LIVE FROM MEMPHIS

Reflections on a Recent Recital by The Vending Machine

By E. H. "Boss" Crump

 [Cable Dispatch exclusive to Live from Memphis]

On a fine Saturday evening of late, I was fortunate to make good on a long-standing promise to accompany my friend, Dr. Francis Arthur James Clement of Mid-Town, on an outing to the Hi Tone Café. Our plan, should God will it: to enjoy a scheduled recital by popular musical ensemble, The Vending Machine.

This was to be my first of the group in the flesh, but not my first exposure to its music. On the contrary, their latest recording, King Cobras Do, has rattled the stylus of my parlor Gramophone for some months. Those readers who like-wise find themselves in possession of this pressing need not be reminded that, embedded in its grooved troughs, there exist one-dozen compositions of unwavering melodic beauty; no small feat for a group counting nary a single clarinetist in its employ.

Overcome with anticipation, my colleague and I set forth to arrive in time for the concert’s ten o’clock curtain, but were shocked to discover the establishment closed for business! On further inspection, a colorful window advertise-ment revealed the nature of our folly: We’d arrived a full twelve hours early! We had a good laugh, and ferried home to our respective dens for naps and tobacco, vowing to revisit our engagement later that evening.

Returning long after sundown, we encountered a scene of stark contrast to the one we’d witnessed that morning. The small venue was now chock-a-block with merry youngsters abuzz with irrepressible gusto, thirstily imbibing bottle upon bottle of the tavern’s selection of cold-served malts. Never the kind to turn our noses at the will of the common majority, the good Doctor and I bade the bar-tender fetch us two Pabst Blue Ribbons at once! He obeyed, and spirits in hand, we pushed forth through the exuberant hordes and secured quarter near the stage.

For my companion, Dr. Clement (himself an accomplished trombonist), music is both a passion and a pursuit. He is a follower and great admirer of Vending Machine’s focal artiste and song-writer, a Mister Robby Grant, late of Mid-Town. It is an admiration not without due cause. Mr. Grant (former,  I am told, to the vulgarly named ensemble Big Ass Truck) is a gifted musician whose effusive, unconventional brilliance as a composer is matched only by his astoundingly effortless abilities as an instrumentalist. And make no mistake; I am not one to cavalierly bandy about flowery adjectives.

As the players took the stage and their leader conducted them into their first number (the marvelously agitated “Babies”) I was struck by the notion that Mr. Grant is a man who very much resembles the music he creates. His facial contortions, forceful squint and rapid cranial undulations serve to accentuate the delicate balance between order and chaos that his music so perfectly achieves. The next song, the peculiar and heart-raising “44 Times,” revealed a theme that would be under-scored repeatedly throughout the evening: that The Vending Machine is, first and foremost, an agglomeration of awe-some musical prowess.

With little pause for banter, the troupe was fully focused on the task at hand, charging through their material like a Fulton Steamer, its captain bellowing, “Full ahead, boys!” as the musical vessel galloped down-stream on a current of youthful titillation and malt-fueled fervor. To my surprise and amusement, I quickly found myself caught up in the surge, listing and swaying to each thwack and clang of the drumming mallets.

The songs crashed over us in waves now, one after another, as the ale flowed freely over our lips. The rail-splitting timbre of “Memories and Actions” melted seamlessly into the gleeful, hand-clapping bliss of “Rae,” before “Garden 1040 A.D.” coiled and pounced on its audience like an ominous sea-beast. Though I would avoid any hasty assertions of in-fluence, “Desert Sun Played” nonetheless stirred memories of Irving Berlin’s gentler labors.

As well-heeled gents will sometimes do in moments of enjoyment (especially those with minds fairly undone by music and drink), the doctor and I turned and exchanged playful cuffs upon one another’s hind-ends. And as the music’s fever-pitched crescendo reached full climax, we raised our bottles high and yelped the care-free yelps of simple commoners.

And so it was. The Vending Machine concert was ended, and throngs of exultant revelers poured forth from hostelry into darkness. Francis and I wished our good-nights, and set out on our separate paths. What for me began as a simple curiosity had become, by recital’s end, little short of knee-bending adoration. Such was the wonder of it all. On the eight-mile walk home, I recounted the events quietly, lest they fade from memory. Each chorus replayed in my mind. Each triumphant chord and exclamatory cymbal. Mr. Grant’s delightful music and his band’s splendid, voluminous glory. It was all there, forever preserved for future enjoy-ment. But I hadn’t remembered it all. Not until the roaring engines and blaring sirens screeched to a halt on the curb in front of me, and I felt the familiar sharp pain of a wooden club against my neck and the dull, cold scrape of the sidewalk on my face. Tarnation! I forgot to pay my tab.
 

E. H. Crump was mayor of Memphis from 1910 to 1916 and Representative to the U. S. Congress from the Tennessee 10th District from 1931 to 1935. He currently resides at Memphis' Elmwood Cemetary.

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