I give far too little credit to the shoulders I often stand on. Peter Guralnick is one of the writers that I most admire. His essays and interviews on American music and the men and women that made it great from Howlin’ Wolf to Sleepy LaBeef is sacred text. He’s a radio man’s dream.
The reason I bring this up is today marks the anniversary of Ernest Tubb’s passing of emphysema in 1984. Tubb of course is the namesake of Walkin’ the Floor and if you were to argue against my previous post this song could easily be on the shortlist. Neither Christine or I play it much over the air, but it’s woven in pretty deep and is the roadmap, gas station attendant, and signpost for when we occasionally lose our way.
I revisted Mr. Guralnick’s essay on Ernest Tubb in his fine book Lost Highway: Journeys & Arrivals of American Musicians. I know I can’t improve on it, so today my own thoughts will remain mine and instead I’ll encourage you to find a copy of Ernest Tubb: The Texas Troubadour.
Listen to that song and tell me you don’t want to crack open a couple of cheap beer cans and sit with your sweetheart and watch the night go by.