Whiskey James

This is by far the most popular song I've written. It's a simple, catchy little ditty that I wote in the mid-90s and I have recorded several versions of it. This one is the best, though. I just got lucky with the production of it because it seems to fit the content perfectly. Dry and dull with just the right touch of reverb.

The song was inspired by a true encounter I had with a legendary hobo in Seattle. In the early 90s I was spending a lot of my time wandering through the slums of the Emerald City with my band mates, Steve and John. At the time, we were in way over our heads with the shit we were putting into our bodies, but we were young idiots trying to be hip and interesting. What better reason to take drugs, though?

There was a large area of trees underneath the freeway, known as "the jungle", that was a hot spot for local homeless people, junkies, prostitutes and other assorted weirdos. Naturally, the three of us found endless hours of entertainment mingling with these people in the trees. We even slept there in our sleeping bags quite often. Although, it almost cost us our lives more than a few times.

One night, after playing an unsatisfying show at some puke and piss dive bar near Shoreline, we had found our way back downtown to score some "interestingness". We were not having much luck so we joined a hobo campfire under the trees and slyly helped ourselves to their warm Buckhorn beer. One of the hobos had a little Pocket Pal harmonica and was treating us to some old delta-blues standards. He was amazing. Steve told the man that he should join our band. He was only half-kidding. We asked everyone we met to join our band. It was a stupid inside joke.

Days later I was killing time in a record shop in the U-district and I saw the harmonica wizard walk by the storefront window. I walked out and called for him. He didn't recognize me but I offered him a cig. He accepted and we sat on the moldy, damp Seattle sidewalk and smoked in silence.

When the hobo crushed out his cigarette, he flicked it at a passing car and stood up.

"You wanna have some drink?" He asked, pulling out a crusty old flask.

He led me to a tiny little area under an I-5 overpass that had clearly been used as a makeshift home/toilet. Probably by many people. It smelled unbelievably awful, but there was a log under a tree. What more could you ask for? We passed the filthy whiskey flask back and forth and chain-smoked for hours. He told me his name was Whiskey James. A moniker he won back in the war, as he would put it. I felt honored to know somebody named Whiskey anything.

I won't ramble on and on, but I will say that we became good pals. I would meet up with him every time I was in town and we would find some wooded area to get drunk and talk about his crazy hobo life. Occasionally, we were interrupted by crack-whores who needed to use our space to give someone a handjob, but we usually managed to find a spot where we wouldn't be bothered.

Just a few weeks after we had met, I was informed by some of the locals that Whiskey James was gravely ill. He was clearly not the picture of health, but I was still shocked when I found out he was actually dying. I managed to get in to see him on his, utterly-depressing, hospice deathbed. He was white as a sheet but he lit up when he saw me. At least I tell myself he did. I sat and shared a cig with him (well, a few drags-worth before Nurse Nocompassion made a stink). I'm pretty sure she wasn't even a real nurse. Anyway, I had a gig to make it to that evening and I couldn't stay with him any longer. I left him there to die in that awful, dreary place.

I never went back to the hospice to check on him, but I later found out that he died that very night I saw him. For some reason that sort of made me happy. I even hoped I was the last face he saw. That he cared about, anyway.

By the end of the summer of '92, my band had totally disintegrated and we all parted ways. I took a greyhound back to Wenatchee and resumed my sorry attempt at High School. John later got arrested for breaking into a jewelry store. Steve was also later imprisoned for shooting his girlfriend in the head. Long story. It too, shall be told.

Needless to say, this song is deeply meaningful to me, and I love that people love it.

It still pains me when I hear/sing the last verse...."I carried him through the woods, way out of sight. And buried him under the pale moonlight."

I wish it really had ended so beautifully.