BY C. INANEN

Copyright is held by the author.

THE MUSIC business is a funny thing. I’ve been in it all my life and I still haven’t got it figured out. From when I was 14 years old back in 1968 and started following Redbone Newton around Maxwell Street in Chicago, playing on the sidewalks for quarters and dollars until my recent Korean tour with Old John Otum where we’d played in Busan, Changwon and on board the aircraft carrier USS Carl Vinson I’ve never held a real job, I’ve just played and sang music.

Take hit songs for example. I wrote and recorded “Sausalito Monday Morning Blues” with Evicta Records about 30 years ago. It made a grand total of $60.41. That was so disappointing the next good song I wrote I gave away to a friend, Lucille Tucker. That was “Only Counting Stars” and she recorded it on the B side of her album “Heartaches and Broken Hearts.” It was a good song. She was an established artist and had the voice for it. I didn’t get any money for that one but she wrote me a real nice note of thanks. You probably never heard either one.

I’m KJ Butler. You probably never heard of me, either, unless you’re a die-hard Blues fan. I play guitar and sing a song or two backing up Old John Otum. I used to play guitar and sing a song or two backing up Lucille Tucker. Sometimes I play guitar and back up other musicians over at Cotton Pickin’ Records. You get the picture? It’s a living.

So our drummer Ruby Blue and I are driving along on our way home from the Garden Spot Tavern where we’d just performed two sets. Actually I’m driving and she’s sitting in the passenger seat of my van with her feet up on the dashboard, eating a snow cone. She’s 19. I passed 60 years old some time ago. Despite the difference in our ages we’re friends as well as bandmates.

“How come you never talk about your dating life?” she asks me.

I glance over at her. The lights from the buildings and the other cars give a sort of stroboscopic effect, as if I’m seeing a series of still pictures of her. “That’s because I don’t have a dating life,” I explain.

“You should,” she goes on. “I see how women come up to you between sets and afterwards. They aren’t all just making song requests.” She’s right. She continues, “That Country Music singer onboard the aircraft carrier was looking for more than just a singing partner, too.”

She was referring to Barbara Cline. We’d done a duet together of the Hank Williams song “Lonesome Whistle.” It had sounded all right. “She’s wasn’t interested in an old guy like me,” I told her. “I think you’re seeing something that wasn’t there.”

“Oh, it was there,” she argued. “You just ignored it.”

I thought objectively about that. “Maybe you’re right.” I considered how to describe this so Ruby would understand. “I live alone and I’m happy doing things my way. You’ve got that whole “old dogs and new tricks” thing to consider. It was different when I was your age.”

She apparently considered that and I thought I’d effectively deflected that particular line of conversation. Then she started up again. “I know this woman you might like. She’s a singer-songwriter and she likes baseball, like you.” I didn’t comment. “She’s nice and she’s attractive, too. Maybe a little bit younger than you are, but that’s OK, right?”

“Younger, older, that doesn’t make any difference,” I explained. “I don’t need you to be playing matchmaker.” Maybe that came out a little harsher than I had intended it.

“Maybe she does,” she told me. I shook my head thinking we were figuratively headed down the wrong road. Literally we were on the right road and I pulled up in front of the building Ruby lives in. Her apartment is up above a pizza place, where she works part-time. Being a drummer in a Blues band like she is doesn’t necessarily pay the bills. I watched her until she had safely entered. It’s not the best neighborhood and it was 3:00 AM. I kind of look out for Ruby Blue as she plows ahead in life.

Maybe she does the same thing for me.

A couple of weeks later, on a late Sunday morning my cell phone plays a couple bars of Lead Belly’s “Pick a Bale of Cotton” signifying an incoming call. It’s Ruby Blue.

“You weren’t thinking about going over to Rinaldo’s Music today, were you?”

No, I actually wasn’t. I had been thinking about the fact that pitchers and catchers had recently reported for spring training, a sure sign that winter was on its way out and spring was just around the corner. In the Midwest, particularly in Chicago, that’s a pleasant thought. “Not really,” I told her. “Why? Is your Toyota sick?”

“Yeah,” she admits. “When I start it up all the lights come on in the dashboard and they keep flashing. “I’m afraid to drive it like that.”

I make sympathetic noises into the telephone. I’m not really doing anything important and don’t mind a trip to Rinaldo’s Music. I mentally run through a list of what I might need. Strings, guitar picks, a new strap, there isn’t really anything but I can browse through what they’ve got. You never know.

“I looked on the internet and that wasn’t very helpful. Maybe it’s the computer. A mechanic has to look at it unless it fixes itself.” She didn’t sound too hopeful about that possibility but she firmly believes cars can be self-healing. “I ordered a Moon gel dampening pad for my tom drum and now it’s in. They’ve called a couple of times and want me to pick it up.” Those clear jelly-like blobs can be used on drumheads to reduce overtones. Ruby uses a pro-quality Roland drum kit that’s got a lot of miles on it and she’s personalizing it to accommodate her needs.

“No problem,” I told her. “Let’s go after lunch.”

When I arrive at Ruby’s she’s out front waiting and she isn’t alone. Seated next to her is a woman with long straight dark hair, parted in the middle. Whatever they’re talking about involves Ruby waving her arms around like a berserk windmill and making a fish face. I probably don’t want to know.

“Hiya, KJ,” she greets me. “This is Betty Stafford, I told you about her. She’s going to ride along. I’ll sit in the back.”

My van is the commercial version. It’s only got two seats but it’s got a big spacious cargo area which is handy for hauling all the assorted stuff we need to make music. Our guitars, mike stands, microphones, amps and pre-amps, Ruby’s kit, the list goes on and on.

“Betty’s the singer-songwriter I mentioned to you,” Ruby adds as she makes introductions. That clarifies things a little bit. Betty Stafford looks to be about 50 years old, a young 50 and if she wears make-up it’s so artfully applied that I can’t tell. I’m not good at that kind of thing. She’s wearing a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt which reads, “A fun thing to do in the morning is not talk to me,” as well as a pair of athletic shoes.

Ruby was right. Betty Stafford is nice, attractive and I like her. She’s easy to be around. I can see why Ruby is friends with her. Ruby gets her dampening pad. When she pays for it she counts out 12 quarters along with some bills and has the clerk open the plastic tub they come in for her. There are six of them inside. I buy some guitar strings. Betty Stafford doesn’t buy anything but we look at their assortment of used guitars together. She’s definitely an acoustic woman.

“I’ve got an old Gibson,” I mention. Mostly I play my black Fender Telecaster. I’m old-school, you know?

“Is that the one you used when you backed Rosemary Lee?” Ruby’s been talking about me. Very few people know I played on her debut album.

“It is,” I admitted. Rosemary Lee is a young woman from Kentucky who had recently cut an album for Cotton Pickin’ Records. Hubert there had prevailed upon me to accompany her since I can play Carter scratch style guitar and the record had been old traditional songs, Child Ballads and the like. Rosemary Lee herself had played a mandolin that was probably 75 or 100 years older than she is. It was worn down to the bare wood in spots.

“She’s got a beautiful voice, so true and pure.” I agreed. It was as if those songs which were collected during the 1800s had been written just for her.

Betty Stafford tried out a Gibson with nylon strings. I could tell right away she wasn’t much of a guitar player. She fumbled some changes and hit dead frets several times. Her volume was erratic; too, it was all over the place, randomly. She had chosen to play Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are a-Changin’.” A Folkie staple, that was from back around 1963 or 64 and I wasn’t surprised she knew it.

Then she handed me the guitar, thrusting it on me. “Play something,” she urged. I really didn’t want to. “Go ahead,” she told me. “Please?”

It was the “Please” that did it. If I’m going to play something I’m going to do it right. I can’t begin to guess how many different Blues songs are in my repertoire. I’ve been playing Blind Lemon Jefferson’s “Rising High Water Blues” for 50 years. “Barbara Cline and I did this one onboard the USS Carl Vinson last month,” I told her. “Lonesome Whistle,” I announced it. That was popularized by Hank Williams, maybe written by him, too. The way he sang it was stark and unsettling. My version is different, pretty, sad and haunting, a good song for a nylon stringed Gibson. I sang along with my playing. When I finished the Rinaldo’s Music clerk applauded. So did Betty Stafford and Ruby Blue. So did some guy with a shaved head who was eyeing a white Epiphone SG electric guitar. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t into Country Music.

“That was pretty,” Betty told me. “I wish I could play like that.”

I ended up getting her telephone number, suggesting, “Maybe we can go out to breakfast someday.”

She told me, “I’m not really a morning person.” Meeting some time for coffee was equally a non-starter. “I’m not too keen on going for coffee.”

Some time passed. Life gets in the way of things. I had nearly forgotten about her when opening day for my local minor league baseball team rolled around. As I was planning to attend it struck me that would be more fun if I were to go with Betty Stafford so I gave her a call, carefully re-introducing myself. “I’d love to go,” she told me. “I thought, you know, you’d forgotten about me or something when I didn’t hear from you.”

Opening day was great. Blue skies and sunshine, standing and singing the National Anthem and later joining the rest of the crowd for a verse of “Take me Out to the Ballgame” in the seventh inning was all good. It didn’t matter to either of us that the home town team lost five – three; it was just nice to observe and participate in the familiar rituals, cheering along with the rest of the crowd. About the eighth inning I realized that today was even better than most opening days because I was sharing it with someone.

It was encouraging when Betty told me, “Call me again, KJ, all right?” when I dropped her off.

I learned that she had lived in Austin, Los Angeles and Nashville, Tennessee during what she jokingly described as “her County Music phase.” All of those cities are good places for singer-songwriters. None of them seem to have worked out for Betty Stafford.

The days lengthened. John Otum, Ruby and I did our weekly gigs. Full summer was upon us when I got the idea to barbecue outside. That idea grew and I decided to invite Ruby Blue, John Otum, his daughter and Betty Stafford. I can throw a cheap cook out as well as anyone. I was tending the hot dogs on the grill as everyone sat at the picnic table. Packages of buns, mustard, bright green relish, chopped onions, tomato slices, dill pickles and celery salt all sat between them on the table, everything you need for a Chicago style hot dog. A pitcher of lemonade and some cold beer finished off the table in style.

Naturally, with that bunch the conversation turned to music. I was planning to do an album of field hollers and work chants for a woman over in Ohio who collects and studies those. She’s a degreed sociologist with a whole string of letters after her name. She would be financing the thing; I doubted it would even make back expenses but it might end up in the Smithsonian collection. They were interested in hearing about that. Old John Otum let slip that Hubert at Cotton Pickin’ Records wanted us to record the new version of “House of the Rising Sun” we had been playing recently.

“Might as well throw in a few more and we can make an album out of it,” he casually mentioned. “It’s been a while since we did anything in the studio.” This took Ruby and me by surprise; he hadn’t mentioned it until now. “I’m thinking “Bo Diddley” and “Willie and the Hand Jive” would be good ones. Those are drum songs. Ruby can show off a little bit.” Ruby Blue looked inordinately pleased, hearing that. He turned toward Betty Stafford. “Have you got anything that would fit into that? Something like the Rolling Stones’ “Not Fade Away?”

She got real big eyed and shook her head vehemently. “No, nothing like that.”

John sang a bit of “Tennessee Wig Walk.” “The bow-legged chicken told the bow-legged duck, you ain’t good lookin’ but you sure can…” He looked at his daughter and finished that line with, “crow.” We all laughed, that was funny but John’s point had been the song had the Bo Diddley beat to it, a five-accent hambone rhythm like the others he had mentioned.

“Dad! For goodness sake! Maybe I should take you home,” she protested. She’s a jolly rotund woman. I like her.

They did leave a few minutes later. Ruby and Betty Stafford were riding together and suddenly it was time to clean up. The barbecue had been successful. Ruby started to help me clean up. I protested, “You don’t need to worry about that. You’re my guests.”

“Oh, it’s the least we can do,” Betty adds.

“I’ll tell you what you could do, if you want to, is play something you’ve written. I’d really like to hear that.”

Betty’s expression went pensive. She was indecisive. “You know I’m not really a singer-songwriter,” she began apologetically. “I’m actually a waitress. I’ve waited tables in Austin, Los Angeles and Nashville.” That explained why she hadn’t been keen on meeting for coffee and why breakfast dates weren’t appealing to her.

“Why don’t you sing something you’ve written?” Ruby suggested to me and we passed by that awkward moment.

I’m good at that, opening mouth and inserting foot, I shouldn’t have asked so I readily agreed. “Sure,” I told her “Let me get my guitar.” I went inside and returned with my old acoustic Gibson guitar. Set up with steel strings it’s a good guitar, with a tough hard sound that’s perfect for the Blues.

“This is “Sausalito Monday Morning Blues.” I wrote it about 30 years ago.”

It’s a standard twelve-bar blues featuring “worried notes,” thirds, fifths and sevenths flattened in pitch. A hypnotic walking bass line reinforces the trance-like rhythm. The words are on a classic Blues theme, a poor boy a long way from home. It sounds as good now as it did 30 years ago, maybe better. Some good Blues songs are timeless. Ruby and Betty listened raptly. I finished it off with four rising open notes, then I smiled.

“That’s a good one,” Ruby pronounced.

Biting her lower lip, Betty reached her arms out for the guitar. “I’ve got one for you after all,” she said.

“You don’t have to,” I told her, a little concerned. I didn’t want to see her doing something she didn’t want to do.

“I know,” she agreed. “I want you to hear it.” Cradling the guitar in her arms she told us, “I call this “Frogs and Fallen Princes.” She concentrated on her hands and fingers as she began playing. Her singing was about on par with her guitar playing, what you might expect from a gifted amateur. I’m sure the fact she was playing an unfamiliar guitar made it more difficult for her. It was a whimsical, tongue-in-cheek song about the men she had known in her life. Some of them were likened to frogs from the get-go and others were fallen princes which carried their own disappointment. I guess maybe you could say it was in the style of Joanie Mitchell, maybe Leonard Cohen, kind of like his “Famous Blue Raincoat,” sort of bittersweet. It wasn’t my style music but it was a decent song.

She blushed when she finished and handed me back my guitar. Ruby clapped. “That’s it,” she said, obviously curious as to my reaction.

“Thank you,” I told her. “Which am I, a frog or a fallen prince?”

Our light hearted conversation had suddenly taken a much more serious tone. She looked at me. “Your verse isn’t written yet,” she explained. “I don’t know but I guess we’ll find out.” 

***

C. Inanen lives in the midwest U.S. His work has been most recently published in Down in the Dirt magazine. It will also be featured in the March 2026 issue of Close to the Bone, April 2026 issue of Yellow Mama magazine, May issues of Blue Lake Review and AntipodeanSF as well as the June 2026 issue ofDown in the Dirt magazine. He is a contributor to The Yard: Crime Blog and the British The Short Humour Site.