Here I sit on the elegant Sambuca patio, awash in the rich gold of the Macallan 12 year-old, fetishizing the robust earthiness of an Oliva Serie V, rapturous within the drama of Al DiMeola’s Splendido Hotel; contentedly oblivious (courtesy of my noise-canceling earbuds) to the football jersey-clad, drunken revelers near me as I while away The Hours until show time. I’ll see Lita Ford perform soon; from five-star chic to 80s hair band cheek in the blink of my bloodshot eye. Odd juxtapositions abound.
As I grudgingly depart my bliss cocoon, and remove the buds, my calm is shattered by the ubiquitous “Brown-eyed Girl” and the Maury Povich infused frivolity of the jersey-wearers. I long for quiescence; it does not come. With time still to be killed, I head to one of my favorite haunts, Deep Ellum’s The Green Room for a little rock ‘n roll fellowship and continued libation.
I saunter through the door and whom do I see but local legend Joey C. Jones! I only know Mr. Jones by reputation, but there he is, holding forth with a group of acolytes as if no one else in the world matters. In that moment, he may have been right. I overhear him say, “I’ve gotten together a group of songs that’s so good, if Paul McCartney himself heard ‘em he would say, ‘Man, that’s a great fuckin’ album!’” This was uttered without a trace of guile or irony. Immediately, I love this guy.