as part of our community. You probably won’t get to play just at first, and certainly not on the stage.  But stick around, come to all of my concerts, and eventually…” his voiced faded off.

                A terrible vision arose in my mind.  Me, sitting at a concert during an endless roll-call extolling the peculiar virtues of the women of all 50 states.  I began to feel the fear.  Was this really the price I had to pay for fame, recognition, success even?  Were these the dues demanded by that most capricious and unpredictable ticket master called “Fate”??  If so, the cost was too high.  A man must keep his dignity, or, at least, his sanity.  I looked Gary (not his real name) squarely in the face.  “Thanks,” I said, extending my hand. “We’ll be in touch.”  I escorted The Star to the door and turned back.  “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”