All was quiet on the home front out in Depoy when a bomb dropped out of nowhere, an ordinary burnt CD already in the CD player over at Quinta’s house on her birthday. Country poured from the speakers out into the blackened night - the subject familiar - and brought me back to the true spirit of ‘being home‘.
Yes, I was drinking Jim Beam and Ski on the back porch of a trailer in the middle of nowhere. You can call me a Redneck and I’ll agree with you; education is the only thing that saved me from being dead or in jail.
What do you do growing up when no one ever says you could be a writer, or a musician, or an artist? You either take the scenic route to realizing what your purpose is or you do drugs and drink - or sometimes both. It’s like that fellow Kevin Suitor on America’s Got Talent - he’s unemployed and has the voice of an angel, complete with original material… I bet you no one ever told him he could be a musician growing up and only went on America’s Got Talent ‘cause a friend or two talked him into it.
This bomb’s name was Brent Embry, a guy who cut an album about making love in the Green River* and smoking homegrown pot. Apparently he lived the life that he sings about - don’t we all? - but the story doesn’t end there. One night while all fucked up, he shot up ammonia and LIVED. He was twenty-three when he did it, too…
The trouble with living is that living doesn’t mean you’re alive anymore. According to the myth - oh, and what a myth! - is he doesn’t remember his kids, his wife, nothing…including that he doesn’t remember how to play a guitar or sing anymore.
This album is like listening to a ghost from the grave, a snapshot of a voice gone quiet.
Anyone who wants a burn of this album just has to ask me. I’m more than willing to pass this around ‘cause it’s so goddam good that everyone should give it a listen, whether or not you dig country music.
What further intensifies the magic is that the house swapped this magic CD for a copy of 3/8ths album with the same excitement and intensity that I felt listening to Brent Embry’s stuff.
Ah, music…
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* Before you ask “Why should I give a shit about making love in the Green River?”, consider this - the Green goes into the Ohio and the Ohio goes into the Tennessee out in Paducah. That’s why every time I got silly homesick I’d stand in the river and think Ok, I’m not that far from home ‘cause this water has already passed by home and made it here just fine.
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