When I first arrived in Muscle Shoals in 1969, there was a drummer by the name of Borax, from Oklahoma who would accompany us into some of the local studios hoping to get a job as a studio musician. Borax had hair down to here and the slowest Southern accent I have ever heard. Once on a trip to play a night club gig out of town, we stopped at a really red-neck truck stop to get a bite to eat. We were getting hard stares from most of the truck drivers in the place and I was in a hurry to bolt down my burger and fries and get back on the road. Borax, as was his way, was slow to finish his meal. Finally we got him to the cash register to pay our tabs and with a flourish, Borax whipped out a purple velvet purse in full view of all those road warriors. I wanted to crawl through the floor. Youre on your own, Borax, I said, dashing for the door of the place. Moments later Borax meandered out the door with a satisfied look on his face. I never went on another road trip with Borax after that. I never knew his true name. I most likely never will.
Posted on: Wed, 23 Oct 2013 08:49:35 +0000
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