Weird how things work sometimes.
The other day, running late, I happened to post a performance clip of Emmylou Harris, and noted the presence of Rodney Crowell in her backing band. Today, lounging around in the local Barnes & Noble, I discovered Crowell has a new album out--something I didn't know when I mentioned him the other day. Is this fate? I wondered as I bought it.
There's been no time to give the album, the wonderfully titled Sex & Gasoline anything more than a cursory listen, but as with pretty much everything the Crowell's ever done, it's a model of songwriting craft. I thought I knew the basics of the man's career--hung out with Townes Van Zandt, Guy Clark and Steve Earle, married (and later divorced) Rosanne Cash, was one of the best-selling artists in Nashville history for a run in the eighties--but as I read various bios online, I discovered something I didn't know: Crowell was discovered by Jerry Reed, who heard him singing in a club and immediately signed him to his own publishing company.
After reading this, I clicked to The New York Times' homepage, and read this headline: Singer-Actor Jerry Reed Dies At 71.
Again, weird.
Generally not a mainstream country music fan, I thought I knew all I needed to know about Reed: Wrote some songs and did some session work for Elvis Presley, had a bunch of novelty hits, made a lot of crappy movies with Burt Reynolds. But learning of his death at almost exactly the same time I learned of his connection with Crowell's career, I found myself wanting to know more. When I found this pretty much perfect performance of what is surely one of the greatest songs ever written, featuring Reed's wonderfully casual vocals and absolutely awesome guitar (it takes a lot to upstage Chet Atkins!), I actually felt chills down my spine. Maybe you will, too.
