The Long Beds: Listen

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The Joynt is a bar in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. I wrote about it in Chapter Thirteen of Truck: A Love Story. The place and its denizens changed my life. Here's a quick rundown of the lyrical references:

Harry was a wise old river rat who wore long underwear year 'round. My bandleader Billy carved a memorial that stands above the bar in memory of Harry and it says simply, "Harry was right."

Jack was a longtime bartender/patron of the Joynt. Sometimes he would dance.

There is an enlarged R. Crumb cartoon on the wall that features Mr. Natural on a kick scooter.

The Joynt sells No Light Beer. Ever. Don't ask.

Seamus is the great Irish poet Seamus Heaney. Once he came to the Joynt and drank everyone under the table. I once wrote up the anecdote for Poets & Writers magazine. I said it was the night Seamus Heaney and Jack Daniels drank everyone under the table. The editors left the story in but said "we cut this Jack Daniels fellow because no one will know who he is." I had them put Jack back in and politely encouraged them to expand the breadth of their cocktail circuit.

All the young poets and artists gravitate to a corner - thus the Rimbaud line. There are new ones every year. Once I was one. Although I was a teetotal nonsmoker and thus somewhat lite.

The first line of the third verse is lifted pretty much wholesale from my friend the poet Bruce Taylor.

The dog belongs to the owner, the chair is a barber chair.

The "face on the wall" line is reference to all the portraits of the legendary jazz and folk greats who have played The Joynt.

The Pioneer is a perfectly fine place but tends to cater more to fellows with backward baseball caps.

Taylor always said you couldn't leave until you heard "Mustang Sally" on the jukebox.

Frank is my dear friend.

Harry was right, and Jack was a dancer at heart
Their dear departed elbows still polish the bar after dark
Hey Mr. Natural, when does the groovy part start?
No Light Beer and Seamus ain’t been here in years, my dears
It ain’t drinking alone if you raise your glass to the mirror…you’re here.

This year’s Rimbaud is off to a pretty good start
Kerouac’d in the corner, smoking and pickling his heart
He’s got a pale poetic princess, how sweetly she’ll tear him apart
Everyone tries to be someone by eleven p.m. – drink up!
Taylor got started early, don’t try to keep up, young pup

You got work, home and this place; you go there, you come here
Be good to the dog, maybe you can sit in the chair
Be good to the swamper, he owns the joint
Tell the ladies who lunch Jack Daniels can outdrink us all…and has
Mister Jello-shot Big Shot I don’t see your face on the wall…so stay small

No light beer
No light beer
All the light beer
Is at the Pi…o…neer.

Sister took me down the darkest road I’ve ever been on
Hell, there was a stretch there, figured I’d never see my home
Twenty below in St. Paul the night she cut me loose
There but for the grace of God, buddy, goes you

Paging Beaudelaire, your taxi is here
Mustang Sally we ride,
Mustang Sally we ride
Mustang Sally we fade
Like the smoke
from Frankie’s last drag…

Harry was right…