Trego's Mountain Ear

Our paths crossed once – over 50 years ago, at a weekend party outside of Bozeman.  I wound up driving for the pizzas – and the gal with him accompanied me for the drive.  I guess picking up pizzas seemed more exciting to both of us – admittedly we were impressively close to sober, and most of the folks had a BAC too high to be trusted with pizza acquisition and delivery.  Sobriety wasn’t the norm there, so volunteering for the pizza run made sense.  It was far enough out of town that delivery wasn’t an option – probably in the Bozeman Pass?

I remember that there were a couple of people jamming that seemed exceptional – the sort of musicians that wouldn’t surprise you to hear on the radio one day.  I’d have put them above Jimmy – and, since neither ever became so much as a one-hit-wonder, my judgment is obviously impaired.  We never crossed paths again after I unloaded the pizzas and returned his date – yet the song “Come Monday” was often on my cassette deck as I would drive across Montana to Baker, where Renata was stationed.  He hadn’t recorded it yet that weekend afternoon in Bozeman.  I won’t say I had all of his tapes, but I had many.  I do recall Renata consigning the one with “Why don’t we get drunk” to oblivion as Samantha moved into her 3-year-old singing role.

It was Jimmy Buffett that introduced me to the songs of Steve Goodman – Banana Republics seemed like something Buffett should have written.  Goodman didn’t just write great songs – he demonstrated how to face incurable health problems.

Simple enough – I started listening to Jimmy Buffett before the beach, when Livingston Saturday Night hadn’t quite reached public performances.  I’m no parrothead – but Jimmy Buffett’s music has been in the background all my adult life.  Not dead, you understand.  Just gone away.  And I wish the iron crab hadn’t taken him so far away that no more of his songs will reach me.