Jim Trainer

Guest-Blogger D.C.Bloom

In Uncategorized on August 8, 2012 at 11:30 am

The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There’s also a negative side.
-Hunter Stockton Thompson

D.C. Bloom came down from Prince’s Town following that Americana sound.
During the auspicious Year of the Metal Tiger, I was working as a bartender-cook-dishwasher-retail clerk and soundguy at a place called the Whip In, in South Austin.  D.C. breezed through and played a Martin OM-28.  His finger picking style and delivery reminiscent of all those great dustbowl-blues pickers up&down TX and OK way.

That night, watching him play from behind the bar at the Whip, I recognized it instantly-D.C. is the real deal.  While I spent the next 9months of my life working there telling all the girls I went home with that I was a songwriter (and obviously getting little done besides showing up for work fucked&hungover), D.C. was writing songs.  When I got laid off from that place, I took to wine&madness.  I was shacked up at Bat Manor, just shy of the barrio and spent most of my time at the pool or driving drunk.

I would  see D.C. out&about town.  I ran into him at a SXSW Folk Showcase at Once Over Coffee Bar on south 1st in 2011. I was there to see one of my very favorite songwriters, Cory Branan from Memphis, TN.  I saw some stellar folk acts that day, standing around out back and talking over beers&bitterness w/ ol’ D.C.  And lest ye doubt, you can rest assured, real folk music should  have some punkrock shit going on and in the mix.  For true.

The next time I saw D.C. was in his room at the Holiday Inn, where he was hosting a showcase for SWARFA  last September.  I was there with a crazy broad from Asheville and couldn’t stick around for longer than a beer or three.  But it’s always good to see D.C.

The Live Music Capital of the World could merely be a clever Chamber of Commerce ad campaign.  Don’t get me wrong this place is paradise but with the advent&implementation of the tip jar, making a living playing music in this town can be like looking for a free meal in a pool of sharks with only yr git&yr album in a dirty paper bag.  It becomes a hustle and survivors like D.C. and me know, it’s hard out here for a pimp.  We know what the point of  any Hustle is and it ain’t getting yo picture next to the SRV statue, brother.  Like I said, this place is paradise and thee most supportive town I have, in my experience, ever seen.  Barnone.  It’s just that the hustle&the girls&the swimming holes&the cheap beer, the Californians-make it hard for a man to shack up somewhere in his little corner of the ghetto and get some work done.  D.C. is a songwriter.  Aho, but if I’m doing half his hustle at his age I’ll be lucky.  The man is a songwriter and he writes SONGS.

“He’s retiring from show business.”  My partner yelled in the window.
“What?!”  He was out there on the roof smoking with his blonde, his beard&fedora blazing.  He had one hand on a brown bag of Kentucky Gentleman and his other hand on the girl, her thighs and whatever.
“Says he’s quitting show business.  Yep.”
“LISTEN MOTHERFUCKER,” I says to him, I says,”I DON’T KNOW WHAT KIND OF CHICKENSHIT RANCH-COLONIALISM THEY DO  IN ALABAMA BUT THIS IS TEXAS, GOT IT?  WE WORK.  WE DRINK.  WE SWIM.  NOW WOULD YOU PLEASE, GET BACK TO WORK!”
The blonde placed her hand on my partner’s arm.
“What does that mean, honey?”  She asked him sincerely.  She was cute.
My partner didn’t answer her.  He just refocused his attention on his laptop with a flick of a Camel Lite into the yard.

I been meaning to get that wry Yankee on this blog but,aho, this story seemed more than apropos for Going For The Throat, what they call good copy in the biz and infinitely more interesting than the post I was working on introducing readers to my new career as music reviewer for the Austin Blues Society.

As I told the mighty Luke up on the mountain last week, this blog is about outrage.  Plain and simple.  But you knew that.
D.C.’s got it, he’s just a little tired and nonplussed to have to break it down for you-explain to you why Bruce is the Boss and his dad is the man.
The man beat death.  Twice.  He ain’t interested in yr Country-Lite jibba-jabba.

Get yer own torch!  D.C. wrote me yesterday.  They carry them in the Olympics.  Those runner girls are spicly little vixens ain’t they, though?  BTW I don’t see one thing wrong with lycra.  On a male or a female.  Just sayin’.  See you on t.v.  motherfucker!

Damn Yankees.
Tomorrow.

yrs
Jim Trainer
Fox Den
Austin, TX

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