The Tennessee Lamb
It was a sultry southern summer night when Bob Reynolds arrived at Memphis International Airport, He had jetted in from New York after a hectic ten days of meetings and had a week to kill before more meetings in LA and it seemed to Bob to be the perfect opportunity do a little site seeing.
He had checked into the Peabody Hotel and after some lunch decided to take in the sights and sample the local beers. The concierge recommended the Flying Saucer a short walk from the hotel. Bob was not a cocktail sort of guy, he rarely drank wine and felt uncomfortable in posh hotels. It was six in the evening and the bar was already busy, he found a seat in the corner with a good view of the room and the entrance. Bob liked to people watch and this was the perfect place to do it.
Good evening Sir, what can I get you?
Bob surveyed the real ale pumps that lined the bar.
“I’m new to Memphis, what real ale would you recommend?
“You’re a Limey, where about in England are you from?
“I’m from London.” Bob answered with a smile, he actually lived in Cambridge but Americans only seemed to know London.
“Can I recommend the Sweetwater Blue made in Atlanta, not too strong and with a subtle hint of blueberries. It’s what I call a Breakfast Beer.”
Bob laughed “That’ll do me. Thanks.”
On a small stage at the back of the bar a roadie was assembling a drum kit.
“Is there music on tonight?”
“Yes indeed, y’all enjoy them, they’re the Tennessee Lambs. The singer is called Harper. It’s a bit Cajun, mixed with blues and country. Smoking hot these guys and they’ll be on soon.”
Bob perused the food menu and ordered a Whiskey Burger and fries. The bar was full now all around Bob could see the theatre of people’s lives playing out. A couple giving each other frosty looks, two men holding hands under the table and a crowd of what looked like students in a heated discussion.
A burger the size of the Statue of Liberty arrived with enough fries to build a life-size replica of the Titanic.
“I guess you don’t do small servings,” Bob told the server.
“No Sir, you’all in Dixie now, we don’t do small”
Suddenly the room fell quiet, the house lights dimmed and the stage was lit up. The Tennessee Lambs strutted out to wild applause and a deafening roar of approval. From the first beat Bob loved them. He loved sultry blues numbers and the frantic sound of the fiddle player in the wild country bluegrass songs and they quickly entranced him. He took his beer and made his way down the side of the room to get a closer look. The singer Harper was dressed in a shimmering satin red dress and her startling blue eyes drew him in closer and closer.
Bob was not an effusive man but when they finished the final number of the first set he applauded like a man possessed. Harper looked across from the stage and smiled at him and Bob’s heart melted.
He made his way back to his seat and ordered another beer and the suddenly out of the corner of his eye there was a flash of red satin. He turned around and saw Harper.
“Loved the show, can I buy you a drink as a thank you.”
“I’d love a beer. Thanks. Is that an English accent? ” Harper said as she sidled over to Bob’s corner of the bar.
“Yes, it is an English accent and I loved your set, so powerful and full of energy.” And from that moment on the conversation flowed like wine. In between sets she returned to talk to Bob and at the end of the night Bob asked her if she would show him some of the sights of Memphis. It was four in the morning having hit all the high spots this party city had to offer they stumbled back to the Peabody Hotel.
As the morning sun broke free of the city skyline Bob sat up in bed and looked at the Harper as she lay sleeping beside him.
“This” Bob thought “has been the best night of my life, ever” He slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom. As he dried himself after his shower he heard Harper singing...
If you'll be my Dixie chicken, I'll be your Tennessee lamb
And we can walk together down in Dixieland
He stood in the doorway and when she finished the song he applauded.
“That song is beautiful, how come I didn’t hear it at the pub?”
“That song isn’t for everybody, it’s just for you.” Harper smiled.
For the next week, the two of them were welded together, they dined on soul food mixed with southern open-hearted hospitality, they visited Graceland, the home of the King and spooned over Jambalaya as they watched the Mississippi slow drift by. Memphis had it all and it left Bob knowing he never wanted to go home, he just wanted to stay with his Tennessee Lamb. He decided that he would buy a little house on the edge of town. It would have a white picket fence and boardwalk porch where they could sit at night drinking cold beer and be serenaded by the Mockingbird’s night time chorus. He was smitten.
All too quickly it was Bob’s last night before he had to fly to Atlanta and but he knew what he must do.
“Harper, I have something to ask you,” Bob said as he knelt down on one knee.
“Before you do.” Harper said as she took his hand and pulled him back up.”I have something to tell you. I’m going tonight on tour, I have a flight for Paris in two hours”
Bob was gobsmacked “I’ll come with you” he pleaded
“No Bob, it’s been lovely but it’s not going to happen.” She kissed him and left.
Bob returned to London and made lots of attempts to contact her but she didn’t reply to any messages. He also tried to find their song on Spotify and other band sites but although he downloaded the whole back catalogue of the Tennessee Lambs he never found the Tennessee Lamb song.
A year later the annual meetings with the Americans came up and out of curiosity he checked out the band's social media and saw that they were doing a one-week residency at the Commodore Hotel in Linden on the outskirts of Memphis.
“One more time” Bob thought “I just want to see her one more time.
Three weeks later Bob was standing in the lobby of the Commodore and looked over at the bar that led into the music venue.
“I need a beer or maybe three” Bob mused “before I go in.”
He sat in the corner of the Bar and looked around, it had filled up with what he presumed were fans of the band, mainly men. The bartender came over and Bob ordered a beer.
“Here for the gig?“ The bartender asked.
“Yes”, Bob replied “and looking forward to seeing them.”
“Yeh, the singer Harper is something special” and as the bartender handed him his drink he began to hum a tune and soon all then men in the bar began to sing along.
If you'll be my Dixie chicken, I'll be your Tennessee lamb
And we can walk together down in Dixieland
This story is inspired by the band “Little Feat” and their song “Dixie Chicken” the Lyrics were written by Martin Kibbee and Lowell George.
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