The Wood Tick Song has paid off handsomely. I owe my marketeer Elizabeth Fischer an insurmountable debt because in her bulldog tenacity she unknowingly introduced me to Jay Moore, the irascible Carolina Smooth Talking Man, living proof that Leprehcauns do reproduce, by jamming my CD, Rude Crude, and Poor , down the throats of the staff of Moose Country 106.7 FM.
How small is my world? Jay's been kicking ass on air eons before I found him. Always the last to know. I suppose eventually I would have gotten the news some time or other but the jolt came in a phone call from Steve “Shooter” Harvey, self-appointed road manager of Big Butt and the Brewmasters.
“Heagle! Shooter Harvey! You're on the radio!”
“Yah. Right.”
“I ain't shittin' you. Jay Moore's playing The Wood Tick Song!”
“Really?”
Then in a tone of voice that tells me just how stupid Steve realizes I am :
“You don't know who Jay Moore is?”
I know who that rat bastard is now. Proud to say that I am the bait that lured Jay into having his Irish ass roasted to overdone one October 25th. He thought that I was a loving, caring, fellow Celtic-blooded, good guy, who was only interested in helping him raise a little Christmas is for Kids money. Think again, Shanty Boy! He took it like a musky hitting a duckling at murky first light, his tail cleared water and didn't come down until the Bloomer Mafia placed it on their stolen hospital commode throne that memorable night.
What is totally revealing is that I was bait at my own surprise 50th birthday party. Kim told me we were surprising Dr. Tim Wolter, long time friend and curator of my body for 30 years. His birthday is in early May, mine is in the middle of April. Kim tells me this is the perfect surprise because it is way too early for Tim to even suspect.
Roll it over Homer. Stop hogging the blanket, Gomer, and
congratulations on your new self esteem, Mr. Moore!
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Further Excerpts From My Would Be book (now tentatively entitled: "If I Did It")
I open for the Atlanta Rhythm Section one July day, for The Snow Festival in Two Rivers, Wisconsin. Snow Festival in July? Badgers will find something all summer long to get people to come to town, drink beer and eat brats. The way I understand it is that every Spring, the Two Rivers locals dig a hole and bury the last of the snow before the warm weather hits in June, then dig it up in July and party. It's a Cheese Head Thing.
I do my 45 minute set. While I am gathering together my gear, Atlanta Rhythm Section's road manager approaches me.
“You know, you don't have a great singing voice, you aren't much of a guitar player, and you aren't all that funny. But there is something about you.”
Three negatives equals a positive?
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On a very cold January day, while I am preparing supper, the telephone rings and when I answer a voice I have heard in person before introduces himself.
“This is Alex Hassilev of the Limeliters”
“Yes it is. I recognize your voice.”
“Oh, you know who I am?”
“Do I know who you are? You guys were my heroes when I was in college! I saw you perform at the College Field House!”
“Well, Larry, we are on a reunion tour with Glenn Yarborough and tonight we are at The Minneapolis Auditorium. We are staying at the Holiday Inn, Minneapolis, and we saw your promo on the elevator billboard. We are always looking for new songs. Would you consider sending us a tape?”
“I'll do you one better! I will come up and sing them to you in person after the show tonight!”
“You would be willing to drive up here tonight?”
“In a heart beat!”
“Well, Larry, why don't you drive up early. We will have a ticket for you for the show and leave word with security that you are expected back stage after the show.”
I assure Alex I will be there. I have to pour hot water on my car's doors to get the lock and door unfrozen, but I make it to the show, which is close to sold out.
I rap on the backstage entrance. A young woman opens it.
“Hi. My name is Larry Heagle. Alex Hassilev told me to tell you he wants to talk to me.”
I fear this is the moment the guard is going to say, “I'm sorry, no one is allowed back stage.”
“Yes, Larry, Alex is expecting you.”
She does a double take.
“Hey! I have seen you before. You're funny.”
Frosting on the cake of the moment.
She tells me to wait, I sit near a tall woman, wrapped in an impressive wolf skin jacket. She is waiting, also, smoking a cigarette. Little do I know that one day she will, through dogged persistence, get me booked to open for Conway Twitty at the Carlton Celebrity Room in Bloomington, Minnesota.
Alex comes out carrying two Pete Seeger model Vega 5-string banjos. I ask if I can help and we visit, packing banjos. Plans are made to meet at his room at the hotel.
When I get to Alex's suite, it is Wolf Skin Lady, Dr. Lou Gottleib, the upright bass player, who is the charming front man on stage.
I am introduced to the woman. She is Tommy Smothers ex-wife.
The 70 or so year old Gottleib astounds me by rolling a joint. I don't remember too much about the evening except when I sing The Vasectomy Song, they are delighted with it.
“The Kingston Trio would kill to have that song”, says Lou to Alex. I write out the lyrics and teach them the melody. They assure me that they are going to add it to their show. I assure them that it is copyrighted.
Several years later, after an all night drive from Iowa City's Sanctuary, I arrive home about 5:30AM and turn on television to find a Toronto, Canada, based video tape on PBS. It is a folk reunion concert and Lou Gottleib is introducing a song with doctor jokes. I realize there is a good chance this is leading to my song, so I slap a tape in the video recorder.
“Doctor, it hurts when I do this.”
“Well, don't do that anymore.”
“Have you had this before?”
“Yes, doctor, I have had this before.”
“Well, you've got it again.”
Tonight The Limeliters are no longer a trio. They have drums and a lead player, who kicks it off with dobro. It IS my song! I am getting it on tape. What are the odds?
What a hoot!
They finish the song. They begin taking bows. It's their closer!
Kim didn't get any more sleep on this morning.
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I am gainfully employed by Leinenkugel's to provide entertainment at Farm Technology Days near Shawano. As soon as I reach the sprawling country dance hall, I realize my position. I will be transitory diversion for three hours, in a holding area near the bar, while incoming drinkers await seating turn over in the dining room.
I am grateful I didn't listen to Jay Leno, because the guitar will cover me.
I immerse myself in the sound of the Martin D18-V coming back to me through my monitors. I have fun just for me, playing to any eyes I can connect with throughout this late afternoon.
While I pack up, the check arrives.
“Thank you. Gee, I don't feel like I did a very good job for your today. Pretty hard to entertain a group that is just passing through.”
“You done good. You weren't too loud and your bullshit was just right.”
Let me get that kudo up on my web site!
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Bob Johnson has a contact for me in Grinnell, Iowa. It will be my first long road trip as a teacher who jumped the wall and made a run for it.
Bob has convinced the owner of the Longhorn Bar and Grill to give me a chance to work his place. Grinnell is a long ways from my house.
I don't know about you, but whenever I go somewhere new I have it pictured in my imagination. My pictures are always a lot prettier than reality.
Just seeing where the owner wants me to set up makes me want to bolt for the van and drive straight home. There are two main entrances about ten feet apart, one to the restaurant side, the other to the cocktail lounge. There is a trellis atop a waist high wall between the two areas. Just in front of this division is a five foot walkway between. This is where I am to set up. Behind me is the shiny aluminum coat and hat rack.
I do a week of playing to diners out of my left eye, drinkers out of my right eye, and seekers of hats and coats are a continuous part of the performance.
My hotel should have long ago been condemned and reduced to ash. The room is Spartan. There is a communal shower down the hall. My amenity is a sink. The hot water faucet knob is a small, rusty, vice grips.
When I next see my friend Bob and ask what he was thinking when he put me in Grinnell he tells me it is a rite of passage, his idea of initiation.
“If you can make it there, Larry, you can make it anywhere.”
Start spreading manure,
I'm leavin' today
I want to be a part of it
Grinnell, Grinnell!
I have not returned to Grinnell. Someday, like a survivor of Auschwitz, I will go back to relive the horror.
If it is still there, I will have dinner at The Long Horn. Good steaks, great Iowa chops.
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