I love stories. All kinds. My favorite kind of story is the “Beat the Devil” story, where the Master of Lies gets himself tricked. The reason is selfish: I live that story every day of my life.
I’ve made jokes about the difference between “John” and “The Wick.” It was something Ryan Dancey (of all people) pointed out in one of his backhanded compliment posts. It stuck. Hell, even I liked the analogy.
I’ve been doing my best to keep the Wick down in the hole, but a couple nights ago, he showed up. Big time. It was all I could do to keep him down, and I failed. He’s a scheming bastard. And he smells bad.
And so, in his spirit, there’s this from Mr. Kristofferson:
It was winter time in Nashville, down on music city row and I was looking for a place to get myself out of the cold, to warm the frozen feeling that was eating at my soul, and keep the chilly wind off my guitar; my thirsty wanted whiskey, my hungry needed beans; but it’d been a month of pay days since I’d heard that eagle
scream; so with a stomach full of empty and pocket full of dreams I left my pride and stepped inside a bar (actually I guess you’d call it a tavern). Cigarette smoke to the ceiling and sawdust on the floor.
Friendly shadows. I saw that there was just one old man sitting at the bar; and in the mirror I could see him checking me with my guitar; he turned and said “come up here boy and show us what you are”. I said “I’m dry” and he bought me a beer. He nodded at my guitar and said “It’s a tough life ain’t it?” I just looked at him and he said “You ain’t making any money, are you?” I said “You’ve been reading my mail”. He just smiled and said “Let me see that guitar: I got something you ought to hear”. Then he laid it on me…..
If you waste your time talking to the people who don’t listen
to the things that you are saying who do you think’s going to hear?
And if you should die explaining how the things that they complain about
are things they could be changing, who d’you think’s goin’ to care?
There were other lonely singers in a world turned deaf and blind who
were crucified for what they tried to show,
And their voices have been scattered by the swirling winds of time,
’cause the truth remains that no-one wants to know
Well, the old man was a stranger, but I’d heard his song before; back when failure had me locked out on the wrong side of the door; when no-one stood behind me but my shadow on the floor and lonesome was more than a state of mind. You see, the devil haunts a hungry man; if you don’t want to join him you’ve got to beat him. I ain’t sayin’ I beat the devil, but I drank his beer for nothing, and then I stole his song
And you still can hear me singing to the people who don’t listen
to the things that I am saying, praying someone’s going to hear;
And I guess I’ll die explaining how the things that they complain about
are things they could be changing, hoping someone’s goin’ to care.
I was born a lonely singer and I’m bound to die the same
But I’ve got to feed the hunger in my soul;
And if I never have a nickel I won’t ever die ashamed
’cause I don’t believe that no-one wants to know