By Troy Brownfield
7.14.03
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The
Man himself.
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One
for Jimmy
Apologies
in advance if you came for the usual snide commentary and
one-liners. I have to take the time this week to say good-bye
in my own way to a friend.
Early
Wednesday morning, I got a call from my mother in Terre Haute,
Indiana. She was calling to let me know that my good friend,
James Elledge, had suddenly died at the age of 33. James,
who performed a variety of rock, blues and jazz professionally
as James Jordan, passed away of an apparent heart attack in
his home. In May, he played two shows that I had arranged;
one was on May 1st at Indiana State University in the company
of Samsell, The Common, Miranda Sound, and Loretta, and the
other was at Birdy's in Indianapolis on May 31st in the company
of Samsell, Drunken Deacons, Nimbus, Medicated Becky, Tecumseh
Flyers, The Frank Booth Project, Phyllis, and Loretta.
The last
time that I saw James alive was at that 5-31 show. The last
time that I had spoken to him was Tuesday morning, approximately
seven hours before he passed away. He'd called to ask me some
specifics about a trade paperback he wanted to order. Ordering
comics in Terre Haute can sometimes be like speaking French
to the hapless chain bookstore clerks, and he needed to be
as clear as possible. We talked for just a few minutes. He'd
just finished 30 Days of Night, and had really liked
it. He was going to order some more Madman. And he was going
to get fitted for a tux, as he was slated to stand up in the
wedding of Garrett "Gary" Baggs in a couple of months.
We talked about hanging out later in the summer, and as he
got off the phone, he simply said, "See ya' later."
I met
James about ten years ago in the company of my friend, Mark
Dillon. Mark, often jokingly referred to as "Folky D",
is a superlative guitar player with a propensity for the more
Wilco side of the alternative spectrum. He's a great guy,
and recently got married and honeymooned in Central America.
On this particular occasion, Mark was playing one of our "Smallapaloozas"
at Indiana State, and he and James played as a duo. On the
flyers, I'd been instructed to credit them as "Mark and
Jim". Apparently, this was a rib, as James preferred
to be called by his proper name.
A few
years later, James, Mark, Shawn, Karen Walker (wife of Chad)
and another guy whose name eludes me teamed up in a combo
called Crazy Jane on God (after the Yeats poem). I got to
know James a little better then. However, I really got to
know James the best during the Halcyon days of 1996 and 1997
when Shawn and I were working our techno-rock group Mirage.
James was playing in a group with Steve Beai (a drummer and
recording engineer who now writes horror novels, like "Widow's
Walk"). Nearly every evening, after Shawn and Chanda
and I would practice or record, Shawn and I would meet up
with Steve and James in the Coffee Grounds on Wabash Avenue
and talk for hours. Sometimes we'd go watch "Clerks".
Sometimes we'd do other stuff. But mostly, we just hung out
and talked. James loved the music of Richard Thompson (of
course he did; they look like father and son), Peter Greene,
and Bob Mould. Of such things are friendships sealed.
In 1997,
Shawn eventually went back to school in Bloomington. I was
finishing Grad School and working at a video store. James
and I, along with people like Kevin Kehoe, Amber Lore, Scott
Gant, Neil Wright, and Ryan Lybarger, began to hang out more
frequently. It was about this time that I gave James the nickname
that I would eventually always think of him by.
James
had the habit of wearing a beret and sunglasses. Man, he always
wore a hat of some kind. That, the glasses, the constant playing
of the blues, and the fact that I was writing a screenplay
all fed each other. I created a character for James, a kind
of Greek Chorus (this was before "There's Something About
Mary"), and I named him...here it is...Blind Jimmy Blues.
The joke was that Jimmy was a wise old bluesman who didn't
know that he was actually white. The apothesis of this running
gag would hit late in the film. After Kevin's character revealed
to him that he was white, Blind Jimmy disappeared for the
next twenty minutes. Toward the end, there would be a pick-up
of Jimmy in the background with his blind white girlfriend
as she assured him, "It's all right, Jimmy; it explains
a couple of things, but it's all right." For a few people
after that, James became Blind Jimmy Blues.
We eventually
tried to shoot the film, and for a variety of reasons, it
didn't work out. However, of the stuff that we did get, we
got every scene that was planned for James. James had a bit
of a thing for a girl from the video store, a really pretty
Canadian girl named Wendy Larkin, so I cast her as "Blind
Wendy Blues". James was just hilarious. Had that film
ever been completed and released, he would have been the sober
equivalent of Jason Mewes. James was even contributing a song
to the flick, "Without You Blues", a number that
dealt heavily with his recurring questions surrounding the
sanity of all women. Every so often I'd get a call from him...
"Troy?" "Yeah?" "They're ALL CRAZY."
In October
of 1997, I took a job in Indianapolis, and left Terre Haute
for good. I stayed in pretty close contact with James though.
I mean, here it is, six years on, and we were still trading
comics stories on the phone and I was putting slots for him
in gigs. We were tight. In the last few years, his closest
friend of the group was obviously Scott Gant. As horrible
as I've felt, I really feel for that guy too.
Honestly,
I wasn't prepared at all for the news when I got it. I venture
to say that I'm less prepared than most people. All four of
grandparents are still living. My mother is one of four kids,
and my dad is one of three, and all of their brothers and
sisters and their kids are all living. The closest relatives
to me to die that I remember were my Great-Grandmother on
my mother's side when I was about seven, and my Great-Grandfather
on my father's side when I was ten. Great-Grandpa Walter was
105 years old, so I suspect that wasn't a huge shock. None
of my friends had ever passed away. This is very strange,
and not at all easy to understand.
James
was an enigma in a lot of ways. The hats, for example. He
ALWAYS wore a beret, or a bandana, or a fishing hat, or something.
In ten years, I NEVER saw him without one. In fact, it occured
to me about two hours after I heard the news that it wouldn't
be right if the hat wasn't with him. When I talked to Scott,
he was sort of relieved to discover that I'd thought the same
thing. Inasmuch as one can take comfort from this sort of
idea, James was buried in that hat. His beloved Fender guitar
was displayed alongside as Richard and Linda Thompson's "Shoot
Out the Lights" played. Sometimes, as sad as they are,
things are as they should be.
I have
no brothers or sisters. It's a fact that I regard my friends
as an equal part of my family. Laugh if you must, but I love
Shawn Delaney as much as I could ever love a brother. I feel
the same way about Brent Poole and Bill Dando and John Sherman
and Russell Ray, just to name a few. And I loved Blind Jimmy
too. I guess in that way, it was fitting that his mother,
Ellie, took the unusual approach of naming James's best friends
in his obituary. She named me, Shawn, Chris and Gary Baggs,
Bob Mason, and Scott Gant. If there's a bigger compliment,
I don't know what it is.
I've had
a really strange turn of emotions the last few days. I'm mad
that James, a Tolkien nut, won't get to see "Return of
the King". I'm sad that he'll never get to read that
trade paperback he asked me about. And I'm sorry that the
world will never know the wonders of his unreleased boxed
set, even though the Fox 59 Morning Show in Indianapolis thinks
that it already came out (nice one, GB).
And I'm
mad that the crazy bastard won't make me laugh anymore. It
sounds selfish, but I just want Blind Jimmy to make me laugh.
He was incredibly funny. He was goofy, and he was weird, and
he was imperfect, and he was my friend. It seems like I have
a million stories about the guy, and half of me doesn't want
to share them. I almost want to keep some of them to myself,
because that's the part of my friend that I still have. You
know, it's funny; I've been a groomsman for Brent Poole and
Becky's brother Craig. I've been a best man for Russ and Bill
Dando, and I'm on deck to be the best man for Shawn (who forbade
me from making a big announcement). I had hoped to never be
a pallbearer; sadly, that's no longer the case.
So what
does any of this mean to you, potential internet reader who
wanted to see lame pop culture jokes and half-assed evaluations?
Herein lies the lesson: James Elledge, aka James Jordan, aka
Blind Jimmy Blues, did what he loved. He taught guitar, and
he played guitar. That was it. He did what he loved.
'Why is
that important? It's the lesson of his life. I can't guarantee
that when I die, I'll leave a life lesson behind. As sad and
angry and confused as I am about the whole deal, I can be
happy that James of all people left behind such a clear and
abiding message: Love your family, love your friends, and
do what you love. Do it as often as you can and as well as
you can. That's all there is, and that's all there needs to
be.
So let
me sum up, if I may, with a few lines from a Richard Thompson
song. James's mom wisely let it be played at the service,
as she knew how right it was. The words are from "Wall
of Death", and as one might expect, they're actually
about living your life.
"Let
me ride on the wall of death one
more time
You can waste your time on the other rides
But this is the nearest to being alive
Let me take my chances on the Wall of Death"
So where
ever you may be, Blind Jimmy Blues, listen to me long enough
to hear me say this. We miss you, we love you, and we will
never, ever forget you. May your spirit soar, may your heart
and mind be at rest, and may you never miss a note. Bye, buddy.
Troy Brownfield is the Editor-in-Chief of Shotgun Reviews.
Email Troy at psikotyk@aol.com
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