Some people dream of being in a rocknroll band. They want to see their name on some billboard. They want fans to repeat the words of their songs in unison like some piece of sacred liturgy. Me, I just want to be a Roadie. Dress in all black, grow my hair long, maybe grow a stache, wear one of those silver chains that hang on the hip. I'll even start smoking again. You have to. If you have a band, I have a Bus.

Ladies and Gentlemen, May I present our very own Alexabder and His Band: Rock and Roll Panty Shelter.

Alexabder grew up with music to say the least. Rumored to be the lovechild of Marvin Gaye and Patsy Cline, he was an entertainer straight from the womb. He has dabbled in all genres of music. As a child, he toured the carnival circuit performing covers of his parents hits and some pop favorites of the time, such as Tiffany's, "I think were alone, now," and Glen Campbell's "Like a Rhinestone Cowboy." In his teenage years, he hopped from one band to another, leaving nothing but broken egos and bloody noses behind. Now, he is taking the world of punk pop over. In a recent interview, he said that punk, "is where I feel most at home." When I first heard the album I was floored. Never had I heard anything like this. Never. Alexabder has a voice that seems to reverberate from the chambered corriders of some netherworld. If you like Wanda Jackson, Nick Drake, Willie Nelson, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys, The Smiths, Neil Young, Tom Waits, Justin Timberlake, The Velvet Underground, and Naughty by Nature you will love - The Rock and Roll Panty Shelter. But don't think Alexabder is everything to this band. He is winged by two enormous talents in Trent Dabbs and The Dean of Punk-Dean. They split their time between RRPS and a band that will soon kick bands like The Strokes, The Vines, The Hives, and those two-toned White Stripes in the teeth with a sound so unharnessable it will leave critics speechless. That band is known as Always Sunday. They work both bands because, well Alexabder can at times be hard to work with. Dean says, "I love the guy, he's a genius, but you never know when he will explode, quit the band and leave you with a handful a unfinished songs.He's the real deal, though. Nobody is more punk." I would have to agree with Dean about this. There is nobody more punk. Some bands like to be punk, have been known to where suits on stage to counter the slack movement. Well, its very well known, that Alexabder is so punk that he took a sidejob in the accounting world just so he could wear a suit EVERYDAY. Now, that's punk my people. Seriously, though, if you don't own one of these albums. You should. They can be hard to find. Some underground, underground label. But keep looking, those albums are out there, lurking, waiting to amplify your dull lives.

I have seen a man pound another man for striking his dog. I watched a friend dive into the broken ice of a winter pond to haul out his dying hound. A cousin once traversed gulleys and swamps tangled with summer, searching for his lost ridgeback. Calling, "Bud" over and over, into the night. On top of the hill, my grandmother told me that all night she heard the lonesome cry like some ancient dirge rising from the creekbottom and the glow of lanternlight darting back and forth in some unpatterned frenzy.
My sister called last night and told us that Red died. Red was an old Labrador that Kelli became the proud mother of when she married Brit. A Texas boy good with dogs. Red was loyal and a good companion for my sister while Brit was away from home. Brit is a pilot and at times is required to leave for training exercises.Those nights, Red slept at the corner of her Bed. He followed her every move. Stayed on her hip. She brought him down to Mississippi last week for a visit. I felt sorry for the old man. His body addled with arthritis. I had to carry him up the staircase so he could sleep at the corner of Kelli's bed. I knew he was close to death. Large dogs don't live much past eleven years. Although, a cousin from Atlanta called last week to let us know that their retreiver had been put to sleep. He had lived to the golden age of seventeen.
I knew something was wrong before she spoke. There is an aching silence that preceeds bad news like a calm before a violent storm. "Red died," her voice quivers. I worry because I know her husband is out of town and she is pregnant, and I hate to see anybody in pain. I can't think of anything to say. I never know what to say in these situations. All words seem hollow. I just want to hug her and let her cry, but I'm seven hundred miles away on the other end of a telephone. I say something but I don't remeber what, just to break the silence. That night I walk outside barefooted and shirtless. Mercurial clouds floating through the twilight and the air is charged with the electricity of an approaching storm. Treetops are swaying like lovers on a dancefloor. Pistol sees me and howls. He is curled into a corner of the disheveled doghouse that I built many years before. It is roughly framed, unplumb and out of square. I crawl inside and sit and Pistol licks my face. I lie down and fall asleep. I dream of ancient wars and primordial creatures. I awake to thunder and wands of electric lightning and a deluge of water. Pistol is nudged under my arm, hiding from the storm. I should go inside but I don't.
My first dog was a mut I chose from the pound when I was eleven. My daddy let me have her for my birthday. I named her Babe. She was tough and loyal. She was my sidekick , accompanying me into my imaginery world that I created just beyond the treeline behind the house. Dragons were slayed. Fortresses and kingdoms built in a week's time. Weapons were forged. Battles and wars raged. Babe died while I was away at college. My pops, who had like all of us grown deeply attached to her, carried Babe to the farm and buried her on top of the hill. That is where my dad wants to buried.
I have seen men cry when their dogs die.

Walking to get drinks with Phil, she stops me. "What's your name?" I pause and look back for Phil, but He is already on the balcony with his wife. "Patrick Flanagan" I ask her the same. "Olivia" She smiles and introduces me to her cousin Elizabeth. Both look like high schoolers. As the conversation lingers, I keep waiting for her dad to barrel over and smash me over the head with a champagne bottle. But sir she stopped me. They ask where I went to college and I ask them if they are in school anywhere. This allows me to find out if they are in high school ;or if they are a bit older, it prevents a hurling insult. Olivia tells me that Elizabeth is a senior at some high school. What about you? , I ask. "I live in L.A." Los Angeles I think. She's lying. I used to do the same thing on vacation. I would tell girls that I was eighteen when I was barely 14. So, what do you do in L.A. "I'm an actress." Bull. I know she's lying. I look outside and see my friends and tell Elizabeth and Olivia it was great to meet them.
On the balcony, Phil has already told everybody what happened. I'm getting sidepunches and glasses lifted in salute. I replay the conversation and mention that Olivia can't be 18. The wives take over. K tells me that clearly she is over 18 because of the muscular development in her arms. What? Meg prowls around and discovers that in fact, Olivia does live in L.A. and she is an actress and she is twenty. Inside, the band plays big band numbers from the twenties and thirties. Beautiful Olivia is dancing with a little girl, twirling her in circles. A gal good with kids gets me every time. She keeps looking over and our eyes lock. Phil and Mike tell me to get out there. Now, I have no excuse. I can't say that she is too young. They tell me I'm scared and other things. Since marriage, it seems that all of my friends have become hipsters when it comes to such matters. "It's easy," they say. They forget that I knew them before they were married. I'll do it, I'm not afraid to ask her for a dance. So, I take a deep breath a make my way across the enormous length of wooden dancefloor. Her back is to me and I get within 10 feet when she runs up and grabs one of the bandguys. I'm stranded. Nobody around. I do a quick turn and head back towards my friends. They are on the ground laughing. These things only happen to me. Later, I go to her while she is seated and ask her to dance. "Ofcourse," she says and smiles and everything drops. We dance and talk about acting and california. Her voice is soft. At that moment, she doesn't know that I could love her to the wheels fall off. The song ends and she says thanks for the dance. This is when I should ask if she wants to go outside on the balcony and talk. I don't. The night is waning. The bride and groom are about to slip away. The rest of the night both of us survey the room with curious eyes, waiting. It is time to go. I linger. All of my friends are gone. I don't see her. I've got to get on the rode, it's late and I am driving back to meridian tonight. I kick the door open and walk into the cool night. Walking to my truck, I want to hear the footfall of hurried steps. I want to hear, "Wait." Nothing. I get in my truck and fumble for Joni Mitchell's Blue and grumble onto the interstate. I'll never see her again.

Mrs. Mary Jane sits behind the counter, smoking long cigarrettes. Her fingers decorated with mismatched jewels. Silver hair like Christmas tinsel. Cats, more than I can count, slink in and out of rooms. An enormous portrait of Elvis is framed in gold on the far wall. Antiquity for the netherworld. This is Mrs. Mary Jane's home. This is her antique shop. I come from time to time, searching for accordians. We talk about the weather for a while and she invites me back to see the phonographs she bought in an estate auction on the gulf coast. This room is packed with old jukeboxes, record players, phonographs, victrolas. "Some of them work," she whispers. She tells me to run upstairs for a record. I go. I pass a room filled with books stacked like towers to the ceiling. Columns of words. In the room of records, I rifle through boxes mislabeled. I choose a couple of Jazz albums. Sarah Vaughn and Lady Ella. We fiddle with knobs and set the pin down on the vinyl. A swirling fuzz of horns burst into the room. We laugh and Mrs. Mary Jane lights a cigarrette and I ask her if she would care to dance. "Ofcourse, my dear," she smiles. We do some sort of halfwaltz, lingering from one room to another. Velvet couches, armoires, silverware, timeworn guitars, congeries of pots and kettles. The needle slips and we stop and she asks me if I would like a drink. On the balcony, we overlook the garden. Azaleas abloom in pink and white. Yellow blossoms like ornaments hang from a thin tree. We drink gin and tonics and Mrs. Mary Jane tells me stories about growing up in New Orleans. About the time she met Faulkner. How she ended up moving to Meridian. How she misses her husband. "Some nights, I wake from a fevered dream, and reach over for Talmadge, and there is nothing. Empty. Nobody to hold me, to whisper in my ear 'shhhh, its alright, its just a bad dream." Tears gather in the corner of her brown eyes and grow heavy and fall, leaving lines in her powdered face. I don't know what to say. I never know what to say. We stare out over the balcony, the sun burrying itself below the horizon. The ice melts in our glasses. I turn and ask if she is alright. "Shucks, I'm just fine, sugar. I just miss him." Yes ma'm. She stands up and picks up the glasses. "Did you know I was jazz singer when I lived in New Orleans? How would you like me to sing a number. " Yes ma'm , that would be nice.

Then I turned to see the voice that spoke with me. And having turned I saw seven golden lampstands, and in the midst of the seven lampstands One like the Son of Man, clothed with a garment down to the feet and girded about the chest with a golden band. His head and hair were white like wool, as white as snow, and His eyes like a flame of fire; His feet were like fine brass, as if refined in a furnace, and His voice as the sound of many waters; He had in His right hand seven stars, out of His mouth went a sharp two-edged sword, and His countenance was like the sun shining in its strength. And when I saw Him , I fell at His feet as dead. But He laid His right hand on me, saying to me, "Do not be afraid; I am the First and the Last. I am He who lives, and was dead, and behold, I am alive and forevermore. Amen. And I have the keys of Hades and of Death."

Revelation 1:12-18

Liner Note: "I am persuaded that nothing can separate me from my love of my God, my wife, and my music. Life is rich when I can come home, after hours in the studio, feeling as frayed as a hundred Big G strings, and curl up to June Carter. She's a soft, fluffy Mama Bear. That's when I give God a "Thanks a lot, Chief." -Johnny Cash