Jimmy Fucking Buffett

I took my share of studio art classes through middle school, high school and even college. Yes, I was always the kid pinned up as “the one who could draw”; more importantly, however, was the fact that art class was one of the only places in school where teachers would usually allow headphones while working. Every year, just as summer begins to really kick, I remember meeting a guy named Justin in art class (not sure which year, but I remembering having a longish bull-cut). We spent nearly every day of the following few responsibility-free summers doing whatever two mostly careless guys our age did in the late 90s. Everyone else talked girls or sports in class; we talked music, mischief and movies. There was always lots of tomfoolery and even more music. I won’t say too much about our heathen actions or even the standard classic rock we listened to back then; just these two things: Steve Miller and Jimmy Buffett. I’d better extrapolate … Before graduating from high school I’d done the Hipster 180 Dance; no longer would I admit to liking – nay, loving – “Swingtown” or “Why Don’t We Get Drunk,” two made-for-summer pop standards. “Summer in the City” was fine, but “Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes” was, I don’t know, only for people who wore Hawaiian shirts and had retirement plans. All through college I’d often hear both artists on the radio or in restaurants – as well as songs from similarly unhip, summer-made artists like Jackson Browne and James Taylor. Behind closed doors these songs made me feel good. Warm. Familiar. Wholesome. Like most, I knew these artists’ hit songs very well, but even more so knew how dodgy it was in my circle o’ pseudo-intellectual posturing friends to admit any sort of approval for their work. These artists made soundtracks for people who treated music as a fickle commodity, not an art form or lifestyle, right? Every once in a while I’d find myself at the store, holding a Steve Miller album in my hands, never able to pull the trigger. Justin and I didn’t make it as friends (we even got into a very brief fist fight when he lost my copy of Songs You Know By Heart), and so I didn’t feel right about playing nostalgic over the hits collections he and I once wore thin and traded shots over.

Then, years later and neck-deep in all the “cool” tunes I could find in northeast Indiana, I got a job working at Wooden Nickel’s North Anthony store under the guidance of a fella named Tim. Tim put me onto things deemed both hip and not-so-hip, the common thread being that it was all – stigmas notwithstanding – very good, timeless music. Usually country, sometimes jazz or blues. I vividly remember him bringing a stack of Jimmy Buffett (aka Freddie Fishsticks) LPs up to the counter one day. I laughed. He was serious. “I know, I know, but these early Buffett albums aren’t what you think they are,” he swore. It was summer and this was summer music, so we let it roll. As much as I trusted Tim and enjoyed the copy of Buffett’s A-1-A he played for me, I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go back to Margaritaville. That, and I, the perpetual late bloomer, wasn’t yet mature or articulate enough to stand up for something I knew I’d get roasted for playing.

Nowadays, as a 28-year-old wannabe slacker, I don’t care. Yes, I have Buffett’s first eight studio albums, making me a staunch fan of a man most Ease readers likely consider to be a complete novelty. Okay, I do care – sort of – but probably only because I have a column that allows me to care. I care enough to articulate as to why this man is, as Tim said, not what people think he is (or was). Yeah, sure, the guy sometimes sings about grapefruit and getting loaded and hanging out on the beach (and by the way, are any of these things bad? Are they really any less arbitrary than, say, yet more songs about love?), but there are much better songs than what most folks know from the above-mentioned Songs You Know By Heart collection. Much more.

I would even say that three huge honors could be particularly credited to Buffett: 1) He has one of the best singer/songwriter voices in the history of singer/songwriter voices. Seemingly without trying, Buffett harnessed the wail John Prine and many others went for – a perfect mix of country, pop, rock and classic. His is an effortless, untainted and familiar voice that’s warm enough to make any mature listener feel like they’re with an old friend; 2) He has the best summer-made catalog, probably ever. Again, not the hits everyone knows, but the other songs. Songs like “My Head Hurts, My Feet Stink and I Don’t Love Jesus” and “Brahma Fear.” His sound never really changed over the course of his many great early-70s albums, but, really, what no-nonsense country songwriter ever felt the need to throw in synths or superfluous harmonies or guitar soloing? And, really, despite what his image and pop opinion imply, Buffett was a full-fledged country songwriter; 3) He has one of the best songwriter discographies of the 70s. Period. His first eight proper albums (all released over 30 years ago – before Buffett became known for his gimmicky tours) are all classics or near-classics.

I could go on and on about how Buffett started his career in Nashville, playing songs about prostitutes, week-long binges and society’s funniest blemishes with some of the best session players ever. I could tell you about how he ran wild – before becoming famous – with Jerry Jeff Walker, John Prine, Steve Goodman, Townes Van Zandt and others, all writing the blueprints of their often parallel careers. I could tell you how J.B. is one of only seven authors (speaking here of novels) to ever post a No. 1 book on the New York Times’ fiction and non-fiction charts. Yes, the guy turned into a corporate shill less than 10 years after his debut, only to spend the decades since playing the same 14 songs at every show, but before that the dude was – despite what your memory begs – the real deal. He was an artful Chicago hipster hanging in the slums; a burnout who spent his days busking in New Orleans to secure a steady flow of prime horsemint; a rocker who worked with legendary producer Don Gant, usually making fun of money-grubbing musicians. As far as bright June days go, Jimmy Buffett is one of the kings, be you a hipster or, fingers crossed, a person able to think outside of popular opinion. Call it a dare.

Written by G. William Locke