Post by Deleted on Jan 13, 2015 12:50:53 GMT
The Wanderer
I first met Keith Reynolds in the summer of 2006 when I was working at a neighborhood espresso stand. It was during a mid-day slump when he pulled up on a motorcycle, dressed all in leather. His chaps were dusty and tufts of grey peeked out from an ancient baseball cap. “Are you the Ramblin’ Man?” I asked him after taking his order. I was feeling clever, even though the full definition of the term wasn’t apparent to me at the time. He was tall and scruffy, but not forbidding- he spoke in a clear, soft voice. “Nope” was his matter of fact answer. Over the next several months, he returned regularly, bringing with him a spiral notebook and more polite one-word answers. He ordered his coffee, tipped well and retired to a table in the corner to chain smoke and fill pages and pages with longhand. He became a silent fixture at the espresso stand and eventually began to come out of his shell. We discovered he possessed a wonderful sense of humor and an unshakable compassion for his fellow human beings. His intelligence verged on intimidating and he seemed to know a little bit about everything. By this time, his bottomless manuscript was finished and he was at last willing to discuss its contents. Much to the befuddlement of some, it turned out to be (in his words) an abstract semi-autobiographical hitchhiker’s guide to life as seen through the eyes of a traveling street musician.
As it turned out, it was music that eventually led him to write his story. For most of his career he’d been writing in rhymes. His life as an artist technically began in Seattle in 1961. This is where at the age of six, he won first prize for singing in a talent contest. A few years later he picked up his first guitar and taught himself to play. Working hard on his craft came naturally to him and guided him through adolescence. When he graduated from high school, a friend convinced him to join the Coast Guard with the intention of stealing his girlfriend away from him. Keith, unaware of his friend’s motives, decided to go for it. As he puts it now, his friend got the girl and Keith got the Coast Guard. This would be his first experience with traveling, and possibly the spark that set off his restless nature.
After the coast guard, he returned to Washington State and began working his way though a string of jobs. However, his sensibilities would not allow him to become snared by long-term employment. He later deduced that it was the fear of being strangled by it that kept him on the move. So he began to roam the country, letting his spirit guide him from place to place and living only on his music. It became more a part of his character than anything else. He began writing stories to go along with his melodies and they were a great comfort to him on the road. His soft, yet commanding voice and his ability to tame both it and the guitar transformed him into something of a pied piper. Sometimes he would sing and play on sidewalks, in coffee houses or quiet pubs. Other times he found himself at the mercy of local law enforcement. It was in these frightening moments that he always seemed to set off the most anger in others. In one small southern city, it was his quiet dignity that caused nervousness in the local sheriff’s office. In another city, his choice of park benches for an afternoon nap was his undoing. He spent some nights in dirty cells, separated from his guitar, wondering if he would make it out of the town alive. Other nights were spent fleeing on foot from angry drunks spilling out of local dives, gripping his instrument to him like a lifeline.
After nearly ten years of this musicianship boot camp, he finally returned to Washington State, where he discovered his place among a vast community of Seattle street musicians. He developed a rapport with his fellow artists and made many important connections. He joined a community called Victory Music, which was a non-profit project run out of a tavern in Tacoma. Musicians of various levels of experience and personal style took part in open mic nights, which aired on a local radio station. An album was cut, containing songs by the higher caliber musicians participating in the program and Keith was asked to submit one of his songs. This reinforced his sense of pride in his ability and eventually led to him recording a solo album of original folk and southern rock songs. But much like his reaction to the prospect of permanent employment, Keith began to reject the commercial aspect of his music almost as soon as he had accepted it. After all, money was not the reason for all of his hard work.
Throughout the years, he has endured unspeakable hardships as a result of his unwillingness to fit society’s idea of what a man should be. But with each strike of a billy club, his faith would harden and he would hold firmer to his sense of self. Each night spent on a hard jail cot in total darkness would be time spent writing more stories to share. He’s now settled in a house in Washington with several other musicians and is working with his band on a performance line-up. In the back of my mind, I expect there to come a day when the desire to move again will overtake him, but for now he still rides his motorcycle to the espresso stand most mornings. He sips his mochas, smokes his cigarettes, and engages others in conversation. Every once in a while, he’ll bring his guitar and place it near his feet at the table. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, he might even play us a song.
I first met Keith Reynolds in the summer of 2006 when I was working at a neighborhood espresso stand. It was during a mid-day slump when he pulled up on a motorcycle, dressed all in leather. His chaps were dusty and tufts of grey peeked out from an ancient baseball cap. “Are you the Ramblin’ Man?” I asked him after taking his order. I was feeling clever, even though the full definition of the term wasn’t apparent to me at the time. He was tall and scruffy, but not forbidding- he spoke in a clear, soft voice. “Nope” was his matter of fact answer. Over the next several months, he returned regularly, bringing with him a spiral notebook and more polite one-word answers. He ordered his coffee, tipped well and retired to a table in the corner to chain smoke and fill pages and pages with longhand. He became a silent fixture at the espresso stand and eventually began to come out of his shell. We discovered he possessed a wonderful sense of humor and an unshakable compassion for his fellow human beings. His intelligence verged on intimidating and he seemed to know a little bit about everything. By this time, his bottomless manuscript was finished and he was at last willing to discuss its contents. Much to the befuddlement of some, it turned out to be (in his words) an abstract semi-autobiographical hitchhiker’s guide to life as seen through the eyes of a traveling street musician.
As it turned out, it was music that eventually led him to write his story. For most of his career he’d been writing in rhymes. His life as an artist technically began in Seattle in 1961. This is where at the age of six, he won first prize for singing in a talent contest. A few years later he picked up his first guitar and taught himself to play. Working hard on his craft came naturally to him and guided him through adolescence. When he graduated from high school, a friend convinced him to join the Coast Guard with the intention of stealing his girlfriend away from him. Keith, unaware of his friend’s motives, decided to go for it. As he puts it now, his friend got the girl and Keith got the Coast Guard. This would be his first experience with traveling, and possibly the spark that set off his restless nature.
After the coast guard, he returned to Washington State and began working his way though a string of jobs. However, his sensibilities would not allow him to become snared by long-term employment. He later deduced that it was the fear of being strangled by it that kept him on the move. So he began to roam the country, letting his spirit guide him from place to place and living only on his music. It became more a part of his character than anything else. He began writing stories to go along with his melodies and they were a great comfort to him on the road. His soft, yet commanding voice and his ability to tame both it and the guitar transformed him into something of a pied piper. Sometimes he would sing and play on sidewalks, in coffee houses or quiet pubs. Other times he found himself at the mercy of local law enforcement. It was in these frightening moments that he always seemed to set off the most anger in others. In one small southern city, it was his quiet dignity that caused nervousness in the local sheriff’s office. In another city, his choice of park benches for an afternoon nap was his undoing. He spent some nights in dirty cells, separated from his guitar, wondering if he would make it out of the town alive. Other nights were spent fleeing on foot from angry drunks spilling out of local dives, gripping his instrument to him like a lifeline.
After nearly ten years of this musicianship boot camp, he finally returned to Washington State, where he discovered his place among a vast community of Seattle street musicians. He developed a rapport with his fellow artists and made many important connections. He joined a community called Victory Music, which was a non-profit project run out of a tavern in Tacoma. Musicians of various levels of experience and personal style took part in open mic nights, which aired on a local radio station. An album was cut, containing songs by the higher caliber musicians participating in the program and Keith was asked to submit one of his songs. This reinforced his sense of pride in his ability and eventually led to him recording a solo album of original folk and southern rock songs. But much like his reaction to the prospect of permanent employment, Keith began to reject the commercial aspect of his music almost as soon as he had accepted it. After all, money was not the reason for all of his hard work.
Throughout the years, he has endured unspeakable hardships as a result of his unwillingness to fit society’s idea of what a man should be. But with each strike of a billy club, his faith would harden and he would hold firmer to his sense of self. Each night spent on a hard jail cot in total darkness would be time spent writing more stories to share. He’s now settled in a house in Washington with several other musicians and is working with his band on a performance line-up. In the back of my mind, I expect there to come a day when the desire to move again will overtake him, but for now he still rides his motorcycle to the espresso stand most mornings. He sips his mochas, smokes his cigarettes, and engages others in conversation. Every once in a while, he’ll bring his guitar and place it near his feet at the table. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, he might even play us a song.
