Nurse the Hate: Keep The Dream Alive

I walked into a car dealership and got the eye from a sales guy.  We had made eye contact long enough that I decided to end the stalemate.  Why so many of these auto sales employees feel that they need to assert themselves as some sort of alpha dog, I haven't a clue.  I asked this guy how he was doing.  Without a touch of irony, said he was "living the dream".  I immediately thought that as a car salesman at a second rate dealership, his boyhood dreams must have been modest, and therefore very obtainable. I should also point out, that as a car salesman, I should not have been surprised by this response. It's in his blood at this point.  It's not all bad though. It reminded me of a story I should tell you about Robert Gordon.

To those of you somehow uninitiated into the ins and outs of the 1980s rockabilly revival, Robert Gordon was one of the big "stars". He was signed to a major label (CBS maybe?), had a booming voice, and had Link Wray in tow as his guitar player. This guy had the total package. He played all obscure rockabilly cover tunes, which at the time were almost rumors more than actual songs you could get your hands on. All the stuff was out of print, so if you somehow figured out Johnny Burnette was cool, you'd have to shell out $58 for a used 45 or bad English album pressing. It was like Robert Gordon had access to a great record collection you didn't know even existed. On top of that, he was really good. Then factor in that he was dropping these amazing songs on your head that you had never heard before. Hell, Springsteen even gave him "Fire" to record. Like I said, he was en fuego. 

Let's fast forward to the late 1990s. Robert Gordon got dropped by his label after a bunch of records, and Link split to go to Europe. Robert had completely dropped out of sight for years until some well intentioned soul in Columbus decided to get Robert out on tour again. The Handler seemed like one of those big record collector fans that made his most prized purchase to date, Robert Gordon himself.  He treated Robert like how he saw managers conduct themselves around stars on TV shows.  They may have been small rooms, but Robert and His Handler treated them like they were stadium shows. Detroit's Twistin' Tarantulas acted as his backing band, and Robert picked up a nice little check in places like Wilbert's in Cleveland, Little Brother's in Columbus, etc. Our band (The Cowslingers) landed the gig to open for him, and I was really excited to see him play. The fact we got to play too was all gravy. Robert Gordon was one of the guys that really sparked my interest in rockabilly, and I must've listened to his versions of "Lonesome Train", "The Way I Walk", and "Black Slacks" a million times. 

We played our quick set, and I walked "backstage" (which was really the kitchen, office and parking garage at Wilbert's).  The office was really small, but there were a couple of chairs in there and you could sit down.  It really wasn't much larger than a closet with a desk in it.  I could hear the Twistin Tarantulas start their set, and the plan was Robert would join them in the middle as they played some sort of grand entrance music for him. As I sat there in the office cooling off, a distracted Robert Gordon walks in with His "Handler" leading the way. They must have pulled in through the garage.  I introduced myself, and Robert looked past me while shaking my hand. "Hey ya...howya doin'..." The Handler asked Robert if he needed anything, and Robert sent him on a quest for water and towels (just like Elvis!). Suddenly it was quiet and uncomfortable as Robert, my brother Ken, and I all stared at each other. It was just the three of us there in that little closet.  None of us really had anything to say, and we all hesitated to initiate conversation. The Handler then returns, and says Robert has to go, to the parking garage to get away from us I guess because unless he was going to fry up some wings in the kitchen, there was nowhere else to go.

This is when it happened.  As Robert Gordon exits, he pointed to us while simultaneously snapping his finger and said "Keep the dream alive.". Pow!  I mean, what the fuck?  It was sort of beautiful.  He asserted his dominance by implying he had arrived and we by comparison were scuttling across the ocean floor, this despite the fact we were all standing around near a kitchen at a small nightclub.  The phrase itself was so cliche that it demonstrated that he gave it, and by extension us, no thought whatsoever.  He was Robert Gordon.  He has A Handler.  And now he was going to stand in the garage instead of standing here with Krusty and I.  The phrase "Keep the dream alive" took on a new life with the band, something we took joy in hitting other bands with at any opportunity.  

Robert seemed like an OK guy.  I mean, I wouldn't have wanted to talk to us before going on for a gig with a pickup band either.  I don't fault him for it.  He made some great records.  He was good that night too.  More importantly, he gave me the phrase "Keep the dream alive".  So now, when I hear a car salesman tell me he's "living the dream", I think of Robert Gordon.