On Labor Day weekend in 1987, a “lifestyle” writer from the NY Times,
spent three full days bar hopping Key West. To his editor, he explained,
he was evaluating the “music scene”.
When his article appeared in the "ARTS" section the following Monday,
the island's locals were surprised to learn that they even had a “music
scene”. Previously, the island’s scruffy, but dedicated, three-chord
strummers and musical misfits were only thought of as fairly decent
neighbors and fellow drunks.
Key West's musicians did carry one notable distinction separating them
from the island’s waiters, cooks, shrimpers and dive boat captains: They
could leave a bar after four hours with more money than they came in
with. Occasionally.
In Broadway's parlance , the Times "music scene" review was scathing.
Two acts did escape the angry little man from New York's complete
vitriol. He reported that Stevie Tibbs playing the sunset gig at The Gallon
“sounded less intoxicated than most”; which Tibbs later assured
everyone had just been a matter of bad timing. And Stevens McCloud,
playing afternoons the BullShot on Duval St. , had distinguished himself
as the “least musically offensive”.
Near the end of the feature entitled, “Broken Hearted Pickers of Key
West” he wrote of McCloud:
“His denim shirt and jeans faded the color of worn sapphire; and a tired
Stetson cocked low and suffering, Mr. McCloud would appear more at
home in a road-side honky-tonk than the Hawaiian shirted sideshow Key
West calls its “music scene”.
But his lazy timbered baritone crawls through his songs like a strong, thorny vine, sharply accentuating and occasionally reaching unexpected musical heights; leaving Mr. McCloud’s cover ballads and tightly crafted original material the least musically offensive among the din of prosaic music drifting in the breeze along Duval Street.
However, while Mr. McCloud can display a diamond polished musicality, often carrying his audience on a nearly magical journey, too often the ride is cut inexplicably short. Without notice he breaks off songs unfinished - usually in favor of a long pull from a oversized, Miller Lite mug; or, he repeats certain sections over and over, then fading out suddenly - leaving his audience entirely confused. In contrast, Mr. McCloud himself appears quite satisfied during these annoying jags and lapses. His easy going smile rarely disappears. Mr. McCloud is a rare and unusual talent. But in what proportion it is difficult to say.”
In true Key West fashion, unanimously, the locals were relieved to hear
that their musical brothers and sisters had been found by yet another
representative of the 'real world', to possess no redeeming social or
moral value. The island exhaled and their night's slumber was deep.
------------------------------------
Also that Monday morning, a music publisher named C.R. Trahan was
reading the Times articleby the light of his picture window over looking
Music Row in Nashville. When he finished the final paragraph about ,
McCloud he spun himself in his chair and squared back to his desk. “I’d
bet my ass that’s Mickey Snyder he‘s writing about.” The page cracked
with a snap of C.R. Trahan’s finger.
A female voice traveled across the room. “Mickey who?”
Trahan was speaking to himself. At least he’d meant to. He hadn’t
expected his partner to break their normal ritual of silence and
coffee before nine. But now that he’d broken the spell, or she had, he
focused on her from the brim of the newspaper deciding whether it was
worth the effort to explain, if he could, about Mickey Snyder.
He creased the page and let it fall to his desktop.
In slow reflection he said, “He was the greatest songwriter I ever
knew. In fact….” There he stopped. He was about to say more, but his
words stayed afloat too long and echoed. What more was there to say?
“Was? He dead?"
“I have no idea.”
And, he didn’t. There was good reason to be uncertain about the current
disposition of Mickey Snyder’s mind, body and soul, but Trahan
wouldn’t like to imagine Mickey Snyder dead.
Trahan's junior partner pushed her reading glasses to the tip of her nose
and turned to look out at him over the rim. In a monotone voice she said
,
“Well, if he’s not dead... you might want to see if you can sign him. If we
don’t get something going around here pretty soon, we’re going to be back
on 16th Street hustling gigs.”
One of her dry, needling jokes. Trahan's Argosy Music was doing just
fine. Trahan watched Sara Parks face and waited for a crack in the glare.
But her deep freeze didn’t soften, even when Trahan returned a good
sized smile a light chuckle. That was Sara Parks: all business, all the
time.
Fifteen years ago he'd met her in a joint down on 16th Street. Denny
Haney hadn't been in town long and was playing to a packed house over at
the old Two Step Saloon. Trahan had cornered him at a table between
sets and was close to signing him. But he kept dancing around, asking
for guaranteed this and a bigger cut of that. Trahan was swimming in
math. But Trahan and Haney clicked, it was Trahan's deal to lose.
Trahan had the charisma and sales touch, but with the numbers
crunching, he was barely above water when he looked down at the table
an saw a tiny feminine hand flatten a bar napkin down in front of him.
.
Six perfectly manicured lines of dark ink figures, bullet pointed with the
heading " The Deal". Before he could turn around in his seat, an very soft voice whispered, "I hope you don't mind" in his ear.
Sara Parks worked as an assistant at Avida Publishing during the day and
cocktailed at the Two Step at night. She was 95 pounds of pure
determination. She'd listened every word of the two men's haggling and
sensed an opening. "The Deal" was perfect.
Three days later Sara Parks was sitting at a desk in Trahan's office on
Division Street, around the corner from the old Opry House getting a
30% split at Argosy Publishing and Management LLC. What Sara Parks
didn't know about the nuts and bolts of talent contracts, didn't need to be
known.
What she didn’t know much about though, was his time before Sara Parks.
Those first years C.R. Trahan was hustling solo down on Music Row.
And she knew nothing at all about that one steamy Nashville summer in
1956 when C.R. Trahan and his impossibly young, golden egg laying,
song writer were roaring through Music Row like a freight train; then
suddenly screeching to a stop and balancing on the end of a broken bottle
- to rise or fall with the infinite promise of Mickey Snyder‘s talent.
Trahan looked back down at the paper touching it with his fingers; he
wished there had been a picture.
He sipped coffee finally answering, “Oh, I think we’ll probably struggle
by a few more paydays.” But the point was taken. The meek, nor the
content, inherit the music business in Nashville.
“So what about this guy? Mickey what?”
“Snyder. Mickey Snyder.”
His partner pinched her reading glasses from her nose. “Come on, I’ve
heard of him. Well, not much. I think he is dead. Every once in while
some old singer’s says he’s waiting for his Mickey Snyder song. Was he
the one who wrote those big hits for Mel Lamphry? Way back though.
Fifties?”
Trahan didn’t want to talk about it. Not at this time of the morning.
--------------------
It was a little unusual, this much lovely all by herself, cooing and asking
him for a CD before he'd even started playing. But there she is, he
conceded, with a two-beer buzz and those big green eyes.
McCloud had decided the BullShot was the end of the road. And so far, it
had worked out. In three months on the island, He had a comfortable
afternoon gig, got a good cut of the till and plastic jug of tips every day,
and because he drew crowds day in and day out, he could try out any
new material which caught his whim.
At fifty-one, Stevens McCloud was only a slightly more weathered
version of forty-one, and maybe a few more pounds thicker than thirty-
one. He was a genetic marvel he often thought to himself. There's no
other explanation. He knew he certainly couldn't take credit for still
being in one solid piece. The hair he perpetually kept topped with his hat
had grayed where it poked out above his ears, with the brushy inches that
reached his collar still the same color of soft, wet sand.
McCloud returned with a plastic wrapped CD, one he'd recorded a few
months ago in the old studio on Front Street, the boarded up building
where Buffet still sneaked into once in a while. The girl traced the song
list along the back with her finger. Without lifting her eyes she asked
him, “How many songs have you written?”
Lovely creature. Those were the two words that painted themselves first
on the dark place in McCloud’s mind. Early twenties, she was thin
boned wearing long pageboy hair, sharply defined in it's angles,
cut very recently from a limp supply of spice colored hair. Tall,
cut very recently from a limp supply of spice colored hair. Tall,
but noticeably short-waisted, in the way that made her long legs and arms
and fingers seem much more given to free will, lighter than the rest of her
body, delicately independent to do as they pleased. The CD case was
small in her long fingers and floated in anti-gravity as she turned it over
and over in her hands. An unusual- lovely -creature.
He studied her a moment more before answering taking a cautious drink
from his plastic mug. No Tan. Nice clothes. Tourist. Probably Midwest
.
No, too much savvy in the eyes. West Coast? Maybe. In a way he
couldn’t define, this one was out of place. She didn’t belong. The
particular habits of beautiful women in bars was a subject in which
McCloud was an expert.
I'll let it play out, he thought. “How many songs? Oh, I don’t really know.
Never really thought about it I guess.” He told her that because he
hadn‘t.
“Come on, take a guess.” The creature smiled.
“Okay, say about…a thousand?”
“A thousand songs?” The creature’s eyes sparkled and her dark, thick
eyebrows peaked wrinkling her forehead.
With her reaction, McCloud had an odd sensation he’d given the correct
answer. She was pleased. Impressed? But he worked it over and decided
maybe not. Maybe she was masking the horror: That a musician really
could write a thousand songs… and still be stuck playing for tips in tourist
bar at the end of the world? Maybe? He couldn’t tell.
“What’s your favorite?” she looked at him squarely for the first time.
“I don’t play favorites.”
“You play oldies, but not favorites?”
“Cute.”
“A thousand songs,” she repeated the words almost under her breath.
“Don’t you ever run out of things to write about?”
A little unexpected prick. “Not yet,” he admitted. The guitar player
turned to the open air window and looked out onto the street pretending
to catch something fascinating in the unfocused distance. He didn’t
like to be reminded that that day may in fact come. But... he guessed it
would.
The creature waited quietly, carefully, for McCloud to return his
attention from the distance. Like she was trying not to spook an animal
on the alert. Her next question was slipped in softly. “So what inspires
you?”
The question gave him another uncomfortable prick. He didn’t like the
feeling. Like someone was pulling at his swim trunks. Was she flirting
with me or interviewing me? Am I being paranoid here? What inspires
me?
McCloud turned in profile with his elbows in the bar. “Victoria," he
raised his giant plastic mug toward a red-headed bartender leaning over a
crossword spread out a few feet away, “if you would darlin’. Thanks.”
He let his weathered eyes grow serious again. “Inspires me? Well, I heard
about a guy up in Nashville who’s written two thousand, I’m going for a
Guiness record.” His clipped answer made him feel petty but he didn’t care.
His slight threw her for an instant, but she slipped around it with a quick
smile. “Stop. Come on. I’ve heard your songs. Hard liquor, hard times,
and harder women. That's it. Isn‘t it?” She gleamed with a very light
smile.
McCloud had the feeling she could have almost elbowed him the ribs.
Yuck, Yuck. Instead she saluted him with the neck of her bottle trying to
regain the moment and lifted a bare leg across the stool, scissoring
up, and leaving just enough tip-toe to balance herself on the brass foot
rail.
He was deciding the creature wasn‘t flirting with him, like he hoped, she
was just being nosy and a smart-alec. He knew the difference. He’d
played music in bars for thirty-one years, been hit on, stepped on and shit
on by more women than he could remember. She didn‘t give a damn
about his “inspiration”. He faced her again and said, “Yeah, I guess that’s
what most people think . You have a shitty life, drink too much and then
write it down with three verses and a chorus. ‘Zat about right?”
He stared back at her. All the air was gone. Only silence was left Shit!
What kind of buttons was she pushing? Now I'm just being a asshole. He
wanted to start over.
“Hey, hey, hey. No call for me talking like that, I’m sorry.”
His voice traveled down to a gentle tone on its own. “ I’m sorry,” he
repeated. Stevens McCloud was a man used to apologizing. “If you
really want to know, I’ll tell you. Do you?” But even with all that, he
would wait for her eyes to truthfully answer. Out of 9ure instinct he
knew that with most people - cops, strangers, salesman,
bosses of any kind, and….especially young girls on bar stools on lazy
afternoons, words held little value. He watched and he waited.
“Hell yes I do.”
Not quite a hundred percent convincing, but for a woman with legs like
those, close enough. “Alright." McCloud straighten and grabbed the bar
rail and leaned back to stretch. " But... I don’t think you’re gonna like the
answer. It’s not all that romantic as you hope. What inspires me to
write songs? Hmm. I’m searching for the right way to say this.
I can’t not write songs. Way I was born. I don’t have to be inspired. I’ve
got words and music rolling around in my head all day long. I just sorta
let them out. Honest to God truth, when I finish one, I’m glad the little
brain sucking bastard's gone. Honey, I ain’t John Lennon, I’m not trying
to make the world a better place. I’m just trying to clean out a little brain
space so I can watch “Jeopardy!” once in a while and have a fried-fish
sandwich on the couch without stomping my foot or humming the seven
bar blues. There. You have it.” McCloud took a gulf from his mug and
waited to feel better.
He’d done his good deed for the day thing. He’d opened up to a perfect
stranger and told a pretty good version of the truth and whether she
realized it or not, that was rare. He waited for the warm rush to come It
didn't. Instead he felt just like a dupe. “I got to get on stage. Good
talking to you.”
“Wait, come on.” The woman touched him on the arm with enough soft
eyes droop of of lips - in exact proportion of sadness - that kept
McCloud in his seat. Now he really felt like asshole. He re-lighted his
face with his version of a carefree smile. “Okay, what else? You know, I
never asked your name, I’m bad about that. Can’t remember ’em so I got
a bad habit of not even asking.”
“Kiera.
“Okay Kiera, why are you so interested in old no name guitar player?”
“I’ll tell you, don’t laugh, but I’ve written a few songs, or least pieces of
them, mostly country stuff like yours. I wanted to pick your brain,
maybe get some inspiration, trick, whatever, of my own. I’m sorry.” She
looked sorry.
That he could buy. It made sense McCloud thought. She was a beautiful,
untalented, wanna-be song writer coming for free advice after seeing his
show. She probably watched him from the street yesterday, that’s why he
hadn’t seen her before. She came back for a few pointers. Dumb idea, but
harmless. What the hell. The eyes were just as green and the legs just as
long. “Hey now, you don’t have to be sorry about nothing,“ except all
those hours you’ve wasted trying to write songs he thought, “Any more
questions,” McCloud leaned back and poked up at the brim of his hat,
“shoot.”
“Just a couple, and then I‘ll let you get back, I promise. What about the
creative process, suffering for your craft and all that?”
“Hell, I only work four hours a day, sitting in a bar on pretty comfortable
stool laughing at tourists. Not much suffering going on. Besides, I never
saw the upside to suffering anyway. Oh, I’ve done it. But usually it just
pisses me off and I end up breaking something expensive, getting tossed
in jail, or making someone cry. No, I’m generally opposed to suffering.”
He was hoping for a laugh, or at least a decent chuckle but she fired
another question.
“So then what’s the creative process.”
“Not sure what you mean exactly there Kiera.”
“I mean do you sit down with warm cocoa and a number-two pencil in
front of a fire, drink Jack Daniels from a shot glass at big oak desk or
what?”
“I’m a bar napkin and stolen waitress pen guy myself. I got some
notebooks stashed around to copy the napkin scratch in.”
“How about the music part, do you read music?”
“Read music?“ McCloud looked down his nose and cocked his head. He
was getting that feeling again. Something’s not right about this creature.
She sensed his pause and quickly added, “I mean.... you know what I
mean. They say there’s been plenty of famous song writers who couldn’t
read a note.”
“You saying I’m famous? I work four days a week on the two-till-six
afternoon shift at a beer bar.” His voice began to wilt into a slight
monotone. His gaze at her more intense. The woman shifted nervously
down from her stool to put both feet on the floor. She tucked her hair
behind her ears trying to hide a tiny dry swallow.
“No, no. That’s not what I’m trying to say…I mean yes, I mean well you
really are Mickey Snyder, aren’t you?”
That's it? The guitar player suddenly sounded like a cop. “You wanna tell
me why we’re really having this chat, Kiera, or what ever your name is,”
“It’s Kiera. Kiera Reed.”
“So, now you’ve told me the truth for the first time. Kind of refreshing.
Anything else you care to add?”
She exhaled and gave up to him. He thought heard her voice change.
Less dopey. “ I write for Rolling Stone. We’re doing a feature on the 100
best songs ever written. “We’ve Got a Few Things to Do” is number 26
and “Is it Almost Yesterday?" is 33.”
“So, what’s that have to do with me?”
“Because we’re interviewing the writers.”
“So go interview Mickey what’s-his-name”
“I think I am.”
“Wrong.”
“I don’t think I am wrong.” Her spine stiffened for courage.
“Well, you are sweetie. Dead wrong. But don’t let this mistake ruin your
life. Everybody fucks ups up eventually. That’s really the only part of
life I enjoy these days. The inevitability of the whole world fucking up
kinda keeps me in suspense. See that sign on the door? What’s it say?"
“It says, “Appearing 2-6 pm, Stevens McCloud.”
“You see any other pickers in here today? Where did you get a notion
that I was Mickey Snyder anyway?”
“From C.R. Trahan. In Nashville.”
“Well I don’t know CR, but I’m sure he’s a good man. But he just joined
them folks I was just talking about that fucked up.”
“Please Mr. Snyder or McCloud, whatever you want, couldn’t we get
together and talk about this…after your show?”
“I’m sorry, I really am. I can’t help you. But look at it this way sweetie,
you got a free trip out of L.A..”
--------
Just before five o’clock Nashville time, C.R Trahan’s phone rang.
“You think it’s him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so, or it’s definitely not him?”
“He denied it up and down.”
“Of course he did!”
“I mean, he doesn’t look anything like that picture you gave me. Besides,
I watched him play for a while, this guy wasn’t even very good.”
“Okay, well thanks for going down there. I owe you one. "
"Yeah, you do C.R., and when I get toNashville next week I think you
know exactly which one."
" Yeah, well, sorry it didn’t work out for either of us. You going back to
L.A.?”
“Yeah, seven o’clock to Miami from here, then the red eye back. See ya.”
------------
At the front desk of the Pier House Hotel, Kiera Reed fumbled through a
huge shoulder bag looking for her wallet.
“Hello Miss Reed. Will you be checking out?”
She laid a credit card on the counter. “No. I think I’ll be staying a few
more days. Business is business as they say.”
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