Skeeter Jackson

Words and Photos By Keith May


“So there I was, dancin’ on Johnson’s grave… Same Robert Johnson, died early age… Sold his soul to a lyin’ cheat… Played guitar like a bitch in heat,” folksinger Skeeter Jackson mumbles in his song, Ants In My Pants. “On that grave was a single rose… There I lyed, in repose… There I was, starin’ at the moon… Did not know ants found me, too.”

“Another true story,” Skeeter admits over cold beers at a dive-bar called The Little Knight in Costa Mesa, California. Thirty miles south of Los Angeles, Costa Mesa is a dirty little beach town with just enough sprawl to piss off the old-timers. In Costa Mesa Song, Skeeter name-checks many of his favorite haunts, including The Little Knight.

“Grants for Guns, El Matador, Chicken Coop, sawdust floors… Goat Hill Tavern, Little Knight… Hey, Tony, another pint.” Tony hasn’t been seen behind the bar at The Knight for years, but remains part of its legend. “Mother’s Market, Hi-Time Cellars, In-N-Out Burger, O.C. Fair…Pierce Street Annex divorcees, Ladies Night on Seventeenth.”

“So, yeah, I was explorin’ the South on a photo-assignment and stumbled across the grave of Robert Johnson behind a small First Baptist in Mississippi. Next thing I knew, was rolling around on the ground, covered in welts, dizzy for an hour.”

There’s a colorful story behind all of Mr. Jackson’s songs but the line between fact and fiction gets blurrier all the time. “Most of these stories are true, but there's no law against embellishing for the sake of a good punchline.”

Dark themes are often delivered from a whimsical point of view. Love and loss delivered with detached irony. Bob Dylan, Merle Hagard, The Monkees. His influences are clear.

“Told me ‘bout his childhood, got stuff off his chest… All I did was listen, enjoyin’ every breath,” Skeeter sings of a visit from the Grim Reaper.”

“Daddy said, Boy, don’t be like your old man… Try to make him proud, if and when I can,” is the chorus of a song for his truck driving father and the similarities that can’t be escaped.

Thousand Dollar Bike is the story-song of a love/hate relationship with a motorcycle. Written while driving down Highway One with a dead bike in the bed of his old Ford Ranger. Skeeter steered with knee while strumming on a ukulele and the words to his first song began to flow. “One kick, two kicks, three kicks go…If she starts, we’ll hit the road…Four kick, five kick, six kicks more… Stop too long, here’s how it goes… Seven kicks, eight kicks, nine kicks more…Step right up, it’s your turn, Bro.”

“Lucia, I wanna free ya, from the loneliness I see in your eyes… Lucia, I wanna meet ya, at a church, where I’ll make you my wife…Lucia, I really need ya, and I hope I can see you tonight," he swoons for an office temp. “She was gone before I even finished the song. She was cute, but the name is what stuck in my head. Lucia. The song wrote itself."

Boo Hoo Hoo is about a son he’s never met. “As far as I know, that one is pure fiction.”

“No cream in my coffee, no gas in my tank… No cash in my pocket, no money in the bank,” he laments in Protest Song.

One Trick Pony, Family Tree, Peach Cobbler, Girl of My Dreams, Jackhammer Blues, Nine Lives, Easy Street, Derby Eyes, Americana, Two-Beer Buzz, Table For One, Sprinkle It With Jesus. All written in the last few years. Before he got the songwriting bug, Skeeter was telling his stories with pictures as a photo-journalist but after a visit to Sun Studios in Memphis, he picked up a uke and began learning traditional folk songs. Soon, he was writing his own. When friends dismissed the ukulele as a toy, he picked up a guitar.

“Livin’, lovin’ on The Mother Road… All you need is a name like Joad… Beer, coffee, cherry pie… Every day, the Fourth of July,” Skeeter sings in Savin’ Myself For You. “Hopin, prayin’ gotta believe… you’re savin’ yourself for me.”

But in Night Rider, a lurid side of Skeeter is revealed. “Can’t catch me, drive so fast… No one rides free, it’s gas, grass, or ass.”

Ukulele, Spanish Guitar and hollow-bodied electric are Skeeter’s traveling companions. Preferring to travel light, a small Roland Street Cube provides the modest amplification for truckstop performances. “It’s really just a crazy excuse to travel while looking for photo-ops."

And, if you're Skeeter Jackson, that all makes sense.

You can listen to Skeeter here... http://soundcloud.com/skeeter-jackson

Or, hear a few samples here...

The Story of Paul Bigsby

Words and Photos By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Motorcyclist magazine)

“Give me a T-square and a French curve and I can make anything.” –Paul Bigsby

Here’s an obscure trivia question for you. Who created the first modern solid-body electric guitar? If, like most people, you answered Leo Fender or Les Paul, you’d be wrong. The first modern solid-body electric guitar was actually built by tinkerer Paul Bigsby in Los Angeles, California and was delivered to legendary performer Merle Travis in May of 1948. Merle wanted the “sustain” of one of Bigbsy’s much-sought-after lap-steel guitars that could not be achieved with a traditional acoustic guitar. So, Travis provided a sketch and Bigsby made it reality. Bigsby was soon providing similar one-of-a-kind electric guitars for the best pickers of the time.

In the roaring Twenties, Bigsby was a renowned motorcycle racer, partnered in an Indian dealership in Reno, was founding member of the “45 Club,” of Los Angeles which required only that members ride American Iron with at least 45 cubes under the tank. In 1934, Bigsby began organizing his own races in Southern California. Hell, he even wrote articles for The Motorcylist under the alias of Professor Popper. And, if that wasn’t enough for a story of its own, Bigsby was also Chief Engineer at Crocker Motorcycles until 1942. After the war, he had his first, and only child, Mary. He was in his Forties, before turning his creative energies towards music.

In addition to the first solid-body electric, Bigsby re-necked acoustics, manufactured strings, magnetic pickups and eventually created the stout Bigsby Vibrato that has been seen on guitars of every make and played by everyone from The Beatles to U2.

A heavy volume, The Story of Paul Bigsby by Andy Babiuk is stuffed with rich, four-color photos, multiple gate-folds and a CD featuring the gregarious Bigsby discussing his many creations and a life well-lived.

 

Purchase this book at Amazon.com

Call (714) 403-3581 or email keithterrillmay@gmail.com

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Riding the Night Owl

Words and Photos By Keith May
(Originally appeared in OC Weekly) 


It’s a colorful rogue’s gallery on the Orange County Transit Authority’s (OCTA) “Night Owl” line that runs from midnight to Five, seven-days-a-week. With every thing he owns in a small black dufflebag, Christopher says he needs a Greyhound to Austin, but later admits he has nowhere to go. A stripper coyly reveals she works at a bar, until admitting it’s topless. In a lime-green sweatsuit, Marcus is a DJ at TJ’s and is headed home to Costa Mesa. Charles is a dishwasher at Steamers, dabbles in songwriting and needs the bus 4 nights-a-week to keep his job. “It’s not usually such a sociable environment,” he observes with a smile. “Where is your story running?”

For honest workers, jailbirds, homeless and alcoholics too drunk to drive, the Night Owl is Heaven, Hell or Purgatory depending on the situation. But come Spring of 2010, due to California’s budget woes, the OCTA will park these buses until further notice. “Cars are expensive!” “Bikes are dangerous!” “I can’t walk that far.” I hear in response. And some rely on the bus for more than just transportation. A four-dollar Day Pass provides the homeless shelter, warmth and security. Sounds cheap, but you try finding $120 a month on the sidewalk.

In the back of the bus, a group of boys share lewd tales of a recent gang-bang, while Mexicans speak quietly of employment prospects in their native language. Carlos, our driver, stoicly drives onward through the glare of oncoming traffic, monitoring the action in the mirror. I pull the camera up and inconspicuously take abstract exposures through the window. Disneyland resorts, strip-clubs, pool-halls, tattoo-parlors, motels, IHOP, Jack In The Box.

A hooker boards in the red-light district and, unable to resist, I approach her (him?) under the savagely bright flourescents to explain my assignment and need of portraits. She demurely shakes her head no and a junkie in the back breaks into raucous, mocking laughter. The driver continues to enjoy the show and I can’t help but laugh myself. Hey, what would legendary photojournalist Walker Evans do?

I’ve been doing this routine all week. Taking photos of the few who allow and avoiding confrontation with those who don’t and am reminded more than once there is no shortage of paranoid schizophrenics in Orange County. Out of my element and unaccustomed to being awake at these hours, my brain occasionally short-circuits, too. Sleepwalking through a bizarre, abstract reality that’s not for the faint of heart or germaphobic. In the window the reflection of a white man approaching middle-age crouched morosely in the corner catches my eye. Deep-set eyes under a hooded sweatshirt staring in my direction. Noticing the camera in his hand, I see it’s only me. And I’m starting to fit right in. I look from the window to the floor. At my dirty boots and the soiled sneakers of my companions. I can buy new ones (barely), but the bag-lady rummaging through her belongings will have to find hers in a dumpster. She pulls out an old Sony Walkman and inserts the earphones. No battery. No CD. Just privacy.

At Katella, I get off the 43 to catch the 50 and thank the driver as everyone else does. While explaining my assignment to a friendly woman traveling with her son and Mother, a passing homeless man yells, “Don’t believe him! He’s undercover!” I try to ignore his accusations but the atmosphere has changed. Regardless of motive, I’ve been exposed as an outsider. Unwelcome. Damn this camera.

Camped under the awning of the bus stop are a couple of coal-faced vagrants with a shopping cart playing with a brown poodle in need of a bath and shave. I politely ask if I can take a picture of the stray but am greeted with only a snarl. Following my instincts, I get back on the 43 and take a seat in the back. My nemesis reappears directly outside the window and stares at me menacingly until we finally drive away. A warning not to return.

Almost without exception, the riders know the various drivers’ schedules and vice-versa. “I’ll sometimes go back and wake them up at their stop,” Richard tells me. “But, I’m from North Carolina and don’t abide loud cursing. They’s women and children on the bus, too,” He’s concerned what his riders will do when the Night Owls ends. Life is hard enough for these folks already.

It’s a loud, bumpy ride but sleep is possible when you’re dead tired. Snores are common. Phlegmatic wheezing, tuberculor coughs, one-sided conversations all permeate the cabin. Hypnotic updates of stops and transfers over the loudspeaker.”Orangethorpe,” “Chapman,” “MacArthur,” “Edinger.” Lean back. Lean forward. Lean back. Lean forward. Not-so-hidden security cameras capturing everyone’s movements.

The Fullerton station sits at the end of a row of bars frequented by local co-eds. At 2am a sea of them stumble past, headed to cars parked nearby. Young and oblivious to the plight of discarded human beings curled on benches under a blanket of newspapers.

Left behind and confused by her circumstance, 18-year-old Mernie approaches and asks if the bus goes to LaPalma. “Just a few miles south,” I say. “Damn, it’s cold!,” she shivers. I suggest she zip her jacket, but that might hide some skin. “My boyfriend totally left me!” she moans. “Wanna take my picture?,” she offers. Young, adventurous, with multiple piercings on tongue and lips, she’s cute in a slutty, naive kind of way. I take a few pictures, the bus arrives and we get on. “You’re gonna take care of me, right?,” she asks. “LaPalma is just a few miles away,” I repeat. When I mention the assignment, she’s thrilled to be part of the story and ignores her stop to ride along and see what happens. Despite the boyfriend, she displays her availability at every opportunity. “More trouble than it’s worth,” I keep reminding myself. Regardless, there’s a tinge of disappointment when she leaves the bus with a chubby white kid who just left a Cottonmouth Kings concert. He has weed. She likes weed. Que, sera, sera.

“I like how you work, Man,” a guy behind me says. “I been watching you. You’re fearless. You just go for it. You like poetry? I got a poem for you,” “Well, break it out!” I say. “That would make a great song,” I admit when he finishes. “It’s just a poem, Man,” he says. “I’m from Chicago. You heard of “The Wrecking Crew?” If I told you who I was, you’d freak out, Man. I could have any woman I want, Man, but now I just want peace, love and happiness. I’m just trying to get to Austin. Is there a Greyhound Station around here?”

An hour later, I’m back at the Fullerton station and leave one bus to board another. Despite my waving arms and whistles it leaves without me, so I’m stuck for what seems an eternity with a woman named Linda who shares my fate. “Can’t believe he left without us!,” she moans in a southern drawl before babbling incoherently about an assault she witnessed the night before. “He took a picture of me,” she says. “FBI interviewed me and said I’m on his list, now,” she says. I ask if the victim lived. “I don’t know. His eyes were all rolled back in his head. He was in the Service. Held him in my arms. Hit with a lead pipe.” I shake my head, sympathetically. Cold. Tired. Hungry. Nauseous. My patience wearing thin. I shuffle away, pretending to take photos of a nearby awning then curl up on a steel bench with my backpack as pillow. One eye on the camera lying at my side. Wishing I’d worn more layers. Thankful for the ones I have.

Two stranded girls scream into a cel-phone at their Mother. “Fuckin’ bitch! Don’t you love me you fuckin’ bitch?!” Swaying arm-in-arm in high heels through the parking lot. “If you loved me, you’d come pick me up, you fuckin’ bitch! Don’t you fuckin’ love me?!”

Cold. Tired. Hungry. Nauseous. Praying for the bus and the salvation it will bring. And it does. Tonight. But not for long.

Call (714) 403-3581 or email keithterrillmay@gmail.com

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