Deep Ellum

When I was a teenager I had a paper round – delivering newspapers twice a day, before and after school, except on Sundays, when there was only one delivery (and, thankfully, although Sunday newspapers were somewhat larger than usual, they had not yet reached anything close to current proportions, where you need a couple of friends to help you carry it to and from the car). I also delivered magazines, which was probably my first introduction to some of the racier ones. But I was more fascinated by a particular American music magazine – you will have figured out by now that my delivery often took longer than it should have done had I not stopped occasionally to verify the contents of my deliveries. I can't remember the name of the magazine now, but it was mostly concerned with folk music, which was all the rage at the time. I read material about Odetta and the Grand Ole Opry, which meant little to me, but felt somehow magical.

Garland Opry

So, when I discovered that nearby Garland provided a show (the “Garland Opry”) every Saturday at 7:30pm, this was my chance to find out what “Opry” was all about. If you look online to Wikipedia, (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Opry) you will find that:

“An opry is generally an establishment that features live country music, the most famous example being the Grand Ole Opry, but it could be something as simple as the local honky tonk. The term is generally restricted to the southern United States.

The Saturday night opry is a Texas tradition. The opry provides a forum for new country music performers. In Texas the opry is an informal venue suitable for families. The local opry provides a friendly, non-threatening environment for amateur performers.

The Garland Opry claims to be the The Longest, Continuous Running Opry In The Great State Of Texas.”

The Wikipedia entry is entirely accurate. It's country music, it's amateur performers (some of whom may may not be completely in tune, but who am I to say?), but it is undoubtedly a valuable proving ground for aspiring musicians. Live performances – musical, theatrical, or whatever – have always enchanted me, and I'm happy to see community spirit alive and well, if not ubiquitous. Spilling out at the end of the performance into the still warm evening air of the square in downtown Garland, there were several pickup bands, playing anything from bluegrass to blues to country, as they do every Saturday night. It's somehow strange to find this bucolic atmosphere so close to the Dallas Metroplex, but I, for one, am glad to see old traditions continuing.

Deep Ellum graffiti

Psycho Clown Tattoo

The night was still young, and since I was so close, I headed into an area of Dallas called Deep Ellum. This area has a long history of association with the music scene, from blues (Blind Lemon Jefferson and Bessie Smith, to name but two, were regular performers) through to punk (The Dead Kennedys, The Meat Puppets), but its popularity declined in recent years, mainly due to increased crime rates. “Deep Ellum Blues” advises visitors: “When you go down to Deep Ellum, keep your money in your shoes”. I didn't go quite that far, but I didn't take my wallet with me – strictly cash. The area seems to be popular again, to the extent that the streets – deserted by day – are closed off at night, and the only way in is to park at the perimeter and walk, or take a shuttle bus, in. It's packed on a Saturday night, with everything from goths to yardies to hippie-throwbacks, and the music is similarly varied. I chose The Bone (http://www.thebone.com) to stop for a beer.

I hooked up with a friendly bunch of Aussies, on their way from home via Hawaii and California, across to Miami, before heading to Europe. I had a great time ... up to a point. And I say that not because there came a point where I wasn't having fun, but there certainly came a point where I can't remember whether I was having fun or not. I feel compelled to say that, at least on my part, there was no excessive drinking, and definitely no drugs, involved. But the next thing I remember is being in my car (which I'm certain I didn't drive) in Fort Worth (which is at least 30 miles away) at 3am, in a neighborhood that, although deserted, did not strike me as particularly salubrious, opposite a tattoo parlor (closed by this time) named Psycho Clown Tattoo. I've never been in this position before, but I can tell you that a number of questions run rapidly through your mind – I'm sure you can imagine. But I was unharmed, nothing had been stolen from me, and I had no lingering headache or hangover. I did, however, have a tattoo. I know this because I didn't have one before, and there were instructions for the “aftercare of a tattoo” on the seat next to me. (I had previously imagined that you got a tattoo, and that was it – not so. It apparently requires frequent washing with antibacterial soap, application of moisturizer, and no exposure to excessive soaking or sun for up to a month.)

The preceding paragraph is complete fantasy, and purely for literary effect, although the tattoo is real.

And no, you can't see it.