Runnin’ On...Full

Growing up, I knew all of Jackson Browne’s songs.  I don’t mean that I was simply acquainted with his catalogue or knew all the lyrics.  I mean I KNEW them.  I bought (OK, my Mother bought for me) all the printed music folios for each of his albums, and I learned to play them.

Every song.

I had to.  I had to be ready.

Normal kids fantasize about going to the moon or running off with the circus, or becoming President (thought these days those three sound redundant).  I, meanwhile, fantasized about filling in for Jackson Browne.  What if something happened to him in the rough and shuffle of touring?  What if he tripped over a speaker cable and broke a finger in the fall?  What if the piano lid unexpectedly fell on his hands?  What if the bus door closed too quickly and caught his fingers as he entered?  He could still sing just fine, but he couldn’t possibly handle the piano or his guitar.  The cry would go out near and far, “Does anybody know how to play these songs?”

Shyly, but confidently, I would raise my hand and step forward.  I was perpetually ready.  The concert could go on as planned.

Understand, I didn’t want anything very bad to happen to him.  Certainly nothing permanent.  After all, I idolized him.  I merely wanted to help out.  And I needed to be ready.

OK, so it was a self-serving fantasy.  But, then, who ever has selfless fantasies?  Regardless, and alas, I was never needed.  Abilene never seemed to make it onto his tour schedule.  

The closest he came was Fort Worth in my freshman year of college.  It was his “Runnin’ On Empty” tour and I wasn’t about to miss it.  How I had the money for it I haven’t a clue.  But I even took a date — a dear friend from high school then attending Baylor University.  Clear evidence of adolescent insanity, I borrowed a fraternity brother’s car, drove the 90 miles south to Waco, picked her up, drove back to Fort Worth for the concert, and then back to Waco to take her back to her dorm, before getting back into the car to head back to Fort Worth where I no doubt fell into bed...exhausted but still humming.  And smiling.  

I’ve seen him a dozen times since — with a band and more lately solo acoustic.  It doesn’t matter to me.  As long as I get to hear him.  He typically honors requests shouted out from the audience.  Somehow always asks for “Rosie” and he always smirks and replies, “Oh, so you are THAT kind of crowd,” before playing the song.  Everybody laughs.

He’s still going strong, writing and recording, though I’m guessing, given the vagaries of broadcast media, his new stuff doesn’t get as much radio time as his old.  The latter certainly shows up in the rotations of “oldies” stations, but that necessarily precludes the current material.  That’s alright by me; I don’t much listen to the radio anyway.

And so it is that tonight Lori and I will once again take our seats in his audience — “the best darn seats,” to borrow a line from Bill Murray, “in our price range.”  And I’ll be smiling; no longer fantasizing, but simply relishing the joy of being there, listening.  Runnin’ On Full.

I’m trusting that he’s healthy. I’m long since out of practice, although I can still bang out a pretty good “Doctor My Eyes” and “The Pretender.”  

Besides, at our age, neither Jackson nor I need anybody wishing us ill.  We need all the positive energy we can get, if we are to keep runnin' at all.