I'm enjoying my first chat with Big Country in a couple weeks. The Allen Stone sessions have been all-consuming, and I’ve missed my lunatic neighbor’s endearingly offensive wisdom.
BC knows I’ve been hunkered down making this record and says I look, “as happy as a dead pig in the sunshine.” I’m assuming this is good, though I’m pretty sure BC’s Irished up his coffee. The mental image of my porcine counterpart joyfully decomposing in the luminous morn doesn’t inspire confidence.
I like to think I'm a reasonably engaging sorta swine, but BC really only talks to me because I'm a captive audience. When you're a maniac and have no one to manic at, life becomes a disagreeable state of affairs and, in a pinch, any hipster'll do.
My favorite BC moments are when I’m boring him. My neighbor’s not big on wasted time (few geniuses are) and his malcontent’s seldom betrayed subtly. Big Country possesses this Santa-Clause-on-meth style guffaw, laughing directly in my face when it's time for a subject change, and today's conversation's evidently a real snoozer.
The air, now redolent of chewing tobacco, is eerily still, anticipating the Great Man's edict.
“I don’t like routines. Care for superstitions even less.”
Ok, out of nowhere, but I play along.
"What's wrong with superstitions?" I ask.
“They say rabbit’s feet are lucky. Well, what happened to the rabbit?”
With that, the conversation’s over. Satisfied he's put me in my place, BC resumes attending to his drying overalls.
There are few truly legendary humans in this world, and I’m proud I share a fence with one of them.