Olde Phoenix Inn

Georgia Rain

Rainy night in Georgia are made for the Blues. Some dark club in the back side of Atlanta. A summer night when the rain steam off the street as it falls. Sweet pain roll out the back door and down the alley as old men gather round new bourbon and old riffs. Real blues don't happen when the house is open. Real blues come after hours, when no body be paying the bills, and one can sing it from the heart.

Atlanta never did change much. Charlie's dated form the 20th century. The music was just as timeless, "Skippy" Johnson's whiskey bass belted out another verse to the sorrows of life as the dozen musicians gathered in the back room of the club moved to the rhythm as old...as old as man his self.

Taraban made himself unobtrusive and let the music and emotion roll over him. The real stuff was hard to find, and didn't usually happen when anyone strange was near. Two weeks of showing up nightly and slurping fruit juice from a bowl had paid off. No one chased him out at closing time. Taraban squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the music, pure, raw, unfettered by convention or propriety. Yes, this is what he lived for.

Billy Joe looked across the club at Taraban. "What in the hell is that?" He whispered to Sweet Pea Jones.

Sweet Pea shrugged and cradled his coronet in his hands "I don't know. But it has got the blues."

Billy Joe stared again at Taraban nodding slowly to the beat. "Dude. that's an antelope."

Sweet Pea nodded. "Yes'm, but it's an Antelope with the blues."

Billy Joe blinked at Taraban for several movements Sweet pea leaned across and added. "And in this day and age, who c'n blame him?" He brought up the horn to play as Skippy belted out...

When you lose your money, please don't lose your mind
When you lose your money, please don't lose your mind
When you lose your woman, please don't fool with mine

Tell you married men, how to keep your wife at home
Tell you married men, how to keep your wife at home
Get you a job, and roll for the man, and try to carry your labor home
Hmm, hmm, try to carry your labor home

If you ask me, ain't gonna tell you nothin' else
If you ask me, ain't gonna tell you nothin' else
Man's a fool if he thinks, got a whole woman to himself *


Georgia Rain -- Garry Stahl, January 2011


This is a slight rework of a much older casual post. I wanted to revisit it again, to try and capture some the magic I felt with these little bits.

I frequently find myself using weather to express mood. My Mother is from Georgia and I have seen rain do that. Charlie's is just a fever dream. There are a couple of call outs to Trek friends there including Jay that supplied the rough form of the last couple of lines.

I got a good woman, her eyes is china blue.
I got a good woman, her eyes is china blue.
But she's four legged and furry, can't cook like my Mama do.

* Excerpted: "Married Man Blues" -- by Blind Joe (Willie) Reynolds

Georgia Rain 2

Rain poured down for the sky in buckets. It flowed under the kudzu and the red clay below colored it as washed over the ancient blacktop road. Taraban shivered, adding the spray from his body back into the falling torrent. Pointless as the rain quickly soaked him right back to where he was. He pricked his ears, something was penetrating the hiss of falling rain. The high call of the fiddle. His destination was not too far now.

He picked up his pace following the sound. Around the bend of the road a rustic structure came into view at the bottom of a campground. Taraban broke into a trot as he dodged between the tents for the last quarter mile. He ducked under the high porch roof, once again he shivered the water off, and this time it stayed off. A few people watched curiously has he moved into the open sided concert hall. He found a quiet corner near the back and observed.

A woman moved quickly to him, a huge towel in her hands. "Why you poor thing, ya'll must be nigh unto chilled to death being out in that rain." She draped the towel over him, it was warm even.

Taraban nodded to her and flicked an ear in thanks. **Thank you. Yes, I am a bit cold.**

"Well, that'll just fix that. Ya'll holler if ya'll need somethin'."

The old converted barn slumped down the shallow hillside. forming a natural auditorium. The stage was at the lowest end. The hall was mostly filled as this was doubtless the driest spot around. Various bands, notable for similar clothing and holding instruments, stood to the side or even in the audience waiting their turn on stage.

Four men and one woman stood on the small stage. The instruments where acoustic; fiddle, mandolin, guitar, banjo, and bass. The music was high treble sound to the pace of a quick heartbeat. Feet were tapping all over the hall, and he understood why. The fiddler was playing solo now. His fingers flew over the fingerboard, his bow a blur as the high cords flashed and tumbled from his instrument. He faded back into the group to whoops and hollers of approval from the crowd. The musicians leaned into the pickups before them, and the close harmony carried throughout the hall.

"She walked through the corn leading down to the river
Her hair shone like gold in the hot morning sun
She took all the love that a poor boy could give her
And left me to die like a fox on the run Like a fox (like a fox, like a fox,
like a fox...) on the run" *

Taraban looked out over the rain misted hills of the Blue Ridge at peace with the song and the people.


Georgia Rain 2 -- Garry Stahl, January 2011


Once again I have added some to a short incomplete piece. The place is one I know. My Uncle Gene Cox built it. I remember when it was still a barn with cows in it. The transformation was quite complete. The view out the side of the auditorium area is beautiful. The stage picture my Uncle is the man in the middle. The picture itself is from 1997. I think one of the last taken of him performing before he got really sick. Gene Cox died in 2011 age 80. I understand the Music Park itself burned down as well. Only memories remain.
* "Fox on the Run": C. Tony Hazzard

Nice! TY for posting

Travelin' Blues

The two sat on the stage of the old club, a single light shared between the two as shadows chased each other around the empty room.

Sweet Pea was old. His face lined with care, his hair white and thinning. His ancient hands with their over-sized knuckles caressed the smooth darkened brass of the cornet. He lifted the instrument to his lips and played.

Mournful, low, and aching the notes were squeezed from the horn. He hunched around the instrument eyes squeezed shut, each note pushed from the bell as if it cost him blood.

Taraban sat beside him, soft mahogany fur with his black mane cascading down the arched neck. He filled his throat and sang sweet pain, a counterpoint to the horn in tenor flute cascaded in triplets around the heavier notes, and filled the spaces between them. Together the sound slithered 'round the old chairs and under the empty tables. It crouched between the brick walls and tapped at the old tin ceiling.

They played and sang to an empty room, audience and musicians in one. Old ghosts gathered 'round the tables and jostled for space at the bar. They stared out from the gloom and smiled.


Hours latter Sweet Pea gently wiped down the horn as he packed it away. Taraban watched the careful habits of the old Master.

**Questing has been called out Sweet Pea.**

The Old man sighed. "I suppose you will be going."

**It is my chosen place.**

"You will be missed my friend. We lost a great artist when you decided to be a starship captain, and not a blues singer."

**Flatterer. Am I all that now?**

"You are to me. Most of all, you are a good friend." Sweet Pea hugged Taraban, ending with Taraban's head in his hands. "You take care of yourself out there."

**I will give it my best. I am rather fond of me.**

"Where are you heading?"

**Someplace new, the underside of the Klingon Empire. Vice Admiral Hailey wants an experienced manta crew at STB-600 to aid in training his new crews. Starfleet picked us.**

"I am going to miss you."

**Why don't you get a group together and tour with Fuzzy?**

"Well, it wouldn't be my buddy Taraban, but that is an idea I do need to look into."

**I'll put in a good word for you. We are also putting together another group to work out of Oz, and one to work the frontier as well.**

"Oz? Where is Oz?"

**Where I am going.**

"Well shut my mouth. I'll just see if I can dig up a couple of friends that want to shake the dust of this old world from their heels and see the stars."

**I've got a week. I'll take you with me.**

"Taraban ol' buddy, you have a deal."


Travelin' Blues -- Garry Stahl, February 2005.


Everyone needs a hobby and Taraban hasn't been sitting idle waiting for the next story. It seems he has been traveling Earth looking for the real music.

Very cool