Photo Credit: Wikipedia
By: Kevin Lampe
At a low-key party during my sophomore year of college – in 1980, I met Jimmy Buffett. My fraternity brother Ken Grether or “Cheesey” played the album “You Had To Be There” on the turntable. We felt we were at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta as we drank beer on second-hand couches. The only real difference was we had to get up and flip the record over and later spin record two. I found my North Star.
The story of my journey is full of fictional facts and factual fiction as I dig deep into my barnacle brain to remember the details.
The world of Jimmy Buffett is a big tent. There are the loyal Parrotheads whose commitment runs deep and is an important facet of their lives. Others go to one concert a year, like Catholics, who only attend mass on Christmas and Easter, wearing the costumes and pretending to sing along. I am somewhere in between, a passionate fan.
My first concert was at Poplar Creek Music Theatre in my hometown. I was way up in the lawn section. But it was perfect. The vinyl LP did some justice to a live show. But the connection between Jimmy and all of us reached deep into our souls. There was no turning back. I went to as many concerts as I could. Including some with my Buffett compadre Michael Bergt.
My soon-to-be wife, Kitty Kurth took me to Key West for our first vacation together. She found a houseboat as a floating love nest for a week on the island. We ate and drank our way across the island. We traced Ernest Hemingway’s steps bar hopping and admired his typewriter. We searched for Shel Silverstein, hoping to find him writing a children’s book or an epic, ribald poem for Playboy. Most of all, we mistook every blond stranger for Jimmy. We still are the luckiest couple on the Avenue.
One June, our friends Doug and Robin Tisdahl rented a house on Big Pine Key for a month of island living. The wives returned to the mainland for business one particular Saturday night. Us guys found ourselves on the corner of walk/don’t walk somewhere on US1. “Fuck it, let’s go to Key West,” suggested Doug. I wonder still how many times that phrase has been uttered. A memorable night ensued; luckily or not for us, we were unable to find an open tattoo parlor.
As summer turned to fall of 1988, my pal Laura Rodriguez called to say, “Buffet is playing an acoustic show in Milwaukee.” On that cold night, the audience was red hot. Many too hot. Jimmy Buffett’s smile masked frustration. He wanted to perform an uncomplicated night of ballads, but the crowd had a different idea—still a great night of music and musicianship.
A friend who was an advance man for the White House called on a Thursday afternoon. His girlfriend, who worked for a record label, had four tickets to that night’s Jimmy Buffett show. “Do you want them?” Little did I know, the tickets were in the front row. We called Dave Horwich to join us. I have come a long way from the lawn in Hoffman Estates and a lumpy couch in Macomb, Illinois.
The Billy Goat Tavern is a favorite spot for Jimmy Buffett in Chicago. During that night’s performance of Cheeseburger in Paradise, the screen showed him flipping burgers and shouting Cheezborger, Cheezborger, Cheezborger, from behind the grill. The Goat is my neighborhood tavern, a favorite drinking spot. Damn, we should have grabbed some cook hats from the grill.
Lighting struck a second time the following Saturday, and we had the same tickets. We stopped by Goat and asked Billy Sianis, the next generation to run the joint, to join us. He was being responsible and said he needed to mind the bar. Billy grabbed us a stack of cook hats for the show. We picked up Dave Horwich and headed to the World Theatre.
From the front row, we shared the hats with our seatmates. It was a sea of Buffet fans looking like cooks from the Billy Goat. Jimmy recognized the hats early on. As he struck the opening chords of the carnivorous anthem, he waved Kitty to the edge of the stage. Being a good husband, I stuck to her side. Jimmy motioned to the hat and then to his head. He wanted her to place her hat on him. So Kitty crowned Jimmy. She said he had “soft hair.” Our escapade made Bill Zwecker’s gossip column in the Chicago Sun-Times.
Don’t Stop the Carnival by Herman Wouk is a great read and an inspiration to Jimmy Buffett. Together, they wrote a musical ode to living a dream (and some nightmares) of running a beachside resort. Kitty and I made sure to get tickets for the run in Miami. Another perfect Jimmy night in our life. A stellar show full of vibrant colors and heartfelt performances. Josh Mostel stole the scene each time he walked on stage. When the play had a run at Atlantis in the Bahamas, we joined the Parrotheads of the Palm Beaches on their pilgrimage to the show via seaplane.
In the early days of the internet, people could find others who shared a particular passion. Jimmy Buffett fans found each other quickly. An AOL community quickly sprang up, filled with enough characters to populate an album full of songs. We rushed to our keyboards to find the truth when Jimmy’s plane crashed off Nantucket Island. Our den mother, whose AOL handle included the letters BMW, was a steady hand calming our anxiety.
The Big Dog’s Buffett Listserv was the forerunner for many online groups and websites that chronicled Jimmy’s career from their point of view. The emails were the source of information, rumors, and gossip. Often, a new member would ask a question that had been asked too many times, like “What’s a remora?” The question became a rallying cry among the members. The list led to the first unofficial fan event, RACAfest (Rum and Cooked Animals Fest.)
On a warm Knoxville afternoon, I played hookey from a job I disliked; selling radio advertising – to watch the Chicago Cubs. It was the first time the Cubs had made the playoffs in decades. Another troubadour, Steve Goodman, would have been the choice to sing the national anthem. Cancer silenced his voice weeks before the game. Jimmy Buffett stood in for his friend and partner in crime. Jimmy dedicated the song to Steve. They say there is no crying in baseball, but tears were shed that day.
I admire so many things about Jimmy Buffett – his writing, turn of phrase, quick wit, appreciation for his fans, loyalty to his band and crew, and love of his family.
His commitment to social issues, particularly the environment and human rights, was one area that set him apart. His heart was big, and sometimes he wore it on his sleeve. At the end of the song Mañana, the final line is, “And I hope Anita Bryant never ever does one of my songs. No, no, no.” In 1977, Anita Bryant led a campaign against civil rights for the LGBTQ+ community. Jimmy used his bully pulpit of a song to fight hate.
But this is an area where some parrot heads can frustrate me. Some object to Jimmy’s political activities. The classic attack, “Stick to music, stop talking about politics.” My question to them is, have you really listened to his lyrics? The art Jimmy has created is borne of his beliefs and values. His liberal view of society influences the songs loved by many. Without his passion for those issues, his art would have never existed.
Show business is a machine that can chew people up, leaving them broken and, more importantly, really broke – meaning no money. At some point, he trademarked Margaritaville©. And his lawyers sent many cease and desist letters protecting his intellectual property. Then, he built a business empire, bars, resorts, liquor, RV campgrounds, and even retirement villages. He has created an entire industry dedicated to finding joy. I am happy I actively participate in the “Buffett Economy.”
In “Cowboy in the Jungle,” he wrote, “We’ve gotta roll with the punches. Learn to play all of our hunches. Make the best of whatever comes your way. Forget that blind ambition. And learn to trust your intuition.” That works for me.
As my North Star for 43 years, Jimmy has shown me the value of having a good time. But also, you must love your wife, love your family, love your coworkers, love the environment, love your job, but most of all, love yourself.
By the way, a remora is not considered to be a parasite despite its being attached to the host. Instead, they are considered to have a commensal relationship with their host since they do not hurt the host and are just along for the ride.
