The Song is Over
By R.A. Jetter
He unrolled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his t-shirt sleeve and offered one. I declined and set a cold, sweating long neck on the pickup’s rail. He nodded, lit up and pulled a long drink from the bronze bottle.
I offered my hand, he gripped it with confidence.
Sweat stained his white t-shirt, the scuffed cowboy boots he wore rested easily on the tail-gate, the guitar lazed across his lap. Appearances can be deceiving, I figured just another struggling country western type from his clothes. The evening sun had set but the humidity in the exclusive Montgomery subdivision was brutal. “Danny Mack,” he said, wiping a handkerchief across his forehead and pumping my hand with a hurtful grip. “You been standing there long?”
The nasal tone of his voice confirmed my suspicions. “Heard your guitar from up the street… my sister’s. Had to find out where those soulful tunes were coming from. You’re good.”
“Thanks, just sorta play around,” he said. “Learn something new every day.”
“Ever thought of playing country western professionally?”
“Naw, hate that shit. I like old rock n’ roll, bluesy stuff. Besides, I was in a country western/rock band… once upon a time.” He picked a few chords to accent his words. “My band-mates… they just sorta got tired of my playing. We went our separate ways.” The guitar wailed — short, sad notes, low and grumbling. Finality.
“You’ve got a unique style. Friend of mine manages a couple of groups for a small recording company in L. A. Would you mind if I recorded some of your songs?”
“If you don’t mind doing it while I sit here in this truck.”
“Not at all. Tomorrow evening?”
“It’ll cost you another one of them beers. Uhm… bring a case. Make it about eight.”
That’s how it started… I recorded a few tunes sitting on the tailgate of that old truck, the few he strummed that told a story I understood. His most soulful tunes happened in the cab, passenger’s side, while I sat sweating behind the wheel. Danny Mack was a natural, a virtuoso story-teller and looked the part. He was an attractive man… in a homely sort of way… full salt and pepper beard, sideburns, hair combed back and streaked. The t-shirt sleeved Luckys became his trademark… so did the boots. A huge chromed Texas Brahma Bull buckle on a black belt added to his image… and jeans, cuffed… always faded… never saw a new pair. His was a contradictory look… country western clothes… old rock and blues attitude.
I sent the tapes to L.A. and within ninety days Danny Mack was signed and had a brand new gig… a single act — based in Montgomery… two things he insisted on.
Over the next several months it became clear he didn’t want a band in his name… declined every time he and a group clicked. He preferred session musicians and chose new players himself. Danny even went so far as getting rid of guys that acquired a new groupie girlfriend, though he never fired anyone… always let local management handle it. To say he had his own agenda would be an understatement.
Several times I noticed, Danny was calculating, screening each new musician, though I’d never heard him talk to agents, or saw money paid to a private dick for investigative work. For unknown reasons, he hired loners… unmarried, unattached, those with deceased parents and no brothers, sisters, wives, sons, or daughters. I figured it was because he empathized with them.