Honor In Infamy? Renae Brabham

I wrote this last year on the morning of the 150th anniversary of the first shots of the Civil War. I slipped out the back patio and onto the wooded path with Snowy for her early morning walk. The thick fog quieted the morning. At first I thought it was thunder. But after hearing the consecutive short blast that didn't wander off into the horizon, I knew what it was. It was the sound of the ancient cannons sitting on Fort Sumter and Fort Moultrie firing to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the first shots of the Civil War. It was both exhilarating and scary, I shuddered. The pre-dawn fog, lack of first light and Spanish Moss hanging like apparitions down the path transcended me to a time that I couldn't know of. I could sense what that morning must have felt like. I tried to imagine what my ancestors were doing the moments they heard these booms. My maternal lineage would have my ancestors farming in a community near the Myrtle Beach area, Conway. They would have not heard the cannons. But were stirred nonetheless by the impending war. Not wealthy by any means. Hardworking farming family. I don't have records of their opinions of the war, but I do have records that show their support. My Great-Great Grandfather was the sixth child of 9 children. 5 boys and 4 girls. I can only try to imagine the tears of the mother and sisters, the pride of their fathers as they watched their sons and brothers walk down a dusty dirt road on August 7th, 1961. Walking together to enlist in one of the bloodiest battles we have ever known. The Civil War. On that day SC 1st Infantry (Greggs Company F) took the handwritten signatures of enlistment of three brothers and two nephews of my family. Leaving behind a brother who enlisted months later in another company and my great-great grandfather who stayed at home for three more years before enlisting in the same company. I wondered if this were a family decision brought about by rules of engagement. I often heard that one son needed to stay at home to care for the needs of the family. Of those boys, five brothers, three were killed. Two killed in action, one sent home with wounds that eventually killed him. My great-great-grandfather came home after the war. I have not located any papers to this time that show they owned any slaves. This is not to say that they didn't. It is probable. I have found papers where my great-great-great grandfather Lowrimore owned 300 acres of a plantation in the Marion County District. Even though I have the proof of their bravery, battles and death’s on cold gray tombstones...I am left puzzled. What were they fighting for? The question still looms today, why so many conflicting opinions? Some say, We weren't fighting for the right to keep slaves, I believe this to be both true and false. I believe for some, they were indeed fighting for their right to keep slaves. The huge plantation owners would lose everything without their workforce of indigenous peoples. I believe for the majority, they fought for protection from oppression themselves. They weren't going to allow anyone to take away what was rightfully theirs (property, not people). For others it was the blood, guts and glory of war. For some, pure patriotism...remember this was only 85 years after becoming independent from England. Also, there were still Indian battles occurring all over the US. I don't guess I will ever know the motives of my family. But today...I imagine that if I were the same person I am right now and I were a little girl on a plantation, a farm, a dock...wherever I was on the morning that I heard those booms, I would be scared for myself, my family going off to war and my little black girl slave friend. I know that I would have been just as confused at the motives of this war then as I am today. It is a very weird sense of being living in Charleston. When your ancestral roots forage deeper into the ground than the oldest Live Oaks, we innately know which of the motivations of war we sympathized with and that knowledge gives us either enormous pride or painful shame. Or as in my case, both. I honor with all of my heart the memory of those family members and all of their brothers that lost their lives fighting this battle. I hurt for the wrong doing of others that brought this on by ever trying to control or own a person in the first place. I love the South...I am not ashamed of it one bit. I am ashamed of those few, through greed and in darkness, slipped ships stealthily into our harbors and brought the curse of this war. I am ashamed of the men in fine suits on the foggy docks of our ports that traded money for lives.

Ebb & Flow~ Renae Brabham

When I couldn't think of anything to write this week, I grabbed a beach chair and notebook and headed to Sullivans Island. I walked down the path while the dew was still on the ground at Station 18. The sun filtered through twisted limbs that hung over the boardwalk, blinking beauty like a strobe light onto the boardwalk. I noticed the contrast between the light and the dark and the sense it gave the journey. When the rays shone through, my focus was up on the last blooms of spring's alarm clock, Yellow Jasmine and the scent of wafting Wisteria. When the rays went away and darkness filled the path, I focused below on my steps, smelling the wet marsh and pungency of wild animal urine. Same pathway, different views. I saw the message the morning was playing out immediately.

 Before my eyes hit the clearing across the dunes, my mind's eye had already etch-a-sketched a empty, quiet beach. I was ticked off. The foggy horizon was obstructed by a huge ocean liner bringing freight into the harbor. I forgave it a few minutes later as it slipped quietly through the sound. Solitude again. Seagulls scuffled out of my way, probably just as ticked at me for imposing on their quiet morning.

I dropped the chair and bag and took off for the shore. I walked for miles, my mind pleasantly empty. The beach chorus drummed out everything. I imagined the surf talking. Whatever it said, it did it repetitively. Maybe it says, Take Away.....Give Back......Take Away.....Give Back. Dolphins spouted and corralled their breakfast. Heron's dive and bring up fish bigger than I catch on my fishing rod. Stranded Jelly Fish struggle to catch the last tide out. I push some gently back into the foam. Some make it, some don't.

 They are always there, the constants of both worlds. I started snapping pics. I took pictures that day of both worlds. Just a little reminder to me that they co-exist. A sand covered Bi-Lo grocery bag, seashells sitting alongside cigarette butts and dog poop, another ocean liner. Constants, truths, parallels of life. Ever noticed laughter at funeral? Absurd? Maybe not. Continuity...

Take Away.....Give Back.......Take Away.......Give Back.......

Elton John, I Remember When Rock Was Young

Sir Elton John remembers when rock was young. I remember when it was a young adult. The stadium at his recent concert in Charleston proved that his music spans decades. It was obvious the generations he entertains bridges more than the four decades he has been performing. We were enveloped by fans from the Silent Generation, Baby Boomers, Gen X, Gen y and Gen Z!

I was painfully made aware of which generation I was in as I searched for a pre-concert Advil, for the ~touch of arthritis~ coming on. I was going to do the Crocodile Rock...be damned. We stood in the line at the head of the pack..pretty proud that we were some of the first there, only to relinquish our lead 15 minutes later in search of bathrooms at the Performing Arts Building. We found comfy cushion seats in the lobby outside the bathrooms and decided to wait out the count down here. A Silent Generation lady inched her way towards us, she eased herself down onto the cushion by me as she held the wall for support. I saw her two rows up later swaying and singing every word to Tiny Dancer, fist pumping the air at the end of song.

As concert time draws nearer we leave the comfort of the cushions to follow a pied piper who informs the crowd of another way into the coliseum. We wind around the coliseum, up the stairs and end the exodus at the beer garden. We gasp as we observe the price of wine ~shots~. At the same instant a coliseum staffer slips two drinking bands on our wrist. We opt instead for a Diet Coke and pretzel the width of our concert seat. A sober situation.

The lights are on and I watch the progression of ages fill the seats. I look at the crowd around us and wonder, who else is thinking about what their dog was doing or if ~Wheel of Fortune~ announced them as the spin ID winner that night. The lights dim as the 2 Cello's are announced as the opening act. That was no act! Those boys slung the chitlins off of those cello gut strings! And then he was there, Sir Elton John. The seats we thought were awesome became cumbersome after two and a half hours. When Elton went into his hit ~I'm still standing~ I sang it and meant it. Elton was phenomenal, extremely attentive and gracious to his fans. No, he didn't jump up on the piano like he did in piano solo's of his early years, but I didn't climb up on someone’s shoulder waving a bic screaming ~Free Bird~ either. I shook my hiney to the Crocodile Rock and everything else that he performed.

As we inched (literally) our way out of the coliseum parking for an hour, I imagined that Elton John was already soaking in a Jacuzzi at the Embassy we were passing. I thoroughly enjoyed the night. When my feet hit the floor the next morning, the memories of Crocodile Rocking were replaced with the reality of Lizard Limping. In a weird sort of way, a paradoxical reminder of a night well spent.

The Strategy of Craft: An Interview with Artist, Lyricist, Musician John Brannen Renae Brabham

The Strategy of Craft: An Interview with Artist, Lyricist, Musician John Brannen
Renae Brabham

On an overcast morning last week I pulled into the Sea Biscuit Cafe on Isle of Palms. Opening the door of the cottage style café, I am greeted to a lively breakfast chorus. Spoons clanged against coffee cups, forks and knives drummed percussion to lively, caffeine driven conversations. I pick a table in the corner near the window, pull out my talking points, set the recorder on the table and ordered coffee. Minutes later he was there. John Brannen; ageless, agile and confident. For the next 1 1/2 hours, the hubbub of the cafe subsided into the background. I thought later that the interview went something like an album, a moment of silence between tracks. Talking points lay idle as I lean back and absorb.
John Brannen charges the air around him with a zeal for contributing to life. Described in terms of craft as a Heartland Rocker. A true Rolling Stone, he’s always been there, gathers no moss or wrinkles for that matter. I tell him that he has held up well considering the span and era of his career. "I shouldn't have" he says with a reminiscing smile. His career and endeavors have taken him across the continent and the US, but like the ebb and flow of the Atlantic, he is pulled back to his southern roots. "I don't like to stay in big cities too long. The icker begins to grow on you." he says, while rubbing his arms. He talks about meeting with legendary music icon Danny Goldberg. Danny started his career as a journalist for Rolling Stone magazine. A few of the names Danny has managed over the years; Led Zeppelin, Nirvana, Steve Earle, Allman Brothers, Alannah Myles. "Danny Goldberg gets it" John says. You get the sense that John is more honored and humbled than proud to say that he signed an exclusive writer/publisher deal with Goldberg in October this past year.
When I ask about accomplishments, it is obvious that his eight year old is his crowning life achievement. He recalls episodes of her endeavors like lyrical mantra, usurping all other worldly substance in his life. And there is a lot of substance! 6 albums under his belt. A US tour as equal with Toby Keith and Shania Twain in the 1993 Triple Play Tour, The Eagles wrote and recorded John's song "Somebody" on their first studio record in 28 yrs, Screenplays, benefits. A movie, "The Black Dove" written by director Michael Caporale recently accepted in The Houston Film Festival with award status, features John's music from three different albums. John’s original, rare pre-1986 black Gibson Dove guitar was the catalyst for Caporale writing the screenplay. John's Black Dove can be seen in several of the videos.
I ask about his creative influences. The name dropping wasn’t meant to impress, but did nonetheless. John tells of conversations, inspirations, phone calls, sessions with some of the greatest musicians ever! In near reverence John tells me “I considered Waylon Jennings a huge inspiration, from a genre that transcends time. He actually played bass with Buddy Holly, a first generation rocker. Playing with him was the only time in my adult life that I could say I was nervous. My hands trembled.” “Joe Walsh? One of the most caring individuals you will ever meet. Sick, wicked, stupid talented. My tape lands on his desk, the next thing I know, I am being called my his attorneys and told to be at such and such airport Where I am picked up by his limousine driver holding a sign with my name on it to meet him in Memphis.” John tributes Walsh as a wonderful mentor who spring boarded his career.
We talk about the flood of ~Resurgence~ albums by lifer musicians. In order to re surge, you’d have to go under. That can’t be said about John Brannen. Perpetually revolving into this next decade, after belting the last two. The south anticipates it’s prodigy’s new endeavors and they are exciting indeed. John is writing and directing the film Midnight Rain ,set to shoot in April here in SC. He is also recording a new album in the spring. The long awaited DVD "One Night In Charleston" recorded last year at The Footlight Players" should be available by Christmas. It is Johns first LIVE recorded film and performance.
We readily romanticize everything in the south, even our specters. Every artist has a few that keep their guitar strings bleeding. “Absolutely” he agrees. “I set out to identify emotions and if all goes well something emerges that hasn’t been apparent. It’s something like throwing a sheet over a ghost and finally the ghost has a form, something we would not have seen otherwise.”
Who says something like that? Smoky room in the 70’s after reading Poe, I might have. I can’t remember.