Song Title: High 'n' Dry (click to listen)
Artist: Black Oak Arkansas
Date that it entered the Top 100: Never
From the album: High on the Hog
Album release date: November 1, 1973
Utterly Meaningless Trivia:
Very little of importance was going on in my life in the fall of 1973. I was in the 7th grade, living in my "home county" in central South Dakota. My favorite pastime, besides reading Hardy Boys mysteries and comic books and watching our one TV channel (KPLO-TV, Channel 6, Reliance, SD), was exploring and playing in long-abandoned houses and business buildings (abandoned for decades, not just a few years) with friends. We often went on one- or two-mile hikes into the country to visit our favorite old farm houses and spend the day playing and exploring. It was tough going, walking home through plowed farm fields with arms full of "treasure."
Note of warning: Some of you may say, "Hey! I know this story!" Others won't. I cannot help it. It just fits this theme too perfectly!
Place, Date and Event with which I Associate This Song:
In the fall of 1991, I was working as a sports writer (yuck!) and photographer (not yuck) for the local weekly paper here in ______, in the Panhandle of Nebraska.
Other than that, life was dull.
The odds must have been about a billion to one that I would experience the most embarrassing episode in my life on a desolate highway thirty miles from the nearest town in "remote" western Nebraska (or anywhere else, for that matter).
But I did.
How do I convince you that such astronomical odds are not an exaggeration? Read on:
One Friday night, while I was photographing a high-school football game, a guy started talking to me on the sidelines. He was an executive with one of the region's two TV stations. As we talked, he soon learned that I was going to be tending bar the next afternoon (Saturday) at a local bar.
He showed up the next afternoon as a customer, bringing along a coworker/friend.
The more he drank, the more he kept telling me what "promise" I had and how I would really fit a particular "career" he had in mind.
Wow!
The prospect of working at a TV station, no matter how "podunk" it is, was very exciting. I asked him for more details, but he refused to say anything except "how promising" I was. He was enjoying leading me on. After about a half hour or an hour of such leading, he finally admitted that the job was not with his TV station.
What a letdown. Had he intentionally been misleading me? I should have known not to get my hopes up. Then my always suspicious brain suddenly clicked into gear. I concluded that he must be talking about some work he does "on the side."
Based on ESP skills alone, I asked him in a derogatory tone, "It's not with Amway, is it?"
"Why, yes it is!"
Blankety! Blank! Blank!
I wanted to back away from him like he had the plague, but I couldn't because I was working.
There was no way on earth I was going to let him recruit me into that line of work.
No way.
No way.
No way.
Did I say what a letdown that was?
True to the Amway stereotype, the guy wouldn't quit pestering me.
True to the MW stereotype, I kept refusing as bluntly as I could (without being rude).
After some further back and forth, he finally caught my attention.
"We'll be going to an Amway seminar in Rapid City, SD, in a few days. You should come with us."
As I say, there was no way on earth that I was going to become an Amway "disciple," but I was definitely interested in getting a free ride to Rapid City (yes, my life was that boring). I agreed to go along, but I warned him that I still had no intention of joining Amway. He was convinced that he had a new brainwashee, and I was convinced I was going to get a free ride to Rapid City.
A few days later, we departed on the four-hour drive to Rapid City in a huge Cadillac (or some other high-end car). Besides me, there were four others. They consisted of the car's owner (about age 60), who was the owner of a local jewelry store. Next came the man who was trying to recruit me (about age 35). With him was his wife (also about age 35). Finally, there was a man (age between 35 and 45) who was a low-level employee at the same TV station. This employee, like me, was also a potential Amway recruit. I'll call him Joe since I don't remember his real name. The others don't need names.
I rode in the front passenger seat, while the TV exec, his wife and Joe rode in the back (they must have been trying to butter me up by giving me the best seat). All of these people were total strangers to me, and I felt very out of place, especially since I was going to participate in something that was a total turnoff for me. I was starting to regret my decision to go along.
The five of us chatted about various nothings as we drove out of town. I soon learned that Joe (the other "recruit") was a native of New York City. I wondered how he had managed to end up at a tiny TV station in western Nebraska. I think I asked him, but I don't remember his answer.
About 30 miles out of town, in the middle of nowhere, the jewelry-store owner started talking about the barbershop quartet to which he belonged. I'm definitely not a singer and definitely not a fan of barbershop quartets, so I stayed out of that boring conversation -- for a while. [My brain starts to get dizzy, and my heart starts to pound, even now, as I reach this part of the story.] As they were discussing possible songs to sing at future events, a totally random thought entered my mind -- random, that is, according to the laws of everyday mundane reality, but fated according to the laws of the universe. I thought of a song that might sound good (in a humorous way) as sung in the four-part harmony of a barbershop quartet. During a brief pause in the conversation, I told them about High 'n' Dry, by Black Oak Arkansas. This group, as you might guess, was formed in Arkansas.
Why I thought of that particular song, out of the thousands of songs I could have thought of, I don't know. It was a certainty, though, that no barbershop quartet had ever sung it before. I knew it was a silly notion even as I said it, and I knew that the jewelry-store owner would never listen to me; however, I was just trying to make conversation with these strangers and maybe even introduce something unique into the annals of barbershop-quartet history.
The reader should know that High 'n' Dry is the only soft song on an album filled with exceptionally hard and loud rock songs, most of which have a grating edge to them. I have never been a big fan of exceptionally hard rock, and I figured a 60-year-old jewelry-store owner would be even less of a fan. Therefore, just in case he had heard of Black Oak Arkansas and was ready to dismiss me as a kook, I added an editorial comment to my suggestion:
"Everything else they sing STINKS, but that song is absolutely great."
As my utterance of the word, "stinks," was still ringing in the air, I noted an immediate and uncomfortable silence. No one looked at me or spoke a single word as we raced along that remote highway on the wide-open prairies of western Nebraska. I could tell immediately that this wasn't a normal silence, and instinct -- or, rather, ESP -- caused me to start feeling embarrassed, even though I had no idea why. Was my suggestion of a song by a hard-rock group that bad? Or had I been too crude when I used the word "stinks"?
The silence continued, and it was beginning to generate a distinctly uncomfortable quality throughout the vehicle, or so it seemed to my overactive imagination. I was growing confused and embarrassed, fearing that I had, indeed, said something terribly wrong; however, I still had no idea what exactly it might have been. I could feel my face starting to turn red. I turned around and looked at the man from New York City, as well as at the general manager and his wife.
After some more silence, I finally said something to the general manager. I can no longer remember what I said, because his reply has blotted it from my memory forever. I may have commented to him, in an extremely roundabout way, about their odd lack of a response to my suggestion. That is the only thing that makes sense now, considering his reply.
He pointed at Joe and said very uncomfortably to me, "Joe was a member of Black Oak Arkansas."
I should just stop right there and let you imagine how I felt, but that wouldn't be right. I wish I could find the right words, but I cannot.
Suffice it to say that the interior of the car started to spin as the blood drained from my head. I think I went into shock because I couldn't feel my body anymore. I couldn't see straight as I tried to look at Joe (who was from NEW YORK CITY!!!!!!!!!!! NOT EFFING ARKANSAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!) and tried to converse with him normally, as if I had said nothing at all; but my voice wasn't working, and my neck refused to hold my head upright. I kept thinking that everyone must surely see it tilting oddly to one side and slightly backward. I thought about trying to force it back upright, but I feared I would overcompensate, like a drunk trying to walk straight, and it would then tip in the other direction. So I left it where it was.
I may have said to "Joe," with as much fan-like awe as I could muster, and in spite of the absence of all oxygen in my body and near total loss of muscle control in my lips, "Really? You were? Wow!"
I knew it was too late to explain that I hadn't really meant it like that, because, no matter how well I explained it, it would sound like a lie. I had said it with way too much emphasis.
We drove along in terrible silence for a while, during which I stared across the back seat, past Joe and out the side window. I couldn't look him (or anyone) in the face, but I wanted to "emit" feelings of "sincerest apologies" by looking in Joe's general direction as often as possible.
After a sufficient amount of time had passed, I said, in general, to everyone (this is a very, very rough paraphrase), "You know, I really put my foot in my mouth. There's a reason I said that the way I did, but I don't think anyone is ever going to believe me now. I honestly didn't mean it the way it sounded."
Much to Joe's credit, he tried to ease my guilt.
He said, "I only joined the band in their later years. I'm not an original member of the group."
That didn't make me feel better at all because he had obviously chosen to join that particular band because he liked their music (music which I had just said "STINKS"). All the rest of that long, long night, while in the car, then in the seminar and later at a Perkin's Restaurant in Rapid City, I visited with Joe like there was no tomorrow. I tried to apologize for my comment several times without overdoing it, because I was driven by a guilt such as I had never experienced before. I even told him the truth of the matter when the others weren't listening. He continued to tell me not to worry about it, and he really seemed to mean it. He was a sincerely nice person, and once I dropped the subject, we had a good time discussing other topics (in fact, during the seminar, we had both had fun whispering obnoxious comments and jokes to one another about the various Amway speakers). I still felt like the lowest form of life on earth.
In conclusion, just think about it: The desolate plains of western Nebraska, 30 miles from the nearest town, 1,000 miles from Arkansas, 1,500 miles from New York City, a car heading to an Amway seminar in South Dakota, four total strangers, barbershop quartets, a rock band from Arkansas, a guy from New York City, a transient fool from South Dakota who manages to think of -- and then insult -- the one band, out of the thousands of bands on earth, that has a former member right there in the car with said transient fool.
Tell me: What are the odds of such a situation occurring, based on your calculations?
Final Note 1.) In spite of this horrible incident, High 'n' Dry, although it is somewhat of an acquired taste, remains one of my favorite "feel-good" songs of all time.
Final Note 2.) Oh, yeah..., and I never joined Amway either.
-----
Footnote for those who don't know: This story (with a few imperfections that have now been replaced by a few new imperfections) was originally published in this blog on January 8, 2005.
