Friday, June 12, 2009
3:40 am CDT
I got in to Nashville International at about 10pm on Thursday night and had already stepped in some bullshit. The flight from LaGuardia was delayed again and again and I was overdue to pick up my ticket and press credentials at a radio station in Manchester; suddenly, I was at the risk of pitching my tent in the Walmart parking lot and waiting until morning to retrieve my ticket. My flight was nice despite my four hours of loitering in LaGuardia. I was in a window-seat marked 22F, sharing the row with two other equally exhausted guys. Dean Blank, one seat to my left, was on his way home to Nashville after a three-day conference focusing on biotech ethics. He was a clever soft-spoken guy with a two-year old son and salty hair, and I could tell immediately that he was sincere, not at all about the bullshit, even though he spoke at length praising the Genius feature on his iPod and India.Arie.
Two seats over was Renard Poché, a New Orleans native somewhere on the tall side of his fifties and a musician by trade. He wore purple patchwork pants and deep hued prescription sunglasses with the arms tucked deep into a pitch-black Afro. He spoke to me slowly and with genuine interest, referring to me by name the moment after I introduced myself. He was headed to Manchester as well, getting ready to play guitar with Allen Tousaint for a Saturday afternoon jam. Renard was the real deal, having spent time with Doctor John, Galactic, Professor Longhair, Dirty Dozen Brass Band etc… He told Dean and I about the first time he picked up a trombone at age ten, about the immediate feeling of knowing, please click here to continue reading…
Benham Jones currently lives in New York City with his four year old cat Stella. He considers himself a writer, a filmmaker and a musician, although he also considers himself none of those things. He is recently unemployed.