Tim Hart and Brian Anderson pose that yet unfulfilled question.
I remember one night when John Keeney was tending bar; I think it was late in the June of ’90. It must have been a Thursday, because I know for certain that it wasn’t a Monday (perhaps I need to remind the uninformed and the unobservant that for quite a time John has tended Sundays, Mondays, and Thursdays). The usual Thursday night crowd was there. Sometimes quiet and political, often loud and inebriated, they are good customers nonetheless. And I count myself among those fortunate souls who had the good sense, however unknowing, to be in attendance at a very pivotal moment in the career of singer/songwriter Brian Anderson.
Brian and I go all the way back to February of ’81. I was throwing my axe into the back seat of my Ma’s Chevette after a Monday night open mike at the No Exit when Brain came ambling up Glenwood and asked me it I ….well, that’s actually another story for what might be another “book.” Anyways, we continued to bump into each other for the next year or so and often managed to find something nice to say to each other. One night during the winter of ‘89/90, Brian managed to fall into the Charleston; I quickly re-introduced myself and we picked-up where we had left off. But this remembrance isn’t about that night, it’s about the Thursday night of which I first began to write.
Brian and I were sitting at one of those tables between the piano and the pool table. Brian, as usual, was drinking a pint of Watney’s and I was probably drinking cider. Yes, it is quite likely that I was indulging myself with pints of cider because I remember the night having a certain unmistakable clarity about it. Brian and I were waxing sentimental (and or philosophic) as songwriters have a tendency to do when they get together. (Whenever I get together with Brian I consistently bum Winstons off of him. Nicotine and alcohol have a great deal to do with my ability to utter the profound.) So as we drank and exchanged pleasantries, Brian spoke of how he found the Charleston to be a little world of its own, a microcosm full of characters who all had their own stories to tell. At this point I said something which so inspired Brian that he wrote a song which is now quite popular among us Charlestonians; a song thatis consequently responsible for the very undertaking of this collection of Charlestonians’ stories (and little did you know that tobacco, cider and Tim Hart’s good sense of timing were responsible for “The Book”).
Oh my! I’ve managed to digress in my attempt to inform the reader of what really happened that night . . .oh yes, of course, I inspired Brian. After Brian said his bit about all the characters having their own stories, I (relinquishing a firm grip on the pint of cider before me in order to throw both of my hands into the air hoping to lend credence to my words by using some emphatic gesture) said “Who’s gonna write this book?” It apparently threw a switch somewhere in Brian not to mention myself. Our eyes lit up, we laughed and explored possibilities.
Later, the bar closed and we were asked in no uncertain terms to vacate our beloved drinking establishment. Brian and I most likely shot the breeze outside for a while before bidding each other a good night. On arriving back at my flat I couldn’t help but think about that line. . “Who’s gonna write this book?” I quickly jotted the line down on the back of an envelope, which was atop my desk. Every once in a while I’ll come up with a phrase or sentence that inspires me to write a set of lyrics around it, as a result my desk’s top and drawers are littered with many scraps of paper bearing such scrawlings. Occasionally I’ll hear someone say something that I find poetic which perks my interest; at such times I am inclined to steal their phrase and use it for one of my tunes. During the past year I have found that Brian also resorts to the use of such tactics.
Now let’s examine the first line of Brian’s song “When is somebody gonnawrite the book?”
Let me say right off that I admire, maybe even respect Brian for giving credit where credit is due, but in his effort to recapture “the moment” he is, unfortunately, a revisionist and not the historian he hoped he would be. The reader will remember that I, on that now fateful night, said “who’s gonna write this book?” The emphasis of my utterance was not so much on who would write the book as much as it was on the idea that such a book would be written at all. Yet Brian the Revisionist chooses to mislead his listeners as to the original intent of my question. Instead Brain sings “When is somebody gonna write the book?” As we can see, Brian is more concerned with the aspect of time than just the mere idea of such a book being written; he also minimizes the importance of “Who,” by the use of “somebody.” Yet, he has made the next logical step in asking “When,” which is not such a terrible thing actually. My question dealt with the rhetorical while Brian’s direct itself toward the practical. So here I am, completely absorbed in the direct application of Brian’s question as I merrily write out this script in an attempt to fondle the infinite.
Tim Hart
Bucktown, June 1991