A group of people sit along an old, grimy bar, doing things. Watching, waiting, aspiring. Every single one of them, in one way or another. Watches, waits, aspires. One of them—the strangest looking one of all—is a black dude with hair like the wind through a California Cypress. Eyes like two half moons. With more care and concern than any of the others, he watches. He watches the man on stage, a fellow named Henry Vestine. Henry is playing guitar, bass, and drums all at once, all by himself.
The black dude, as he watches, senses something, senses someone watching
him. He turns to his right and is met by a strong and heavy stare. There is madness in this stare, madness tempered by a childlike innocence. But madness, no less.
Says the black dude to the madman: “Hey, man, what’s going on?”
“I was just watching you watching him,” says the madman.
“Oh, that’s cool. What’s your name?”
“My name is John Fahey. What’s yours?”
“Jimi Hendrix.”
It is 1965 in Los Angeles and Henry Vestine is playing “The Boogie,” all by himself.
***
I’ve been reading John Fahey’s colorful collection of tales and memories,
How Bluegrass Music Destroyed My Life. It is filled with sweetness and horror. It is soaked with music and magic and the most terrible poetry. It is sort of alive and boiling. It's as if the book writes itself as you turn the pages. It's as if it reads
you. Just as Fahey’s songs are unlike anything I’ve ever heard, his writing is unlike anything I’ve ever read. Makes sense.
You can get the book for $20 from
Drag City. It'll make all of your John Fahey records sound even better, too.
