I’ve been in a funk. Work has been slow, and book signings and sales have been sluggish since winter started. With a lot of free time on my hands, I’ve been working on adding content to MississippiValleyTraveler.com, cleaning up some aesthetic issues, and kicking off a marketing effort. The work has been tedious and time consuming and I’d rather scrape the corns off Barbara Bush’s feet, but this stuff’s gotta get done.
Needing a mental health break, I found out that one of my favorite musicians, William Elliott Whitmore, was playing in Keokuk, Iowa, a town just three hours upriver from St. Louis. He had to cancel some shows last fall when he got sick, so I’m pretty sure this was his first chance to play in a while. That should make it a good show. And, it’s also in his backyard; he lives just 15 minutes away.
I haven’t spent much time in Keokuk, yet, because I’ve been working further north. My previous experience was stopping for dinner at a downtown restaurant a couple of years ago. When I asked my server to tell me about their ice cream, she said: “It’s like a lot of things we get here: in a box from Wal-Mart.” Truth in advertising: the food really did taste like it had just come out of a box from Wal-Mart. It has since closed; what a shock.
John and I drove up on Saturday afternoon. After eating a big dinner at what may be the town’s poshest restaurant (Bread, Beef, & Brew), we debated about whether it was too early to head to the show. The ad said doors at 7, and it was barely 7:10. With nothing else to do anyway, we drove to the Knights of Columbus building, prepared to kill time in an empty hall. When we showed up, however, the place was already buzzing and was packed wall-to-wall.
As we walked in, we felt like we were crashing a wedding reception. Everyone seemed to know everyone else; the bar was surrounded by a few dozen thirsty people; the professional drinkers decided to skip the ritual of pouring beer into a glass (a pitcher is, after all, about the same size as the steins used at OctoberFest); and, tucked away in the back corner, a chair and microphone were set up for the musician. We found a couple of open seats at a back table and sat down.
After settling in and engaging in some serious people watching, John decided that the vibe was less wedding reception and more Saturday night social. The hall was filled with a diverse crowd (of white folks, but, hey, that’s who lives in this part of the state): from young teens to grandparents pushing 80; from bib overall-wearing country folks to tattooed and pierced leather-clad punksters; from respectable middle class business people to folks just struggling to make ends meet. Food, drink, and denim were plentiful. All we needed was a tub of homemade ice cream.
Will entered the room wearing his trademark trilby, slapping high fives and shaking hands on the way to the stage. After a few songs, he thanked the crowd for coming out to listen to him and asked them to think about songs they’d like to hear. A few people screamed out song titles and Will chuckled, saying: “I meant think to yourself.” Will’s music occasionally inspired folks to get up and shake their groove thing. One fellow was working on a new fusion dance, something that might be called the Texas Hip Hop Two Step: raise the roof while you kick up your heels!
Our table companions couldn’t have been nicer folk and included a cousin of Will. As we talked, I mentioned that I was working on an article about the music of the Mississippi Valley. He told that me there was a guy at the show who runs a music series in a nearby town and quickly took me over to meet him. I got a few more ideas about musicians to contact, then settled back in for the second half of the show.
The hometown crowd partied, laughed, danced, and generally made merry. No one wanted the show to end. When Will sang “Black Iowa Dirt”, he intended it to be his grand finale, but the folks at the social wouldn’t have any of that. They persuaded him to sing one more song, so he sat back down and sang “Our Paths Will Cross Again.” That seemed to satisfy the crowd, so he said the final goodnight, and I went home with some new stories and feeling a little less bogged down by the funk.
© Dean Klinkenberg, 2010
