Neal Francis Leaves ‘Em Gasping for More

Neal Francis left Chicago, and he headed to the ATX. Three days, 6 concerts, and 2 live radio shows later, Francis moved on. The modern day piano man left behind a legion of new fans begging him to come back soon.

During his whirlwind SXSW 2022 stay, Francis appeared at venues as large as Willie Nelson’s Luck Reunion and as intimate the brand new coffee bar at the Carpenter Hotel. He shared bills with the likes of Nelson, Jason Isbell, Heartless Bastards, and The Bright Light Social Hour. His high energy shows left audiences hungry for more.

“I think he’s really going to blow up,” predicted one fan, who told me he’d been to half of Francis’ Austin appearances.

This writer was fortunate enough to catch Francis and his band under a big tent at Luck Reunion on Thursday and squeezed into the patio stage at Parlor & Yard on Saturday. Both times, the quartet delivered incredibly tight arrangements with enough jamming to show off their virtuosity. They play a little bit of soul, a little bit of synth, a little bit of funk, and a lot of rock and roll. It’s all packaged around Francis’ soft but intense tenor sharing lyrics that explore the 30-year-old’s battles with alcohol, drug addiction, and their accompanying sorrows.

Witness this line from the hard charging “Can’t Stop the Rain,” off of his new album, In Plain Sight. (The album cut includes some fine slide guitar work by Derek Trucks.)

When you look in the mirror,

Do you see someone you know? 

Or are you just a stranger,

Buried in the snow?

Francis’ style touches on, but certainly doesn’t imitate, many keyboard legends. Going from song to song, his music elicited a “that sounds kind of like” response in my head: one was kind of like Elton John, another was kind of like Sly Stone, kind of like Leon Russell, kind of like Phish’s Page McConnell. The press clippings about his 2019 debut album, Changes, include a BBC radio host calling Francis “the reincarnation of Allen Toussaint.” One of the photos I took even made me think he looked kind of like a young Warren Zevon, whose demons he shares.

After the Parlor & Yard show, I asked Francis who his favorite piano player is. Given his variegated musical influences, his response really came as no surprise. He glanced upward for a moment then told me, in all sincerity, “I, I don’t really think I can answer that.”

I Wish I Could

I wish I could throw like Nelson Mandela and sing like Michelangelo;

I wish I could blow like Lucille Ball and free like the mad Karl Rove;

But, mostly, I just wish I could talk like Johnny Cash.

I wish I could scheme like Mazeroski and speak like the Big Man;

I wish I could scream like Frank Sinatra and swing like Julius Caesar;

But, honestly, I just wish I could talk like Johnny Cash.

I wish I could field like Lindsay Vonn and act like Barbara Jordan;

I wish I could waltz like Pablo Picasso and rule like Justin Tucker;

But, actually, I wish I could talk like Johnny Cash.

I wish I could pound like Mario Lemieux and draw like Meryl Streep;

I wish I could win like Mother Teresa and laugh like Keith Moon;

But, most sincerely, I wish I could talk like Johnny Cash.

I wish I could shoot like Fred Astair and serve like Michael Jordan;

I wish I could think like Jerry Garcia and fly like Babe Ruth;

But, humbly, I want to talk like Johnny Cash.

I wish I could skate like Patrick Mahomes and joke like Albert Einstein;

I wish I could paint like Mavis Staples and kick like Tom Brady;

But, for real, I oughta be able to talk like Johnny Cash.

I wish I could write like Jesse Owens and survive like Carol Burnet;

I wish I could run like Vonnegut and pick like Bill Clinton;

But, don’t you think, wouldn’t it be great if I could talk like Johnny Cash?

I never wanted to dance like Rick Perry or Tom DeLay or Sean Spicer;

And I'm glad I don’t lie like Donald Trump or Richard Nixon;

But I really sue-ly do-ly, honestly and truly, wish I could talk sonorous and deep and big, talk just like Johnny Cash.

“How do you do?”

Photo by Heinrich Klaffs/Creative Commons license

The Brits

Names in British novels. 

So novel.

So British.

So mocking.

So true.

Bathsheba Everdene;

Uncle Pumblechook;

Lord Frederick Verisopht;

Henleigh Mallinger Grandcourt;

The Aged Parent;

Sir Damask Monogram.

Each, alone, evokes all appearance, all nature. Then, hundreds of pages to prove it.

A new classic British novel in five names:

Griselda of Xebec,

Sir S.K. “Silky” Pocketsquare,

Lord George Piggly-Wiggly,

King Kermit Orion Neville Gaitherslather (KONG),

Twitters McRobin.

Save me the trouble.

Fill in the proof.

Eye Fly

My pet fly lives in my eye. Loyal, true, and obedient. So well trained. He (my bias; he may be she) goes where I gaze. Up, down, in, out.

He flies around the room and back on my command. Today, when I brushed N’s teeth, I flew him in and out of N’s mouth and up his nose. 

If I forget who he is, I swat him on my food or flying in the door. I swat air.

Sometimes, he startles me. More than sometimes.

Slowly, day by day, he melts away. Soon he will be gone.

I will miss him.

HE'S BACK!!! FOREVER!

 

Eulogy For a Great Man

“Great” – like “quality” – is a tough word to pin down. We think we know greatness when we see it, but frequently struggle to explain our rationale. A friend of mine passed away last week after a two-plus-year fight against an insidious brain tumor. 

Although he had his flaws, Lou Goodman was a great man. 

There. I said it. Now here’s where I explain, mostly to myself, why I think so.

What is “great”? It’s related to “good,” but not part of the good-better-best triad. It has no natural antonym, like “bad” is to “good.” Merriam-Webster has 11 definitions for “great” as an adjective; it means everything from “large in size” to a more-distant relative. As for what qualities make a person great, three of those definitions stand out:

• Eminent or distinguished;
• Markedly superior in character or quality; and
• Remarkably skilled.

So many parts of Lou’s professional career match up with those three standards of greatness. As the CEO of the Texas Medical Association for 22 years, Lou was “eminent and distinguished” – he stood out – among his peers around the nation. The more experienced among them quickly recognized Lou’s talents and gladly let him lead. The newcomers forged his alliance. A generation of health care leaders sought his wisdom, trusted his counsel, and followed his example. The physicians whom he so greatly admired and for whom he toiled so mightily in turn held Lou in the highest esteem.

Though Lou was known to use bluff and bluster to his advantage, he had a lot of there there. No doubt about his “markedly superior qualities.” Lou was very smart (he earned A-plusses, not just As, in graduate school), a quick study on the complex issues medicine faces. He demanded solid analytics because that’s how he earned his PhD and then built his career. He respected those of a similar ilk. He saw right through lightweights and blowhards. Lou wouldn’t suffer a fool, and many a fool suffered his disdain.

When it comes to “remarkable skills,” I believe each of us has at least a bit of greatness within. It may seem insignificant. My mom, for some reason, always prided herself on how well she folded hospital corners in a bed sheet. Others’ great skills may be more easily quantified and recognized, even if limited in scope – hitting a baseball, blowing a horn, writing elegant code, discerning a muffled heart murmur. 

But it’s the breadth, the sheer area, of competencies in which someone is “remarkably skilled” that makes us brand a woman or a man as great. Such was Lou Goodman.

Lou was a great leader. The volume of books and research on leadership testifies to the expanse of skills the best leaders must master: personality, strategy, attitude, fortitude, confidence, humility, patience, vision.

I’ve seen Lou expertly ride the often choppy waves of each of those character traits ... except humility. I’ll leave it to his family and closer friends to disclose if Lou was humble in private. He certainly was a proud man – the opposite of humble – but I’d argue that pride fueled his drive for success. Not only did he hate to lose; he hated to be seen as a loser. Even absent humility, he was still a great leader. None of us – even the pantheon of bests like Lincoln and Churchill that Lou so admired – is perfect.

Lou made few mistakes, and his pride made him loath to admit them. I heard him acknowledge one or two, punctuated with the advice/warning, “Don’t ever make the same mistake twice.”

Lou could read people amazingly quickly – and usually quite accurately. He could tell friend from foe, genuine from poser, clean from dirty, valuable from timewaster, trustworthy from dodgy. This skill fed Lou’s ultimate strength: he was a master at forging long-lasting, tight relationships. So many of his friends were besties. So many associates were confidants.

At the ceremony last year to rename the TMA building after Lou, a U.S. congressman and a state senator were the keynote speakers, earnestly laying on the praise. Between them, they had more than 40 years of public service. They were close enough that Lou could call them any day for advice, and they were close enough that they frequently called him for advice.

Lou didn’t ask for favors; he convinced you it was in your best interest to do what he wanted. And then he returned the help. It was cement. Neither felt put out. Each anticipated the next opportunity to help.

If you don’t know about TMA, it’s the state professional organization that represents more than 53,000 Texas physicians and medical students. Been around since 1853. Lou regularly reminded us, “this is the doctors’ organization. They are the ranchers, we’re the ranch hands.” This simultaneously empowered and protected Lou and the people like me who worked for him. The physicians set the policy objectives, but we were trusted to use our own ideas and skills to get us there. It made TMA a great place to work, enabled Lou to hire some absolutely outstanding men and women, and kept many of them working for the doctors for 20, 25, 30 years or more. He loved to put his best staff on the spot, knowing they’d perform well, giving them a chance to shine in front of others.

Lou enjoyed a good argument, especially one-on-one, across the desk or standing in a quiet corner. Extra points for $5 words and historical references. He gave staff the latitude to disagree with him, to make our case, to use the expertise that he knew we had and he didn’t. (That’s why he hired us.) They weren’t always resolved right away. Some went on for months, with frequent jibes and other reminders of the unsettled business. On most questions of any import, one of us would end up agreeing with the other, or we’d devise an even better solution together. “You do know who signs your paycheck, don’t you?” was usually bluster – but a not-so-subtle reminder. Very, very rarely did Lou play his “because I’m the boss” card.

And Lou Goodman was a good man. Maybe not a boy scout – he could be stubborn and he had his prejudices – but he was honest and kind, sincere, a loyal friend. Several times I recall we undertook the tedious process of evaluating each of TMA’s numerous programs and projects and services, looking to trim those that were no longer needed. When it came down to it, though, Lou couldn’t pull the trigger. “Programs are people,” he’d say.

It’s been odd these past two years as we saw less and less of Lou, as we had less and less of him. And now he’s gone. But not. I hear so many of my colleagues speak a Lou-ism or lay out a Lou-like plan or tackle adversity with Lou-ish gusto and determination. 

We have a new boss now. He inherited an excellent team. And amid the unexpected challenges of COVID-19, he led us and motivated us to be everything that Lou saw in us, to give everything that Lou trained us to give.

And, so, the final defining trait of a great person – a legacy. Check.

Lou Goodman was a great man. Per that Texan-ism that Jersey Lou adopted, “It ain’t braggin’ if it’s true.”

Bobby Whitlock’s Layla Tales

When Bobby Whitlock and Coco Carmel take the stage at Austin’s Saxon Pub on a Saturday evening, Whitlock’s classic stories – as much as the pair’s performance and their I-really-love-you grins – are the stars of the show.

The stories chronicle events of almost 50 years ago. But they captivate because they recount the writing and recording of the magical songs that Derek and the Dominos released on their only studio album – Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs.

They’ve played hundreds of shows at the Saxon – most of them replete with versions of the same stories of Bobby and Eric Clapton and George Harrison. And that’s just fine by the crowd.

Two of my favorite classic Bobby tales:

• “So Eric says to me, ‘Bobby, why does love have to be so sad?’ And I’m thinking, ‘Dang! Why does that have to be such a long song title?’”
• On writing the lyrics to “Keep on Growing” on the spot. “Inspiration had its hold on me since I was real young. So I went out in the foyer of Criterion Records and my relatively inexperienced life fell out on that paper. I couldn’t write it down quick enough.”

There’s one hilarious story I didn’t record or write down, but I’ll get it one of these days. It’s about the time Bobby let Eric’s pet parrot Morris out of its cage, and the bird flew straight into the open fireplace. There’s a version of it in Bobby Whitlock: A Rock ‘n’ Roll Autobiography, but it’s not nearly as funny ... or sad ... or endearing as the way he tells it at the Saxon.