© 2014 sarahfortune.
Every time the seasons change
or a holiday sneaks up
(like Mr. Thanksgiving
is trying to do tomorrow)
I get a little homesick.
For my Midtown.
For my Memphis.
It looks like I’m not the only one.
My wonderful momma
misses home too and
she wrote about it in this
sweet little song.
Hope you enjoy it
as much as I do.
If you’re from Memphis,
I know you will.
hotel room song from kathy mcgregor on Vimeo.
Happy Thanksgiving ya’ll
and, Memphis, I promise
we’ll both see you soon.
After quite a lull in live music
my life was suddenly filled
with concerts last week.
Here’s one quick story
in photos
with another
music adventure
coming soon.
On Saturday, Todd and I
met up with our friend
(and my old roommate)
who now plays guitar for
The Black Crowes.
He hooked us up with
backstage passes.
A cold, but fun night indeed!
So this is a little random,
but here are some photos
that I somehow forgot to post.
Sadly, we didn’t beat Bama
but at least we looked cute?
More rock
coming up next.
I didn’t fully appreciate my life at nineteen.
In Midtown. In Memphis.
Looking back, through a full decade
I can see the fun that was had.
Impressed I made it through
with very little damage.
Escaped with just a couple
etched black tattoos.
My proud little midtown scars.
Nineteen meant a duplex with
a best friend, instead of a mom.
Bike rides at midnight with
tall boys of beer
and boys of all kinds.
Lucero shows at the Hi-Tone.
Standing up front with
whiskey sours and sweaty girls.
Arms around each other,
swaying and singing like best friends forever.
For the night everything was perfect.
Tomorrow we’ll be back to talking shit.
So-called rock stars at the Deli
in town recording at Ardent or Easley.
From Kate Moss to Cooper Young.
Wondering what the hell they think
of no one thinking about them.
Working the opening shift
at Otherlands on Saturday mornings.
Half the staff still three-quarters drunk.
Slinging bagels, downing coffee and
Tom Petty sing-a-longs.
Word at the coffee grinder
was that you got extra tips
if you were extra mean.
Black and white checkered walkway
leading into the Map Room doors.
Bottled beer and no IDs.
Flaunting our fashion
without much thought at all.
Tank tops from A-Schwabs
before the words American and Apparel
ever sounded cool.
Silk screens on well worn t-shirts,
thrifted on Summer Ave.
And the ugliest shoes ever
bought from those coffee shop tips
at the Oak Court Mall.
Weekday afternoons
sifting through seven inches
at Last Chance Records.
Then thumbing through LPs
at Shangri-La.
Adventures to the old bridge,
draped over the Mississippi.
Everyone knew about the door
a little less than half way across.
A broken lock and a ladder leading down.
We’d wait till dark when
the scary climb was well worth the view.
Laying on our bellies,
head hanging over the side.
Nothing between our young faces
and the steel blocks of barges
gently pushing past the city lights.
We’d end the night running
to the Arkansas line and back
just to say we did.
Ten years later and I’m officially planted
on the other side of that bridge.
The view is just the same.
Lots of love,
but always a little better
when you’re looking back.
