Under new management but with previous bad experiences behind me, I decided to give the new barber in town a chance. This town is small enough that no matter where you go you are in the company of somebody you know or a relative of somebody you know, so I sat down and chatted with the son-in-law of the realtor who managed the purchase of our home on the island. But this story is not about that; it is about the gentleman who came in while I was under the scissors.
Coy (the barber, not the fish) was chatting about my previous place of residence — Mendocino County — and this old fellow asked if I had ever been to Boonville. I had, as a matter of fact, been routed through Boonville from Cloverdale on my way to Willits. I don’t know Boonville other than the way you remember picturesque places when you don’t intend to be there and all you want to do is get home. His very next question struck me.
“Have you ever heard of Ramblin’ Jack Elliot?”
“Well, sure. But…” and it turns out this guy was an old friend of Ramblin’ Jack’s whom he met when he crewed on Pete Seeger’s sloop, Clearwater. (Everything around here eventually relates in some way to boating.) They ended up for a time in Boonville, CA, and the old man had once given Ramblin’ Jack a ride to Marin to record an album. The studio owner wasn’t there when they arrived (apparently this was a common occurrence) so they went to Sausalito, drank beer and watched the boats. Jack was from New York, wanted to be a cowboy, but could just as well have ended up a sailor.
And now the awful truth: I had never owned a Ramblin’ Jack Elliot album until after sitting through several hours in a muddy football field in Fort Collins trying to hear the Rolling Thunder Review and finding out later that “he might have been there.” I was there for Dylan and probably missed Ramblin’ Jack. For the first time that I can remember I wish my haircut would have taken more time.
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I have seen Jack at least 3 times (that I remember). Once at a Bluegrass Festival in the north bay area (it was the “first annual” festival and lasted 3 days and nights); Twice at Cafe Lena in Saratoga Springs. Only once did he perform the talkin’ blues piece that I will forever associate with having a transistor radio under my pillow at night. In those days, at night, you could pull in stations from places you never knew existed, most likely because the boosters were in Mexico (remember KOMA, 50 Thousand Watts of Power Screaming at you Every Hour?). The song was 912 Greens, or The Ballad of Billy Faire. It was about a time he was “ramblin’” with Guy Carawan, who had spent time in the hill country recording real folk music for the Library of Congress. They somehow ended up in New Orleans, and that is what the song/poem is about. Classic Jack. Nothin’ else like it.
You can find it on the album Young Brigham.