A story
Saturday, December 8th, 2007Once upon a time, I knew a guy named Hart Littlejohn. He was in this band, The American Tenants, who played the Map Room and crashed at our bungalow post-gig. Caught him nicking some green tea out of the pantry the next morning but we ended up friends. He sent me records, I reviewed them. He added “well” to his Hart and another “A” to “American”. “Aamerican”. What the hell? Well, wife and I saw him again in 2003, before we had a kid…got him a gig with the Monsieur (Jeff Evans). I think it was 2003. He was headed out to LA. That didn’t work out and he ended up in Nashville last time I heard. The man was fantastic. Every once in a while, that conceited bastard artist ego came out of him, but most of the time we talked about stuff like how great the original Star Trek was, and our mutual love for Tom Petty. Yeah, bet you never saw that coming from me. I was thinking about Hart(well) tonight. Thinking he might be proud of me for actually getting a band together. He’d get a kick out of us playing on a bill with burlesque at the best place in town–to think of it, how in the hell did that happen anyway? That’s the fraidy cat in me, knowing we’ll be bumping elbows with the garage rock crowd doing music that couldn’t be more left of that particular center…well, it could be Yanni…still, you know what I mean. I’m gonna look him up somehow.
