Copyright 1996, Guy Smith, All Rights Reserved
With the “band”, featuring Steve “One Take” Laciak
I’ve got a paper bag, and in it’s a new bottle of Jack black
I said I’ve got a paper bag, and in it’s a new bottle of Jack black
I’ll drink a toast to you darlin’, as I lay myself across your tracks
The pain’s too big, you put me through your grinder
I kept lookin’ for the good woman in you,
but when I looked it got harder and harder to find her
I’ll just keep lickin’ my wound and nursin’ this bottle,
Old Man Daniels is much kinder
. . . . . . than you
Well the bottle’s empty, the bottle’s empty, Lord that’s true
But it’s fuller than your heart woman, and a damn sight warmer too
Well, me and my friend Jack Daniels, we’ll get by fine without you
The Story: I was living in Florida with a woman, who on a good day was grim. On a bad day, she was homicidal. Her name was Susan.
Guys, if you ever find yourself in the Gawd forsaken’ sand pit of Titusville Florida, in presence of a raven haired beauty with piercing, falcon-like eyes, and she says her name is Susan . . . then shoot her. You’ll save yourself and all other men a whole lot of agony.
So, I had hit a bad streak – unemployed for eight months though keeping up with my bills. Old Susan started trolling for a new mate, and upon finding one, tossed me out. So I packed up everything I had (which was nothing), and headed for Richmond Virginia . . . in the middle of December . . . in the middle of a blizzard. Bad omen for a deep southern boy like myself.
There I was, sitting on the floor of my new place in Richmond (had to sit on the floor because I didn’t own any furniture, not even a bed). Just me, the cat, my guitar, and this economy sized bottle of Jack Daniels.
That night I discovered that if you sit and strum your guitar and sip Jack for a couple of hours, that bottle of Jack Daniels will start to talk to you. In this case, the bottle said “Son . . .” (you notice, Jack is a southern boy too) “… you should call that old bitch up and tell her what she did to you. Tell her how bad you’re hurtin’.”
“I muttered something like “That’s a cowardly thing to do, chewing someone out long distance.” The bottle said, “Yeah, that true.” The cat didn’t express an opinion.
The bottle then suggested “Well then, why not write her a song. That way you’ll at least get the poison out of your soul and can get on with life.” I said, “Yeah, that might do.”
Then the bottle of Jack Daniels got a sinister tone in it’s voice and said “And write it in a blues tempo. That old hag never did like your blues records, so this way if she ever hears the song it will just piss her off even more!”.
So, Susan . . . . I hope you are listening!