I'm in a book club. There. I said it. And yes it's an all male book club, not that there's anything wrong with that. Actually, we like to call ourselves a drinking club with a reading problem, but we do actually read and talk about books. A book a month for 11 months a year, first Wednesday night of each month. Once a year we go to the beach for a long weekend and instead of reading something, each Head (we've dubbed ourselves the Well Formed Heads; that's another story) is obligated to prepare a one-page writing assignment to be read to the rest of the club. And you know what? They're good ... REALLY good. They take the form of poetry, chapters of a nascent novel, soliloquy, travelogue, song lyrics, speeches, comedic script, memoirs, personal essays and other works that I don't know how to categorize other than to say you should have been there.
This is not about one of those writing assignments, in case you thought I was going there. It is, however, about a song I wrote that was partly inspired by one of the books we Well Formed Heads read. And by a woman I'll never know who danced really well with a can of beer in hand.
The book was The Devil in the White City, by Erik Larson. It's a dramatic work of non-fiction describing the exploits of two overachieving men: one a visionary builder of the "White City" of Chicago that was the center of the 1893 Worlds Exposition/Fair and the other an American Jack the Ripper who used that frenetic setting to go on a serial killing spree to the tune of several dozen mostly single young women. A weird book, but a good one. If nothing else it will give you a perspective on Chicago, especially the lakeside thereof, that I bet you've never had before.
The White City, 1893My personal takeaway from said book for today's purpose was the date I mentioned above: 1893. Throughout my reading of the book, I kept thinking there's something familiar about that year, but I couldn't put my finger on what it was. I'm willing to bet that, like me, none of you can name a historical event that occurred in 1893. It's not like 1812, or 1776, or 1941, right? Still, I knew there was something. And then, the book itself gave me the answer to the date dilemma: beer. Specifically, Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. If you've got a can handy, take a look at the marketing quote on the bottom of the label (or scan the pic I've loaded below):
"This is the original Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer. Nature's choicest products provide its prized flavor. Only the finest of hops and grains are used. Selected as America's Best in 1893."
Turns out the Chicago World's Exposition/Fair selected good old PBR as the best beer around at the time. There's actually some debate as to how accurate the labeling claim is. Some say there were no "best" awards given at the Fair, but I don't need to confirm or deny the claim to use it for my tuneful/sordid purposes.
So now I'm reading this book and I've got PBR on the brain. Truthfully, it was already on my brain because the bar I frequent most (see Week 3) serves PBR on tap and 80+% of the time that's what I order. But now it's even more on my brain. And somewhere in that same time frame, I went to see a band play at The Pour House Music Hall in Raleigh. God help me I can't remember which band it was. I recall that they were young and unknown. The most memorable part of the show that night was a young woman dancing in front of the stage. Now I know what you're thinking, but that's not it. She was memorable because she was dancing like there was no tomorrow, all the while holding a beer can perfectly level. I thought to myself, she is loving this band but NOT at the expense of one drop of beer!
And I ruminated and pondered that thought for awhile. Then I melded it with PBR and it's own "performance" at that World's Fair, and the next thing you know I had come up with this, dedicated to all you cheap beer lovers out there:
Baby Likes PBR
(To listen to the song, click on the link above, select Audio and click on the word "Listen" under the song's title)
Clearly I wasn't trying to win any songwriting awards here. No deep thinking involved, aside from what I outlined above. I did get some plugs in for Ernest Tubb and Bill Monroe, two lesser knows giants of country music. It would help if I knew whether either one of them ever drank a PBR, but I'm betting the odds are pretty good they did.
I'm thirsty, so I'll see you next week. Thanks for reading. And thank God baseball season starts tonight!
BABY LIKES PBR
Well my girlfriend walks to work every morning
Brings her money home and puts it in a jar
And come this Friday night
When her factory shuts down tight
She'll grab that loot and meet me at the bar
My girlfriend don't like fancy foreign movies
And she don't need no A/C in the car
But she knows who Ernest Tubb was
And where ol' Bill Monroe's from
And her way around a can of PBR
My baby just likes to drink PBR
Dancing, sitting, standing at the bar
She don't give a damn if I ever become a star
Baby just likes to drink PBR
Them blue hair hens all raves about the bubbly
'Bout wine and stanky cheese from old Pair-ree
But my gal likes old time flavor
So she sticks by the USA beer
Voted world's best in 1893
(c) Steve Celestini, 2006
