“What’s going to become of lovely New Orleans… that rotten old town that everyone loves?” That lyric, sung to the tune of John Prine’s song: “Paradise”(“Daddy won’t you take me back to Muhlenberg County”), was the hook that got to me.  It was the sad familiarity of the melody and the concerned love in the lyrics that drew me to “The New Orleans Waltz”, by Grayson Capps. 

His use of the word FEMA (sung feee-muuh) for the chorus; sung in high harmony; lightened the otherwise somber tone of the song. His lyrical disdain for then – President Bush and support for Mayor Ray Nagin, belie a post–Katrina, musically poetic New Orleanian. His cigarettes and whiskey voice… spins tales of the people he’s met in his life and times on the lunatic fringe of the Deep South. To describe the music; think … acoustically-sung porch poetry… a very muggy summer night… Spanish moss… and a “rusted-out Impala with weeds growing out the trunk”. My discovery of Grayson Capps’s Music and my recent trip to New Awlins have taught me that the city gets into your blood as if you had an open vein.

   Some friends and I saw Grayson perform in a quaint little roadhouse, in the country, west of Nashville…last Friday night. (I’ll get to that later). We only caught half of his show… as being in Nashville….Ya gotta eat!! The city’s best Crab Cakes and freshly shucked oysters, (I only eat ‘em when the water’s cold), finished off with New Orleans style Bread Pudding.(My..MY..MY!).

    If New Awlins was Camelot and had knights, Grayson would have a seat at the Round Table. His countenance is one of cannery-row street knowledge. Prematurely-lined face shows the years spent busking (look it up) for loose change, on the streets of New Orleans. Handsome, with his sunburned locks of hair—past his shoulders; they could have been trimmed with a broken bottle. Traveled jeans and unpolished brogans endorsed the honesty of this minstrel, and his music. He was bandless (is that a word?), sat on a stackable plastic chair, and played a slide guitar with a chrome resonator on it. His singing was heartfelt, and he kept time with his broganned foot on the plywood stage. The toe of his shoe, swinging side to side seemed to meter his slide hand, milking the notes, while his heel lightly stomped out the beat. I got to experience this seasoned musician, poetically sing about the reality of life; both on the street, and on the road….for seven dollars. (Grayson Capps—7…Ticketmaster—0!!)

   Grayson hails from Brewton in southern Alabama. His eccentric-writer father saw to it for Grayson to go to Tulane, in New Orleans, after high school, and study theater. Obviously, New Awlins did its thing… cultured this creative soul and out came a voice that could lovingly express the steamy side of life there …listen…feel the humidity and smell the Gulf of Mexico.

   Now comes the phenomenon; an acquaintance noticed that Grayson’s dad, Ronald Capps, had written a yet-unpublished book; called Off Magazine Street (a very cool street in New Orleans), and became interested. Through this acquaintance, in 2004, the movie: “Love Song For Bobby Long” was born. Starring John Travolta and Scarlet Johansson, this movie… for me… portrays New Orleans more succinctly than any movie before; …you can almost smell the Ligustrum in bloom.

  Capps’s father’s book told the story of his ex-english-professor drinking buddies; whom, as he tells: “weren’t your garden-variety drunks.” Grayson’s formative years, growing up around these soddy philosophers, shows up in the poetry in his music.

    Grayson wrote six original songs for the score, including the theme song, and performed in the movie. He was briefly considered a candidate for an Oscar, for Best Original Song. His musical works can be the sweetest of the melancholy, yet steeped in tropically decadent rust and grit. “Washboard Lisa”… probably my favorite song of Grayson’s, is almost a love song. His poetic description of this…almost homeless woman, softens me whenever I hear it; she’s a musician who “sits in” at the music clubs around town. The song is melancholy to the n’th… my favorite line paints it all: “How can New Orlins be so good …to a Lucky Strike smokin’ queen; …with a rip in her dress and dirty toes… livin’ life like a dream.” His lyrics speak of a rotten paradise; his descriptions use, and rhyme words like sepulcher. (New Awlins buries its dead above ground.) Listening to the music without watching the movie is like eating peanut butter without the sweet sticky stuff.

  I watched the “Love Song For Bobby Long” for the third time before realizing that this guy’s music was validating the already-distinct New Orleans flavor of the film. Life is art, and art is life, seems to be the balance, or the yin and yang created by this package describing the cultural underbelly of the deep South.

   Norm’s River Roadhouse and Bar-B-Que…(write that down)…last Friday night;…here’s the part that made the night more fun. The quaint little roadhouse that I mentioned earlier…as a music venue…was a touchdown. After getting off I-40 West at Charlotte Pike, we drove into the country, for about… what seemed like five miles of hair-pin curves, following the Cumberland River.  My Dad used to say a road was…“as crooked as a dog’s hindleg”….it was all of that and more….I’m thinking…”this guys Bar B Que must be reeeally good!” On coming out of the last dark, wooded curve in the road…our destination lay ahead…this lit-up, wide-place, on the right side of the road with lots of cars… was Norm’s. No parking structure, no valet… as if in an old movie…people just pulled off. All of the parking spaces on the road were taken, so we swung down-grade and parked on the lower grass. Once again… I leave a hastily-parked car… thinking: “if it don’t rain…we’ll be ok.”! If I was going to run a musical roadhouse in Tennessee, what smell would I want to greet people with…right, hickory smoke and pork drippins. Norm’s was as plain on the inside as it was on the outside; no legendary guitars hanging on the walls and no autographed pictures of George Jones. On entering, the only three people we saw, guided us downstairs, toward the music that we could hear coming up through an open doorway.

   The single flight of narrow steps transported us from whatever we thought might be going on upstairs to a pleasantly surprising-musical grotto below ground…. greatly heightening our senses. This subterranean music space… with its organically-masoned stone walls… acoustically framed Grayson Capps’s musical presentation. Norm, himself, greeted and seated us…big guy… dressed in bibbed overalls, brogans and a ball cap. He counted: 1-2-3-4, and that’s how many plastic chairs that he pulled off the stack. He seated us right up front, and got our beer…it was very cold…I think I had a Shiner Bock. The vibe from the small basement crowd (Norm says he is licensed for 43 people at a time) seemed warm and nice. I think Norm must be putting nice pills in the beer as; everyone was quiet and listening to the music…no loud talking or cell phones. An intimate musical experience like this only comes my way every once in a while. Grayson chatted with the listeners or told stories between songs…it…was…cool.

   If you are looking for mojitos… this is not your place. If you are looking to show off a new outfit… this is not your place. If you are looking for a unique musical experience…according to the New York Times…you’re in a great spot. The Nashville Scene magazine gave Norm the nod for Best Nashville Spot for New Songwriters.

  Last, but not least, Norm Stannard (or Norman Earl, as he is known locally) is from Bowling Green. He spent three years in Potter’s Children’s Home, attained a degree in Broadcasting and taught at Western; he played music at Picasso’s in BG. Local music hero Tommy Womack plays Norm’s regularly. Norm says that with his full music calendar, his crowd numbers are increasing and that he has Grayson Capps booked again soon…this time, fronting his band…The Stumpknockers. …But, wait…what am I doing here?… If everyone that reads this column, goes to the show???….oops… Never mind!

John Redick was and is a boomer audio-phile of extreme proportions. He is a hairdresser who works at the Cache’ Salon  in B.G.  His one fantasy in life has always been to be a black disc jockey.  Lagniappe is Cajun for “a little something extra”