But the truth is I was sitting minding my own business one day and I got a call from my agent in New York who said, “Hey, you got any interest on doing a book on Jerry Lee Lewis?” So I said, “Yeah, sure!” Because how could it be dull?
In the small, agricultural community of Drake, Kentucky—between Bowling Green and Nashville, about a half-hour north of the Tennessee border—is a small country store called Drake Vintage Music and Curios, and its proprietor, a man named Freeman Kitchens, is the most singular collector I’ve ever encountered.
“We got to get you to talk to B.B.,” Abbott said. “Let me go see.” He disappeared behind a set of metal sliding doors guarded by two burly bodyguards that apparently led to King, who I then realized was in the building. About thirty minutes later, Abbott came out and told me he’d gotten me a twenty-second interview. “Man,” I said. “What am I going to ask him in twenty seconds?”
Over the years, Marcus has only gotten better at answering his own question—how must the musician have felt at that moment?—and more assured at describing the experience of listening. His prose, steeped in the disparate languages of academia, prophecy, and record reviews, has always been the fun part, and a few of the essays here mark some of his most vivid, brilliant work in years.
I’d never seen the river Haw was named after, but it felt right, going there with Taylor. Place is paramount in his work, as are what he calls “internal landscapes”—the facts of how we exist in the world, in relation to those around us. While we waited for coffee at a roastery on the outskirts of town, I asked Taylor, who was born and reared in California, if he ever self-identified as a Southern artist.