Moody Food by Ray Robertson

invariably, Yes, Yes, Yes.
    There are no spectators when Thomas runs the room. No way to know, for instance, when his slightly perspiring face will without warning loom large right there in front of yours imploring stillness and concentration because, just between you and him, this is something you really don’t want to miss.
    â€œThe tune’s called ‘Ramblin’ Man,’ Hank Williams is the artist, the year is 1951, but let’s forget about all of that for a minute and just go nice and slow and try to hear what’s there, all right? Because we’ve got all the time in the world, don’t we? And even if we didn’t, this is where we’re supposed to be anyway because this is where we are right now. Okay, let’s give it a shot, here we go, cheers. Now, what you’ve got to do first is dig the steel guitar that starts things
off. It’s right out of the chute, just a little acoustic strumming and then BOOM! there it is, so get ready for it. You all set? You ready? Okay. All right.”
    Needle penetrates record and, as promised, three or four seconds of muted minor chording before a screeching steel-guitar run that sounds like the brake-slamming final tragic seconds before a train wreck set to music.
    And because there is no chorus or even an instrumental break to the song, only one long chugging uninterrupted confession of how, happy or sad, heaven or hell bound, when the Good Lord made Hank, He made a ramblin’ man, Thomas comes close to whisper in one ear while Hank continues to sing in the other. Moves right in so tight and has his mouth so close to your ear that his breath on your earlobe sends goose bumps up and down both arms. He speaks slowly. He speaks clearly.
    â€œâ€˜Luke the Drifter’ is what it said on the single when this song was first released. The name was a pseudonym Hank used for some of his so-called ‘devotional’ songs. But every song Hank Williams ever recorded was a devotional song. He was twenty-nine years old going on a hundred but he never made it to thirty. But Hank Williams did not die in vain, friend. He died for me. He died for you. He died for all of us. This much we know. This much is not in doubt.”
    His mouth so close now, the whisky on his breath dampens your ear, tingles your nose.
    â€œThe only question is,” he says, “is anybody listening?”
    With another screeching steel-guitar line “Ramblin’ Man” crashes to an end the same savage way it began. You wonder where this universe of quiet came from. You wonder where it’s been hiding all this time.

7.
    THAT I DIDN’T KNOW how to play the drums apparently wasn’t going to be a problem.
    â€œI’ve seen you keep time to a jukebox with your butt planted on a barstool all night about a million times,” Thomas said. “We’ll just sit you down behind a drum kit and you’ll barely even know the difference.”
    The main thing was that I was the only person he’d met since moving to Toronto who really understood “where my head is at, vision-wise, what I’m shooting for on the white soul concept level.” Canada, Thomas explained, was the absolutely perfect non-prejudicial place for the launch of his sensibility-shaking movement of musical pioneering because of its basically blank cultural slate. Being a good Canadian, I chose to take this as the compliment it was intended as. Also, he said, he knew he could trust me.
    â€œWhen the bullets start flying I know you’ll cover my back, Buckskin.” We were at our usual sobering-up back-corner table downstairs at the Riverboat. “When things begin to get heavy I don’t want to have to worry about the guy standing next to me in the trenches.”
    And now that he’d deemed it time to put together a band and start spreading the gospel of the rich musical medley that was Interstellar North American Music, Thomas had decided that not only