Babs & Dolly
The bar was stocked with turquoise bottles of Bombay, Beefeater, and my favorite, medicinal jugs of Hendrick’s. I guess it was a G&T night at the estate, though a few bottles of wine were in the mix. I meticulously toasted the end of my Davidoff, drew oxygen through its tightly packed leaves, and took a disappointing peek at the forming ember. So I torched it again, and to my amusement, I saw the beginning of a sixty-minute love affair. My palette was already soaked with the foresty taste of pine needles.
I took a seat, loosened my tie, and languidly crossed my legs. While I was admiring the pinstripes on my trousers, I found myself a bit perplexed with the music. I don’t know what I was expecting, but judging by the crowd, a distinguished mix of blue bloods and gentlemen alcoholics, and it being a dreary, rainy autumn night, I suppose “Pavane pour une infante défunte” would’ve been appropriate.
Out of the Bose speakers came a sound smoother than Ladakhi cashmere, more powerful than a locomotive, and as delicate as Venetian glass. It filled the cavernous room with beauty, sensually entwined with silky clouds of cigar smoke - a wraithlike waltz of sorts. I was falling in love, but with whom?
So, I finally asked someone and was FLOORED with the answer, “It’s Barbra Streisand.”
I, like most men in the South, wouldn’t be caught dead listening to her music. No sir. Not in a million years. I’ll take my Lynyrd Skynyrd and be on my way. Hell, if we’re telling the truth, I might could fess up to a little Barbara Mandell (and I’m not talking about her duet with George Jones), but that’s it.
Well, I might as well come clean now that we have a confessional on our hands. I’ve been on a Dolly Parton kick for a few years. It started with “Islands in the Stream.” I couldn’t get enough of that duet with Kenny Rogers. Before I knew it, I was reveling in “Here You Come Again” and “Coat of Many Colors.” How can you not love that woman? She’s a poet, and if you know me, I’m a sucker for poets. When I heard “My Tennessee Mountain Home,” it was game over.
Sittin' on the front porch on a summer afternoon
In a straight-back chair on two legs, leaned against the wall
Watch the kids a-playin' with June bugs on a string
And chase the glowin' fireflies when evenin' shadows fall
The authenticity of her writing evokes a visceral chord; an eradication of unnecessary reason, just beauty and truth. As far as American art is concerned, “My Tennessee Mountain Home” is on the same level as Winslow Homer’s The Veteran in a New Field. That said, I’d rather fill my ears with freshly picked cotton, bolls and all, than suffer through “Rocky Top” ever again. Tennessee is a beautiful place, but I'm a Hobnail Boot kind of guy.
The Veteran in a New Field (1865) by Winslow Homer
How Dolly isn’t one of our nation’s Poet Laureates is beyond me, but with her voice, the President bestows a National Medal of Arts award instead. Rhinestones and big uns’ aren’t what the Library of Congress is looking for (save the politically correct BS for someone else; she calls em’ that).
Anyway, how I went from Babs and Dolly to SEC football is anyone’s guess. Oh Lord, did I just call her Babs? Yeah, I reckon I did. For the record, I’m keeping my Man Card. I unapologetically love her voice. Maybe this is one of those things that’s cool about aging – you stop caring what people think about you. But if you pull up next to me at the light with the windows down, I’m 86’ing Babs for “Call me the Breeze.”
