Welcome to Philco Radio Time!

Filling in for Bing Crosby, I'm Jake Mabe!

Bought this beaut today from a nice fella named Eric, who lives up in Dandridge. Found it on eBay and he agreed to meet me rather than risk damage during shipping.

Eric restores radios, says there's just something about the sound from a tube set. I concur.

Just picked up WYSH/WGAP and have heard Keith Whitley, Merle Haggard, Eddy Arnold and The Statler Brothers in the past 30 minutes.

Classic country, indeed!

Happy Saturday, y'all.

POW/MIA Recognition Day

And I remember Daddy sayin' you'll come back a better man; but I just wonder if they ever think of me... -- Merle Haggard

NEVER FORGET

Lamenting the hobo

I've always wanted to be a hobo.

I don't know whether it is because of, or in spite of, the fact I've lived in the same town my whole life, but I have a yearning, burning urge to wander.

The good news is that I have seen 47 of the 50 United States, some of them on what used to be called the blue highways.

But every now and then, usually on Friday nights when I am driving east on I-640 near Broadway, I will see a freight train. And wish I could hop aboard just like in the movies, a modern-day Jimmie Rodgers, riding the rails.

I've always loved trains. Most boys do, for whatever reason. As I mentioned yesterday, I first entered Manhattan by rail. I would travel that way exclusively if I could.

But those days are long, long gone, unless I move to the Northeast.

It all started when I was three or four. My dad bought me a model train set of the Chattanooga Choo Choo. It even came with some kind of liquid that would produce smoke from the engine's chimney. I'd dream about being an engineer. Or a brakeman. Or, hell I'll say it, a hobo.

It got worse the first time I heard Jimmie Rodgers. Somebody -- I think it was one of my grandfathers -- had some Rodgers hobo songs on 78s. Later, I heard Merle Haggard, and then Dolly, Emmylou and Linda, sing Jimmie's "Hobo's Meditation."

Tonight as I lay on the boxcar, just waiting for a train to pass by;
What will become of the hobo whenever his time comes to die?

At Clear Springs Baptist Church, I heard "Life's Railway to Heaven" and figured that's where the hobo was ultimately headed. That's the way I wanted to go, I'll tell you for sure.

The itch endures. If I could, I'd take off tomorrow and ride every line that Amtrak serves. Oh, I'd pay for a ticket, of course, which is why this will remain a dream, at least for now.

But I admire the hobo of yesteryear. It's easy, you see, for it to seem romantic from the comfort of one's easy chair.

I love the television series "The Fugitive." I always perked up when David Janssen's Dr. Richard Kimble would hop a freight. In a couple of episodes at least, such an action comes back to haunt the good doctor.

As it is, I sit here in Halls, dreaming my dreams, living vicariously through shows and songs, lamenting the life of the hobo.

There's a Master up yonder in Heaven; got a place that we might call our home.
Will we have to work for a living? Or can we continue to roam? 

Hag twangs at the Time Warp

I was the first customer to darken the doors of the Time Warp Tea Room late this morning.

I was meeting a source for coffee and conversation, doing research for an upcoming column. I spot the joint as I creep along North Central, pulling into a place just past the front door.

I go in, make sure my cell phone is on silent, and order an espresso. I laugh at the note on the counter. Those talking on cell phones won't be served until the conversation is ceased, it says.

"That's one of my pet peeves," I say.

The man behind the bar laughs and nods.

"It (the sign) doesn't work," the server says.

I say I'm not surprised.

I grab an alternative weekly I didn't know existed off the news rack. I look at the photos placed here and yon on the walls. I sip my espresso. I wait.

Country music, the real, good ol' classic kind, starts to play. I recognize the first song, but can't now remember what it was. Too busy talking. A bit later, the Hag begins to twang.

"I'd like to hold my head up, and be proud of who I am," Hag sings, a Branded Man, out in the cold.

Now I'm crowdin' 30 (and still wearin' jeans...)

Wow.

That's an understatement I know, but it would take the talent of Shakespeare to describe how wonderful it all was last night at Barley's. Best birthday I've ever had.

Been a little ambiguous about turning 30. Just because, you know? But with the new condo and everything, uncertainty has given way to anticipation.

Then last night I celebrated early with my best pals at Barley's, which of course on Sunday nights means RobinElla. If you haven't yet caught her set, rearrange your schedule and do so soon. Very soon. Cause she's just so darn good, folks.

The best part? Well, it's hard to say. Don Williams' "Listen to the Radio" is always a favorite. Robin soars on Merle Haggard's "Natural High" and touches your heart on the weepers "Anymore" and "These Dreams of Mine."

But my favorite had to be "Teardrops," hands down the best song I've ever heard, especially when Robin dedicated it to one of her biggest fans for his birthday. I still haven't come down from way up there in the ether somewhere.

Life is good, folks. This precious, wonderful, crazy roller coaster ride contains such joy, divinely simple moments that make you glad to be alive. I couldn't have scripted a better night if I had written it myself.

Here, let me sing these lyrics while I still can, but don't let the melancholy fool ya. Turning 30 will be OK. This party's just getting started.

I'm leaving the last word to Don Williams...

I got my first guitar when I was 14, now I'm crowdin' 30, and still wearin' jeans...

A natural high...

Going to hear RobinElla is the perfect way to end the weekend.

It's laid back, it comes on easy, but more importantly it makes you forget all about the real world for a couple more hours before that dreaded Monday morning alarm sounds. You lose yourself in the music, enjoy the company of friends, chat about everything and nothing at all.

Time stops. Life is good.

Music has a way of doing that to you, though. Especially good, toe-tappin' music that you love way down deep in your soul.

I thought about it this morning, too, as I was getting ready to the strains of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band (and friends) on "Will the Circle Be Unbroken Vol. 2." In some ways I like the sequel better than the famous early '70s original.

For one thing, it contains a fantastic version of Bob Dylan's "You Ain't Going Nowhere," as well as a mighty fine little ditty called "Turn of the Century" that is threatening to become one of my all-time favorite songs. That disc is alive. They left in the little moments, when the musicians talk to each other, and it feels like an album, rather than a package deal.

I think that's probably why I enjoy RobinElla's tunes so much. Her stuff, too, feels honest, something meaningful, rather than just the same old tunes fighting vainly for the 4/4 hook and a catchy way to make a buck.

I don't know. Whatever the reasons, I just love to hear good music on a lazy Sunday night. Maybe the answer can be found in RobinElla's cover of an old Merle Haggard hit:

You put me on a natural high/And I can fly, I can fly...