Long before artists like Reba and Garth took their music and turned it into a brand, there was Jimmy Buffett. If the erstwhile Nashvillian had launched his career in the last couple of decades, his combination of laid back rhythms and tales of industrious avoidance of adult responsibility would have no doubt landed him in the Americana camp. Instead, taken on his first trip to Key West by none other than Jerry Jeff Walker, the lifestyle he elevated in music, acting and writing became its own category and sufficiently admired enough to be the anchor for a very successful chain of bars and restaurants.
Like most people, my first exposure to Buffett was via Margaritaville, the stunningly successful song from his seventh record, Changes In Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes. As student DJ’s, though, we quickly dug into his back catalog, and Living and Dying in 3/4 Time became my go-to album. It started with the paean to Hollywood’s classic leading men, Pencil Thin Mustache, and ended with the alternative college theme song, a cover of Lord Buckley’s God’s Own Drunk.
I drifted away from the leisurely fun of Buffett’s music for a few years until the unexpected rise of the Parrothead culture. For many of my friends, the allure of abject poverty and a summer of living in a tent following the Dead gave way to the need for, if not a career, at least a way to support oneself in a non-criminal fashion. Jobs and spouses and kids became important. As perhaps the lone pressure relief valve in an otherwise responsible life, you could still slip away for the 24-hour bacchanalia of a Jimmy Buffett concert parking lot. Tomorrow was still going to be there, but at least for this afternoon and night, the music-driven dream could still live.
In this day and age, when the business acumen of an Alison Brown or Nikki Lane is, if not common, at least not unusual, it’s hard to remember the days before independent labels and self-promotion. A lot of people will argue those days of label-driven everything were the glory days because all you had to do was play your music. But that privilege was granted to very few, and I, for one, am very grateful that passion has become the entry ticket to being a musician, and not the lottery ticket signing from an A&R man. For that, we have to give thanks in no small part to Jimmy Buffett and the magical land of Margaritaville. RIP Jimmy.
About the author: I've actually driven from Tehatchapee to Tonopah. And I've seen Dallas from a DC-9 at night.