THE QUEEN IS DEAD
Mercury reader Bob Whatley in the heart of London and outside Buckingham Palace this very morning, the day of the passing of Elizabeth II.
As life in America settles into its usual autumn pace, the Mercury team took time to consider what’s important in our lives. It’s not about our Minecraft scores, or our 4,000 fake Facebook friends, or even the latest plot twist on “Better Call Saul.” It’s people who fill our fondest memories, who provide our daily dose of laughter, who give our lives real meaning.
Let’s make September a month to remember. In this issue of the Charleston Mercury Newsletter, we pay tribute to all the heroes lost on 9/11. Our own Buster Raymond will take us on a stroll down memory lane to one of the best places on earth, bar none; and Prioleau Alexander will relive his best — and worst — memories of some of the many live concerts he’s attended.
Remember, the mid-term elections are dead ahead. It’s time to find out all we can about the candidates and issues on the ballot so we can be deliberate about our votes. You can start here by linking to the Mercury’s recent article on Duke Buckner, who is running for Congress in the Sixth Congressional District. Keep your eyes peeled for the October issue of the Charleston Mercury which will provide insights and perspectives on some of the candidates who will, if elected, affect your life.
Most importantly, it’s time to re-connect with Charleston’s incredible social scene. Decide to opt-in to making new memories with family and friends. Then get up off that sofa, put on your dancing shoes and get out there and make more great memories. To quote our Mr. Raymond, “Damn right!”
What we remember 21 years after 9/11
This Sunday will mark the 21st anniversary of the attacks of Sept. 11 and very few children will go into the weekend knowing much about those behind these inexcusable actions that resulted in nearly 3,000 deaths, thousands of bodily injuries and hundreds of thousands of emotional wounds. As we all know, educational reform is vital on so many levels. Your newspaper was online only then and published an editorial about the need for justice, not revenge. The high ground is always the right place to be when all hell breaks loose upon us.
As we look back, it is easy to see the missteps that happened in the fog of war and during more than two decades of changing foreign policy positions. We have also done many things right. Our government agencies are doing a better job of talking to each other about threats and acting upon them, and we should celebrate that we have not had a large-scale attack since 9/11. However, we have not learned the importance of avoiding getting sucked into long wars. We need to hit hard and secure a defense perimeter around our troops and maintain only the bare minimum of forces necessary to keep the peace. Changing hearts and minds is for the Peace Corps; nation building is for the United States Agency for International Development; and the U.S. military needs to be feared and used sparingly.
Looking at our personal liberties, we need to spend more time streamlining where honest citizens can travel and what they can carry, such as liquids. We have gone over the top with risk reduction while not thinking about the rights and quality of life of the average citizen. Our regulations should inconvenience those who do not play by the rules; let that be our guide.
We should remember to give thanks for all those first responders who went bravely to help those in the Twin Towers and in the Pentagon on 9/11. We must never forget the brave passengers and crew aboard Flight 93 who gave their lives to thwart an attack on our Capitol. Let us say prayers for the survivors and their families and all those who have perished in the War on Terror. Always, let us recall our Armed Forces and intelligence services who keep us safe and keep them tightly in the prayers of a grateful nation that must never forget what can happen when we lose our edge of eternal vigilance to stand up to any threats against this beacon of freedom.
Joe Guitar and Bar None
By James “Buster” Raymond
We stumbled over an old-fashioned Montana guest ranch on Big Pistol Creek, a kind of summer camp, once common, the Bar None, a mom-and-pop place with a few motel-style or cabin rooms and some RV hookups right alongside the creek where people come to stay all summer. It had that well-used, old-fashioned, but clean and tidy look. Out of the way, it borders on public lands and is a launch point for ATV and sled trail rides, horses, hunters and hikers.
At first, it was ugly to look at; the area near the gate had been bulldozed flat the day before and was an expanse of rough gravel, preparatory to expansion, we found out later. Like much of Montana the first impression is misleading. This works in its favor, as you will see. The Bar None, -0, it’s brand when it homesteaded in 1903, has a bar with eight stools open every day, a kitchen that does excellent suppers on the weekends and, best of all, live music by its proprietor, Joe Guitar.
Joe Guitar was a country and western star in the 70s, and the grandson of the original homesteader of the Bar None, now better than 80, picking his acoustic and singing along to basic studio tracks up on a little stage on one end during supper. A younger fellow picked chords on an electric alongside. Joe serenaded the supper-goers with old country swing classics in a room full of fading photos of Joe and his lovely bride Jane, the chief cook, on album covers, on TV, and with famous people in that world. Jane got up to sing a little Patsy and Tammy, “standing by her man.”
What they’ve got going at the Bar None cannot be reproduced on a webpage. It was a family operation, as the homiest always seem to be. The people were scrupulously pleasant and polite, not for the custom, but because they’re inherently nice people. Other than the temporary ugly out front, the place was as neat as any well-kept ranch. There was no cell service. The order of their little universe, once understood for what it is, was perfectly sensible. These people had made a relaxed and happy place for themselves and others in the world. The Bar None is as old-school Montana as it gets.
Jane visited with all the diners to check on her cooking and made my own dessert — chocolate cake — herself. There were maybe 20 diners in there, out of the RV hookups and a few locals. Joe and Jane both sang requests and a few older couples danced to live music from roadhouse jukeboxes of their youth. It’s the kind of place you can leave your wallet on the table, and it’d still be there a year later. Been to any like that lately? Because I said I’d liked the first immensely, Jane brought me another piece of cake on the house.
Joe sat and chatted with us a while, too. He told a couple stories about the days when he played with the Sip ’n Dip and the M&M and Buck Owens with his back to a five-piece band. Like a lot of these old timey Montanans, he was multi-purpose. He wore cowboy boots all his life, first bustin’ broncs and herding cattle right on this former ranch and, later on, stage and screen back when bling on famous country singers meant pearl snap buttons and polish on his boots, and now he runs a guest ranch.
This isn’t the Montana becoming increasingly known to the world, the Montana of the Yellowstone Club and the Iron Horse and the Big Hole River and outfitted horseback glamping elk hunts in Bob Marshall backcountry the locals could never afford. The Bar None is a vacation place for regular Montanans, a place a working man can take his family to access a range of public and private wild opportunities that form our entertainment, family time, and heritage. It’s the comfortable, co-existing Montana, we few are all in it together, not the frenetic post-Telluride “hidden secret” Montana the wealthy refugees are devastating. We never minded being poor when we had at least each other and this astonishing landscape we shared. Now the folks who broke the sod and built the roads and pioneered a way of living in this harsh landscape and now work there can’t afford to live there.
Joe’s people came to this country by steamboat to Fort Benton, the highest point of navigation on the Missouri and the most inland port in the world, in 1856 then overland to the mining country at Grasshopper Creek and Alder Gulch. My own people, Grandpere and Cookie, came to Montana in the 1930s. Joe’s people were Montanans when it was Oregon Territory. That’s impressive. I don’t meet so many of those these days, particularly still on the family place which Joe had bought back long ago with “my Nashville money.”
He told us that during COVID he asked himself, who the hell owns this place, anyway? And opened his doors and damned the torpedoes. Damn right.
I caught glimpses of my own dad in Joe and was surprised he hadn’t known Rick, my dad. They were contemporaries and, as my folks owned a famous tavern on the Lake and hosted a lot of live acts, were in the same business in a state with few people. But of course, back in that day Butte USA was the center of the world and the Lake a sideshow for thrill-seekers or hapless travelers on their way to the Park.
They are scattered around still, these hidden gems like the Bar None that have the even more rare and valuable exclusivity the Yellowstone Club will never have of being the perfectly normal and thoroughly enjoyable experience that the wealthy refugees and authenticity rapists haven’t discovered and hopefully never will since that would change the vibe irrevocably.
It probably sounds cheesy to you. It ain’t. The Bar None is the opposite of cheesy; perfectly honest and genuine and not pretentious in the least. Everything about it charmed me right to my boots. I intend to go back when I have more time to sit by the creek.
Here’s the big reveal: Bloody Dick, See Squaw, and Hellroaring are all actual named creeks, but I know no Big Pistol Creek, Bar None, or Joe and Jane Guitar. I used fictional names because the Bar None doesn’t need the press — they’re booked solid with old friends. I know why, and I wouldn’t ruin it for anything. I saw what happened to the locals on Isle of Palms with the same dismay. I’ve watched it happen at my home on the Lake. I am grateful for having captured the experience, at least for myself if not so much in words.
James “Buster” Raymond is a graduate of the Naval Academy, a former Marine officer and an attorney. A native of Montana, he recently departed his beloved Big Sky country and relocated with his family to the Tidewater region of Virginia.
Crab Pot
Live music that made us tick and sway
By Prioleau Alexander
In our most recent Pluff Mud we explored the topic of music, and for the Crab Pot I thought I’d explore the topic of live music I’ve enjoyed.
I attended my first concert with John Walters at the UofSC basketball coliseum and immersed myself in the music and showmanship of the band KISS. I can still see in my minds-eye the explosion of pyrotechnics on stage — to a 15-year-old, the idea of a full-blown fireworks show going off INSIDE made it seem, well, unfair that my parents wouldn’t let me do the same.
The low point of the show was when the drummer, Peter Kriss, came out on stage and sang solo his boo-hoo ballad called “Beth,” about how hard it is to be away from his wife when “me and the boys will be playing all night.” Fortunately, that mushy stuff was soon washed from my mind, when Gene Simmons strutted back into the show, and spewed from his mouth what seemed to be a gallon of blood. It. Was. Awesome.
As a member of a frat at Auburn, I saw any number of live bands playing after football games and during parties, but nothing much that comes to mind. I did, however, get to see Doug Clark and the Hot Nuts. My guess is any number of our readers 60+ remember them — because rest assured, if you ever saw them perform their R-rated show live, you’ll remember it.
One of the performers I’ve seen numerous times is Jimmy Buffett, who puts on a carnival of fun. Unfortunately, after he became huge, his shows descended into a collection of choreographed “Parrothead” favorites — and for a real fan, his “Parrothead” favorites are among his lamest work. However, I understand — that’s just me — our entire crowd became fans before anyone knew who he was, and we felt like he sold out by becoming Mr. Margaritaville.
A concert I attended with some trepidation was Rod Stewart … he was probably 60 at the time, and I doubted he could pull off his “Do ya’ think I’m sexy?” brand. Well, I didn’t find him sexy, but he put on an amazing show. He’s, like 103 now, and I’d go see him again.
The second greatest concert I ever attended was Lynyrd Skynyrd opening for ZZ Top. Skynyrd came out and blew the roof off the North Charleston Coliseum, and I’m here to tell you if there’s one band you don’t want “warming up” the crowd, it’s Skynyrd. When they finished the concert with their rock anthem “Free Bird,” the crowd wasn’t warm … they were toasted. Poor ZZ Top took the stage, and by the end of their first song people were streaming out. Hopefully the stage lights kept them from seeing the exodus.
By far the biggest concert I attended was the Rolling Stones at William Brice Stadium. This as well I was a bit skeptical about, as I’m not a big Stones fan, and they were in their 90s when I saw them 20 years ago. Once again, I was happily proven wrong, as Mick Jagger did his thing, and again demonstrated why he’s one of the greatest front men in rock and roll history.
The worst concert I had the misfortune to attend was “A Tribute to Michael Jackson and Prince.” I was excited about the show, as I confess, I enjoy music-legend impersonators. There’s some dude out there that performs as Michael Jackson, and I’d heard he’s incredible. I figured the Prince dude would be as good. The mistake was realized quickly — it wasn’t impersonators, but a lounge singer, covering their songs and encouraging the crowd to sing along. I was gone before the first song ended, and my wife, Heidi, met me in the lobby about 10 minutes later.
Wait, I’m sorry — the worst concert was The Eagles at North Charleston Coliseum. Ugh. If I ever see Don Henley, I’m getting my money back.
Back in my salad days, Charleston’s Music Farm was drawing in acts that would go on to achieve great fame and fortune — but by far my favorite was the Archetypes, led by locals Tommy Dew and Kevin Wadley. They came within just a few feet of breaking out, but eventually the years on the road wore them out and they called it quits. FYI, one of the bands that performed frequently at the Farm was a small band out of Columbia you might have heard of: Hootie and the Blowfish.
By far my favorite live performer is a little-known musician named Robert Earl Keen. His music defies any real genre, but perhaps could be best described as Americana Texan, a unique blend of country, bluegrass and rock. I’ve been to see him in Charleston four times, twice in Charlotte, once in Orangeburg, once in Savannah, and once in Oxford, Mississippi … accompanied by such locals as John and Martha Walters, Hunter Lewis, Al Phillips, Greg “Chase” Walters, Jay Davis, Ron Givens, Mike Dovey, and none other than Charleston’s favorite celebrity, Bill Murray. (At a concert where I wasn’t in attendance, Mr. Murray got several of the above-mentioned folks backstage, where the bassist handed him his bass. Bill said he’d be glad to sign it but needed a pen. No, the bassist insisted, he wanted Bill to have the instrument … and wouldn’t take no for an answer).
The event that sealed my admiration for Robert Earl Keen occurred at the second concert I attended. The warm-up band called in at the last minute and informed the venue they couldn’t make it. Rather than make the crowd wait for his band to be ready, REK came out and played solo for 45 minutes.
I’d recommend any music lover, regardless of their favorite genre, to give Robert Earl Keen a try. I assume Spotify has a channel or buy his record No. 2 Live Dinner.
I promise you won’t be sorry.
Prioleau Alexander is author of You Want Fries With That?: A White-Collar Burnout Experiences Life at Minimum Wage and Dispatches Along the Way: An American Humorist Staggers Across Spain in Pursuit of Happiness, Truth, and a Cold Beer, both of which are very good and may be found at local bookshops for a reasonable price. A graduate of Auburn University, he once drove a tractor (an amphibious one, anyway) for a living; he is the owner of a damn fine dog.
Author bio
Newsletter Rambler
Will CNN show independence?
CNN correspondent Sara Sidner recently tweeted “There are serious questions that should be asked about Hunter Biden. He’s not an elected official but legitimate questions should be asked and answered about his former business dealings and how it was handled by the FBI. This shouldn’t be a partisan issue.” The next serious question is, “Sara, what are you planning to do now that your CNN news career is over?” Reports are circulating that CNN wants to become more mainstream and viewed less as a liberal new source; we shall see.
Shocking: BLM thieves?
Meanwhile, CNN also reports that an executive at Black Lives Matter Global Network Foundation (GNF), is in a lawsuit and accused of “syphoning” more than $10 million from donors. BLM co-founder Patrisse Cullors set an example of real estate investing from the group’s proceeds, but CNN reports that lifting ten big ones will upset the apple cart of fairness. We understand that the suit is against “executive Shalomyah Bowers, the foundation itself, Bowers’ consulting firm and unnamed individuals.” No media reports have connected Mr. Bowers to marches and riots in May 2020 in Charleston, and we have not asked the May 30, 2020, BLM parade leaders — Mayor Tecklenburg and Chief Reynolds — for a comment. For further news, do see: https://www.cnn.com/2022/09/04/us/black-lives-matter-executive-lawsuit/index.htm
Stop breathing while you are at it
California, which is set to ban the sale of gas and diesel vehicles in the next decade, has been asking residents not to charge their vehicles due the state's inability to supply enough electricity. With the cars out of juice, residents have been walking, and Gov. Gavin Newsome has requested they “stop exhaling so much.”
Pulling up logic by the roots
Many farmers across America are apparently calling for immigration reform, as they find themselves in a labor shortage. In other news, the 1,300,000 illegal immigrants who crossed the southern border IN 2022 ALONE to “make a better life for themselves” are unavailable to make a better life for themselves.
Really, you can trust us
Private information involving about 120,000 taxpayers was temporarily made public by the Internal Revenue Service, the agency announced recently. The 87,000 new IRS agents have been ordered to fan out across the country and apologize personally to each taxpayer. Operation Oops My Bad is expected to take a day and a half.
Gone to pot
Colorado has seen sales of medical marijuana crater, down 46% in the past year alone. Your Rambler assumes this is because the magical weed has done its job and cured those many “patients,” and this has nothing to do with the legalization of recreational marijuana. Ironically, sales of deliveries pizzas have increased 46 percent.
That’s our latest edition! We hope you have enjoyed it; if so, feel free to pass along the good word to a friend or two as well.
Warm regards,
Team Mercury