drew kennedy,

Austin and I pulled into Raleigh, North Carolina at 2:30 PM. Sweet Will Smith (friend to many, stranger to none) met us at Woody’s, a local hangout a few blocks from his condo and we recapped the events of the tour over a few frosty beverages. The show that evening was doubling as a Toys For Tots benefit, so after knocking back our brews we jumped into the Element and parked it as his place before heading out to buy some toys. Holly was flying in for the Raleigh and Richmond shows, and after grabbing a significant amount of loot we waited for her arrival at the condo.

Sweet Will’s pad is spectacular– its huge floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the very center of the city. It’s a veritable home away from home for me… I’ve spent many a day there, taking a breather from the hectic pace of life on the road. I even wrote most of Buzzing Like A Wire while sitting in an armchair overlooking the busy city street below his place one sunny afternoon a year or so ago. Will has been an invaluable friend to me over the years, and if a man can measure the value of his worth by the quality of his friends, Sweet is one of the reasons why I consider my life and experiences to be of the highest value. I hope everyone has a Sweet Will in their lives.

Holly and Summer (Will’s girlfriend, and ambassador for all that is good in Raleigh) arrived a few hours later, and we decided to order pizza and hang out for a couple of hours before we headed to The Oxford for the show. Fully fortified, we set out on the lengthy trek to the venue… down 5 flights, hang a right, walk 100 ft, and duck into The Oxford. It’s in the same building as Will’s condo, so the load in and out was as easy as it has ever been.

We played that night to a packed house of friends and fans. By closing time, the crowd had thinned out, we said our goodbyes to the people that were still hanging around, and headed back to Will’s place (again, up 5 flights, down a hallway, and through his front door) for after party, which lasted well into the wee hours of the morning in fitting Raleigh fashion.

Raleigh has a lot going for it– a growing city that has been developing its reputation as a family-oriented, yet slightly cosmopolitan beacon amidst the pine trees and piedmont of the North Carolinian landscape. It’s hip and it’s fun, but that’s not what makes it such a special place. It’s the people. There is not a familiar building, street, venue, or park that I do not associate with wonderful memories that I have shared with equally wonderful friends. Friends that feel almost as if they are family.

Raleigh is my kind of city.

Then again, any city would be my kind of city if it had Sweet Will and his merry band of ladies and gentleman living within its borders.

In the morning we’d be off to Richmond to see more friends and play one more show before making the long drive back to Texas.

Friends,

One of my favorite people in the world has fallen victim to the greed of a thief. His one of a kind Gibson acoustic guitar (so one of a kind, in fact, that only 3 of them exist– the second belongs to Willie Nelson, and the third to Dan Rather) which was made from wood taken from an old army barracks in Texas, was stolen after his show last night (December 23rd) at the Saxon Pub in Austin.

Walt’s music has touched many, including myself, and he has long been a shining star of brilliance and compassion to those lucky enough to know him.

If you have any information as to its whereabouts, please send Walt an email:

walt at waltwilkins.com

From Walt:
gibson americana model, yellow pine facewood, with 2 rivet holes and 2 other circles in the wood, all surrounding the soundhole. a 1-of-a-kind gtr. i have the serial # as well. there are many, many pictures of it all over the web. gracias, all. i believe it will find its way home. merry Christmas to each of you, w

And to each and every one of you, it is my wish that the spirit of Christmas touches you today, tomorrow, and every day.

dk

Austin and I pulled into Savannah at 11:30 AM. After managing to sweet talk our way into an early check-in, we showered up and checked our location against a map of downtown attractions that the hotel had generously provided us. Having little desire to experience Savannah for the first time under the direction of a glossy, full color cartoon map, we decided to ditch it and set out on foot.

Savannah is located on the banks of the aptly named Savannah River, and it’s historic downtown area is easily accessible by foot. I took an immediate liking to its old buildings and layout– every couple of blocks featured a park lined with ancient oak trees and monuments to the cities more prominent historical figures. Pubs and restaurants rest along the river front, and while the area is geared towards tourists, it manages to maintain a certain level of dignity that most touristy areas usually abandon in favor of nicknacky stores and national chains. The city is famous for its huge Saint Patrick’s Day celebration, and I thought the cobblestone streets and steep staircases that lead to the waterfront, while charming, had surely been the undoing of more than a few drunken revelers. Then again, such formidable obstacles were obviously a device implemented to weed out the true Irish from the want-to-be St. Patty’s Day celebrators, so I was ok with the challenge that such antiquated features presented.

We settled on Moon River (a local brewery) as our luncheon spot of choice, and happily sampled some of its delicious wares. After a full plate of mussels, we ordered a beer to go (you can legally walk the downtown area with a disposable cup filled with the beer or liquor of your choice… yet another reason to love Savannah) and spent the next hour walking around the city. A 30 minute downpour chased us into another local bar. After the rain had passed, we decided to head back to the hotel to relax for a few hours. No longer able to resist the calling of a nearby Irish Pub, we opted for a dinner of Shepherds Pie and Guinness, and after eating our fill we called it an early night.

The morning sun burned off the last remaining remnants of the previous nights misty thumbprint, and for a few minutes it felt as if I was looking out over London rather than an American city. The fog quickly lifted, and we set off for the short drive to Charleston.

—–

The last time I had visited Charleston, South Carolina I was probably 15 or 16 years old. The city looked just as I had remembered– like a less humid version of New Orleans minus the signature wrought iron balconies that adorn the narrow streets of the French Quarter. We walked along the market, bustling with out of town visitors milling over sweetgrass baskets and handmade jewelry, each in search of the perfect relic to remind them of their visit to this picturesque southern destination. We were playing a private party later that night on Isle of Palms, and after idling away the hours, we set off on the 20 minute drive to Wild Dunes, the resort where our show would take place.

The resort itself was sleepy. In the summer, the beaches would be teeming with sunbathers and swimmers, but the chilly coastal winds of December had left the sands all but deserted. I spent a quiet half hour picking up shells and enjoying the salty taste of the breeze coming off of the Atlantic.

Dressed to impress our high-toned guests, we settled into the now familiar routine of trading songs as the sun disappeared to the west, leaving streaks of pink and Carolina blue to slowly fade into darkness. After the show, we packed up our gear and drove an hour and a half north to Myrtle Beach for the night.

—-

My cousin lives a few minutes away from Myrtle Beach, so we met her for breakfast the next morning. The temperature had slipped downward overnight, and I could see my breath as we headed to a diner to meet her. I am definitely a fan of warm weather, but there is something unmistakably right about a chilly morning this time of year. It does for the soul what a strong cup of coffee does for the body. We spent the next hour catching up on family news, said our goodbyes and headed north towards Raleigh.

As we jumped onto I-95, I realized that we would be passing by South Of The Border, a remarkable monument of kitsch (a theme park of a rest stop, really) that advertises its location with tacky billboards up and down the interstate at a range of 200 miles in either direction. I described the place to Austin, and when he told me that he had never even heard of it, let alone stopped there, I told him that I would be more than happy to accompany him on his first visit to this haven of distinctly off-color tourism. The place was nearly vacant, so we took the opportunity to break out Austin’s Flip Video camera and film our experience.

For the sake of posterity, I present to you our video tour of South Of The Border:

Oxford is a couple of hours north of Jackson. It’s a nice drive, the last quarter of which is a two lane highway that winds through the countryside. Home of Ole Miss, Oxford is a college town that boasts some great looking architecture throughout the city, the focal point being the square in the center of town. It’s easy to see why the area left such an impression on a young William Faulkner during his formative, and later in his adult years years (Oxford is fictionalized as Jefferson in many of his works). It has retained much of its small southern town charm despite its evident growth in the last 50 years. Anyone who knows me knows of my penchant for all things historical (also developed during my formative years), and perhaps that is one reason why I love coming to Oxford. It’s a pleasant reminder that new can coexist with old.

It shouldn’t be that hard, really, for more towns to stand as Oxford stands. I have a feeling that the strip malls and mini marts of America will crumble long before the regal buildings of our bygone years begin to slip past the point of no return. Perhaps that is for the best. If my grandchildren look at a strip mall in the same regard with which I enjoy an area like the square in Oxford, I will have, by that point, undoubtedly spun in my grave enough times to have reached China. Like a lot of things modern, the structures of today can not hold a candle to the style and class of Federal architecture.

Parrish Baker’s Pub, where we would be playing later that night, sits just off of the square. It’s one of several college bars in the downtown area, all within easy walking distance of the campus. Because of this, I think Oxford is one of the best college towns in America. Most students need only to endure a short walk in order to frolic in the many pleasantries and excesses that make college life such a memorable time. We loaded in our gear and Austin went to meet an old friend in town while I hung out with my friend Billy McBeath (whom Josh Grider claims is my exact doppelganger). Billy, ever the jack of all trades, is currently working at Parrish’s and he had helped us land the gig. We caught up over glasses of bourbon and then wandered across the square to meet up with Austin and his friend Will. This being Championship Saturday, we planned to take in the Big 12 championship game at the Library, a fairly large sports bar that I have played in the past. With Austin’s beloved Longhorns failing to impress us after the first half, we decided a change of venue was in order.

If you’re not a sports fan, you probably don’t realize how your actions can directly affect the play of a team. I’ve relied on this common notion throughout much of my life. Team not doing so well? Change your hat. Still not working? Perhaps you should be wearing a different shirt. You get the drift. On this particular evening, having no way of changing our attire, we opted for the venue change.

The Longhorns managed to win the game, but I’m afraid our superstitious endeavours had little to do with the outcome. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do but sit back and watch your team struggle.

The nights show went off without a hitch, with a good crowd filling the bar. We hung around afterwards, trading jokes and barbs… commonplace frivolities within the male species… and decided to spend the day watching more football on Sunday (our day off) with some of the staff of Parrish’s.

Sunday came and went, football arguments abounded, and as Monday morning greeted us, we decided to delay our departure for Atlanta by a few hours so that I could introduce Austin to my favorite meal on the planet: Shrimp and Grits from City Grocery.

City Grocery is on the aforementioned square, and it’s owned by a fellow Hampden-Sydney alumnus named John Currence. John has made an excellent name for himself as a chef and a restauranteur in the south, and it’s easy to see (or should I say taste) why. He runs a classy joint, and serves up some of the best food on the planet. With our bellies full, and the clock ticking, we bid Billy adieu and set out for Atlanta.

—–

We arrived at Bread Coffee House, on the campus of Emory University in Atlanta under cover of darkness (needless to say, it was again difficult for me to shake the “we’re late!!” feeling). We were warmly greeted by the staff upon arrival and played a short but appreciated set for the folks in attendance. Properly caffeinated, we spent the night with some of Austin’s friends just north of the city.

—–

The next day we drove through the drizzling rain (the same storm that had been following us since we left Fort Worth was still dogging our travel) to one of our favorite venues in the country– The Hummingbird Stage and Taproom in Macon, Georgia. Macon is only an hour and a half from Atlanta, so we arrived with plenty of time to kill. I took the opportunity to take Austin to Nu-Way Wieners, an older downtown lunch spot that was clearly built to comfortably seat a population that was, at the time of its construction, probably no taller that 5′8″. The stools at the counter are low enough that I could rest my knees on the ground while sitting down. Being the lanky fellow that I am, slightly smaller accomidations are nothing new to me, so we waited for our lunch undeterred, looking like two giants balanced on thimble-like perches. Our wieners arrived, two apiece, and at a couple of bucks and change, I challenge you to find a better lunch for the money anywhere in Macon.

We headed back to the Hummingbird and got ready for our show.

We had a couple of folks in the audience that had come to see us, and along with the regular built in crowd, we were happy to have some ears to play for. The high ceilings and excellent sound system make the Hummingbird a great place to play. Couple that with the fact that they have Yuengling on tap, and needless to say, I had an excellent night. Even without the added bonus of Yuengling, it’s one of the great music venues in the country and I’m lucky to get the chance to play there whenever I’m in town.

We crashed with our friend Adam (talent buyer for the Hummingbird by night, ultra-talented photographer by day) in his cool downtown apartment a few blocks away, and ended the night listening to some old vinyl while sitting on his second story porch. For the first time since we left, there was some warmth in the air. Our tag-a-long storm system had finally met its match, and the southern breeze that had managed to push the rain out to sea was a welcomed change.

The sun shone down on Macon as we awoke to day 6 of our trip. We were bound for Savannah, Georgia for another day off. I was excited to explore a new city, and as I loaded the car I couldn’t help but think: we’ve got a pretty sweet gig.

It was a cold, dare I say frigid afternoon. Just to the northwest of my location, a blizzard of epic proportions was ravaging small, unprepared villages and towns. It was impossible to know how many casualties such a storm would claim, and fear was beginning to set in across the state of Texas. Grocery stores were running out of bottled water and toilet paper. Bread and beer were the next items to go. Old Man Winter would seemingly show no mercy. We were doomed. I had no choice but to face my own mortality, and so I drove north from New Braunfels towards the capitol.

…At least that’s what it sounded like on the radio, as the Weather Man updated me every fifteen minutes. The storm would actually bring a dusting of snow to most of the state, but the various news outlets (desperate to scare us into listening) were almost certain that this would be huge. The Great Blizzard of ‘09.

I picked up my traveling companion, Austin Collins at his house at 3 PM on Thursday, December 3rd, and we headed towards Fort Worth. Good Lord willing and the creeks don’t freeze, we’d be playing the White Elephant Saloon, the first of our dates on what has become my semi-annual East Coast tour. We arrived in Fort Worth an hour after darkness. This time of year never leaves me feeling unsettled when I am traveling to shows. It gets dark at 5 PM, and in my business darkness is usually equated to show time. I always feel like I’m late when it gets dark this early. We pulled into the back of the White Elephant, loaded in our gear, parked my trusty Honda Element (east coast tour vehicle of choice) down the street, and set up our equipment. First item of business– a Love Shack Burger. I prefer to order the “Dirty Burger,” (I think that’s what it’s called) which covers several food group necessities as it comes complete with vegetable (lettuce and pickles), fruit (tomatoes, though I always remove them, and yes, it is a fruit), meat (the burger of course), and quail egg (the egg food group… trust me, I know all about food groups). After satisfying my dietary needs, and fortifying the meal with a frothy brewed beverage, we got to our main order of business– the show. I enjoy playing the White Elephant. It’s located in the Stockyards, and because the area draws a wide variety of both locals and tourists alike, you never really know what you’re going to get. On this particular evening, we got a solid crowd complete with your stereotypical Request Guy. Request Guy (tm) never really seems to understand why we can’t play every song he’s ever heard. Now, I am by no means lodging a complaint against Request Guy. He listens (most of the time), and that’s what we want. While I share his love of obscure Robert Earl Keen songs, as well as his passion for The Dixie Chicks (sort of), my brain only has the capability of remembering, say, 100 songs. Unfortunately for Request Guy, most of those songs are ones that I have written myself. Sadly, his requests went unfulfilled, although I wanted to play each and every song he asked for. I have to admit, I felt bad that I couldn’t enhance his White Elephant Saloon experience.

I felt less bad when he stumbled drunkenly into a support pillar.

I decided that even if I had known every song he requested, he probably wouldn’t remember me playing them when he woke up in the morning. Or afternoon.

We played a lengthy four hour show, trading off the hits in rapid succession. That’s what you get when you come to one of our shows: the hits. The evening came to a close, and we headed off to take lodging in a fantastically redecorated room at the Motel 6. Kudos to you, Motel 6– this room was great, and well worth the $45.

Turning in, I wondered how many feet of snow The Great and Vengeful Blizzard of ‘09 would deliver us by daybreak. We would be making the 6 hour journey to Jackson, Mississippi… and I wasn’t about to let a blizzard stop us.

—–

The alarm went off at 8:30. I got up and readied myself for a shower… but then I remembered The Blizzard. I walked over to the window, and took a deep breath. Slowly, I pulled back the curtains… revealing… nothing. Oh the humanity!

Squeaky clean, but bleary eyed, Austin and I walked the 100 yards across the parking lot to the nearby Waffle House for some coffee and breakfast. Not only was this Motel 6 wonderful on the inside, it was also convieniently located next to this 24-hour Friend Of All Who Travel And Are Hungry. Sweet, sweet Motel 6, how you keep on giving.

Properly nourished, we headed east on I-30, and then eastward again on I-20, bound for Jackson. We passed through several remnants of the Great Storm on our way, dodging between the flurries, undeterred. After one minor vehicle malfunction, which was quickly remedied at Bowdy’s Quick Lube in Van, TX (it would have been ironic if we were driving the van, I thought), we pushed on to Jackson, arriving at 3:30 PM.

The McGuffie family is a collection of musical Saints and Patrons who live on a picturesque spread of family land just outside of town. The beauty of their property is only trumped by the beauty of their souls– always full of love and appreciation. I’ve played for them on several occasions, and I have to admit, I always feel like I’m giving them the raw end of the deal. My music can not be an equal trade for their hospitality and spirit, and as hard as I try, I always leave their company feeling as if I’ve somehow gotten away with something. They are the pinnacle of kindness and generosity, and I appreciate their friendship in a way that I fear I will never properly be able to articulate. We began the evening being treated to a feast of epic proportion, complete with their secret weapon– Captain Rodney’s Dip. I have no idea how to create this diabolical concoction, but I am sure that if we could produce it in massive amounts, and ship it to our enemies around the globe, that there would be no traces of ill will or thoughts of war on this grand planet. It’s that incredibly good.

Stuffed to the gills, we set up under 15 foot ceilings and played acoustically for a good two hours to a silent group of angels. As we finished, snow began to fall outside. Perhaps we had not escaped the storms’ fury as we had previously thought…

The next morning we found a beautiful dusting of snow on the ground which quickly melted once the sun broke free of it’s cloudy captors. We packed our things, headed for lunch in town with the McGuffie’s, profusely thanked them for their immense hospitality, and then took off, bound for Oxford, Mississippi.