Please Darken My Door

All that Arkansas twang, looking like a cleaned up sharecropper straight from the WPA photo archives.  He's got an old snare next to his knee that could have come out of some St. Louis speakeasy.  He leans when drumming, like the groove is going to make his legs get up and stroll across the stage and dance.  Ghost notes.

He never looked like he was from our time, never did look the part, never once did he seem ready for a TV close-up.  He looks more comfortable smiling behind chicken wire and a simple drum kit, with some mad local husband banging away at the cage trying to get his hands on him.  The barroom crowd laughing and big bouncers drag the rabid spouse away.  "I didn't know she was married, friend.  Let's play us somethin' good, boys!"

Levon Helm is one of the last connections to the days of traveling minstrel shows and those unruly, untamed hillbilly singers who were looking for their slice of the sweet pie.  It was better than farming, easier than working down in the oil patch.  Just play good music for your living and the living will be good.

He's still with us.  He's still passing along the songs and the personal link to what so many of us once were.  Faded Liberty overalls, a pouch of tobacco in the breast pocket, a straw hat you only wear to town or church.  He would see it and remember what it was all about.  To hear him talk we're his cousin, brother, sister, friend.

He'd go with you to hear the preacher on Sunday morning, and drive you to the bootlegger in his Plymouth once the sermon's over.  Just a nip to get the red out of your eyes.  These Sunday morning services are hard on a man when he needs to sleep one off but boy, wasn't that preacher yelling up a good storm this morning!  Let's sing one from the hymnal.  One for us poor lost souls.