I’ve been thinking about RL, my Sainted Father, a lot recently. A few weeks ago we observed the 19th anniversary of his passing (19!) and that occasion sorta spun me off into some musical tangents because he was so influential in exposing me to a lot of musical styles at a very young age.

It took me years before I actually appreciated his efforts — as opposed to me raising my eyebrows when he’d play George Jones and Ray Price, or me suffering heroically when he’d bribe the doorman at the Famous Door on Bourbon Street so we could hear authentic Dixieland jazz, instead of letting me dart down the block like a Dickensian waif, trying to see junkie strippers cavorting naked through the French windows in every other bar in the Quarter.

Thank God I finally figured it all out — not that there’s anything wrong with junkie strippers.

Anyhoo, I’m coming off a musical bender where, over and over in this spirit, I’ve listened to and watched the video for Alan Jackson’s “Drive,” a pretty wonderful autobiographical song from years ago dedicated to and written for Jackson’s own dead father.

“Dad taught me how to drive” stories are probably universal and not bound by geography, but I do relate to Jackson’s rural south evocations. We had a summer place at Lake Tawakoni — a sort of blue collar paradise of waterfront mobil homes that, to me, growing up and not knowing any different, seemed as cool and exotic as any Hawaiian or Long Island oceanfront real estate. 

It was there that RL put me behind the wheel of the funeral limosine, an amazing vehicle he’d bought to squire around drunken hunting buddies, and taught me how to negotiate the dusty country roads. He exudes total confidence in my burgeoning skills, sitting in the shotgun position, laughing and providing tutelage and support.

Alan just nails it and this is a triumph of old school country balladry (although our funeral limo, perhaps not surprisingly, didn't have a clutch):

“A young boy two hands on the wheel / I can't replace the way it made me feel and I would press that clutch / And I would keep it right /He would say a little slower son / You’re doing just fine …”