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.”