Surviving The Absurd Rules of The Bayou. "Louisiana Is A Strange Old Place To Be" From Kenny Denton's memoir There Ain’t No Rules In Rock n Roll

While attending a lunchtime gig in a market square with my artist Toby and his band, in a small town just outside Lafayette Louisiana, my wife Sue and I decided to pop into a small bar while the band set up. As we stepped inside we found it was like many small bars in Louisiana – both dark and uninviting. Whilst I sensed my way to the bar in order to buy a couple of beers, Sue chose a small table close to the front door, perhaps considering we may need to make a hasty exit at some point. Not long after, the door creaked open, and in walked a man, although he wasn’t carrying a banjo he looked like he could have stepped straight off the set of Deliverance. The room seemed to tense as he scanned the bar, his eyes locking on ours almost instantly. Instead of heading to the bar, he came to our table with a deliberate, unsettling calm. Without saying a word, he leaned in until his face was just inches from mine, his breath hot and stale, and stared straight into my eyes. The silence was excruciating, every second dragging like an eternity. My pulse quickened, and I could feel Sue tensing beside me. Two or three minutes passed. though it felt like hours, before he finally straightened up, his expression unreadable, and wandered off to the bar as if nothing had happened. I felt a lot more comfortable few minutes later, when Toby’s weightlifting brother Balo, entered the bar. I told him about my unsettling encounter, hoping for some reassurance. “Don’t worry about it,” he grinned, “He probably thought you were kin.” Only in Louisiana could borderline terror be written off as a family reunion. In the studio, I sat next to the engineer at the recording desk, where the music was turned up so high that the phone on the right of the engineer could have rung like a fire alarm, and we still wouldn’t have heard it. Instead, the red light on top of the handset would flash, like a huge “hello, pay attention to me!” signal. Without fail, a couple of times a day, I’d see the light flashing and shout, “The phone’s ringing!” The engineer, undeterred by the volume that shook the room, would yell back, “What’s that now?” I’d raise my voice even louder and repeat, “The phone’s ringing” whilst pointing my finger towards the phone and once again, he’d respond with, “What’s that now?” This went on and on like a tennis ralley that would have earned us a standing ovation at Wimbledon. Finally, he’d begrudgingly lowered the volume, with me still shouting, “The phone’s ringing!” To my great relief he’d pick up the receiver, delivering a dramatic “JD’s, studio.” After a moment, he glanced at me, with a glazed look shaking his head. “Nope, no one there. Strange, that happens all the time.” I really wouldn’t have bothered with these daily battles, but the call could have been for me and may have been important. One day Lester, a friend of the engineer, popped in to say hello. After some small talk, the engineer asked Lester, “What’ve you been up to?” Lester looking somewhat bewildered by the question eventually replied, “Been doing a lot of fishing.” The engineer raised an eyebrow. “What’s biting?” Lester shrugged, “Nothing, haven’t caught a thing in three weeks.” “What bait are y’all using?” The engineer asked. “Stopped using bait,” Lester replied, like he was revealing the secret to life itself. “How long ago did y’all stop using bait?” “Hmm… about three weeks ago.” Listening to the two of them was like witnessing Laurel and Hardy on an acid trip. I figured this was the sort of guy that took a fishing pole to Sea World During these sessions, I had the pleasure of being accompanied by my good friend and all round musical wizard, Danny Saxon. Danny was in his mid-twenties, a good-looking guy with shoulder-length blonde hair, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a Californian beach more @ kennydenton.com