The Original Horn Honker
Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Micheal Smotherman.
November 29, 2019
That Smotherman guy.
When I was 19-years old, I worked in a mall record store (remember those?) and when new releases came out, I would carefully pick through them. Anything in the rock, pop, punk or soul category, I’d line ‘em up and buy all of them with my much loved employee discount.
One day last century I bopped home with a new album by a guy named Micheal Smotherman.
The cover showed a close-up of a good-looking blonde with high cheekbones, a serious pout and memorable blue eyes framed by lashes any woman or camel would covet.
He didn’t look my type, as I was a teen punky rocker and this man was almost too perfect looking, but he was undeniably attractive. Not really my type of music (at the time) either, but it was genuine craft, melodic and memorable. I was intrigued. And I noticed immediately that he could sing.
Wow, could he sing.
I will now refer you to my diary from that day so long ago:
I don’t know what kind of name ‘Smotherman’ is but this guy is so symmetrical it’s spooky. Note: can really write and sing. There’s a song on his LP called “Do I Ever Cross Your Mind.” I think it could be a hit. Keep an eye on him. Star potential.
I dearly love how teenagers judge, well, everything. I was no different. I was a music snob with high-handed opinions on everything in tune town. Some were correct, others were wrong (like the time I said Madonna would be forgotten in 10 years.)
But I was right about this Smotherman guy.
Back in the day HBO used to sometimes play music videos between programming (before everyone had MTV). One night I saw a kitsch-y video of a catchy number, “Crazy In Love.” I glanced at my TV and did a double take. It was that Smotherman guy! Not only was he attractive, he looked to be as tall as a sunflower.
I couldn’t get that song out of my head for days.
I didn’t hear much about him as years passed but I never forgot him or his name. Turns out he was busy both before and after I first noticed the guy. His songs were recorded by a multitude of artists. Ray Charles. Willie Nelson. Bonnie Raitt. Tom Jones. Cher. Glen Campbell recorded an entire album of Micheal’s songs.
Ten of his tunes went to #1 on the Country Music charts. He was in Captain Beefheart’s band for what seemed like forever. He co-wrote with Jennifer Warnes and Billy Burnette. He played with Mick Fleetwood. He was invited to the White House and concert halls in foreign lands. Andy Warhol took his picture.
Then one day I noticed who played B-3 organ on Lucinda Williams’ Grammy-winning album “Car Wheels On A Gravel Road.”
“It’s that Smotherman guy!” I exclaimed, yet again.
When I finally met him in person that’s exactly what I said before we met in a big hug.
I adored the man from moment one. I was delighted to discover one of the most honest, raw, kind, raunchy, gentlemanly, hilarious, loving, erudite, sweet-natured humans I’ve ever had the good luck to stumble across.
And talented. Lord-a-mercy-holy-on-high.
He told great stories. With his wonderfully vivid vocabulary Micheal could have easily been a novelist.
He was unfailingly sweet to me. When he’d ring me he’d greet me with “Hey bayyy-buh” in his delicious Okie drawl. Just hearing that whisky-rough, scotch-smooth voice made me smile, whether he was singing, opining on politics, praising/blasting the music biz or telling one of his hilarious and at times heartrending stories.
Whenever we saw each other he’d fold his arms around me and whisper all my names in my ear. “Helloooo Therra-Cat-Gwyn-Jaramillo.”
He once said something so damn funny (which I shan’t repeat here) that I laughed until I cried. I dropped my head into my hands, weeping into my palms with uncontrolled laughter. And I guffawed about it repeatedly for FIVE YEARS.
He had a rowdy-real, point-on blistering brand of comedic talent. Ask anyone who knew him.
He came up as a tow-headed ranch kid from Erick, Oklahoma, and his stories came from just as honest a place – the heart of a creative, expansive thinker. His wild, melody-rich, forthright and sometimes messy existence was seasoned with deep love, deep doubts and a heady appreciation for the world’s beauty. He loved the burnished gold of a Western vista. He loved the gritty gold of the streets of Brooklyn.
This was a man surrounded by beauty in his life: beautiful daughters, beautiful grandchildren, beautiful songs, beautiful friends, beautiful wives and beautiful girlfriends. The songs he wrote came straight from a tender, all-American heart.
I used to say, “You are my favourite rowdy-romantic cowboy.” And he was. There could be no other.
He often would tell us tales about his unbridled time as a youthful artist, the struggles, the successes, the cool people, the crooked ones, and about days and nights he’d run wild like a coyote on peyote. He’d talk about riding his motorcycle during his L.A. days, revving “100 mph with my hair on fire” up the Pacific Coast Highway. If you know that Smotherman guy you can picture this. If you’ve known him long enough you might have been with him on that ride.
Then there was an incident drinking in an Indian bar in mid-Oklahoma. The Native Americans apparently took a liking to this blue-eyed stranger (likely it was his cordial candor that won them over). They invited him to play drums with them outside where they passed around a bottle for hours until that Smotherman guy finally fell out of rhythm.
“I had to leave,” he told me, “I was so drunk I couldn’t drum anymore. They didn’t miss a beat but I was done. I was afraid to take the main roads home.”
So he navigated the winding, tiny, empty back roads of his home state, holding the wheel of his truck with one hand while using the other to shoot his .44 out the window at passing fence posts, yelling literary epithets with each trigger pull. He was drunk, he was driving, he was shooting and by God, he was well read.
This hard-living, hard-loving, hard-playing man turned into a wad of jello around children. Bring a kid around and you’d see peace come into his soul. He loved and felt protective of the innocent energy of youth. He’d make friends with the young and compose songs on the spot for them. When his grandson dubbed him “Excellent Grandpa” he was so proud of the title he told me about it every time I saw him.
I visited him whenever I could. I loved his complexity and his simplicity, his brashness, his sentimentality.
He was highly intelligent and wouldn’t hesitate to tell you the truth as he saw it (usually starting with “Well I think that’s bullshit” in his mellow drawl).
A dapper dresser who cut a sharp figure, Smotherman could swear like a sailor, croon like a lover, was unfailingly polite, patient and incredibly solicitous and kind. He flirted with women like it was his job and could play the piano with a tender touch or the force of freight train. This latter talent he likely inherited from his mum Norma, a church goer and feisty femme icon of Erick, Oklahoma.
He got his big break young, in Roger Miller’s band, then a career that wound through Hollywood and Nashville until he returned to Oklahoma in recent years. That’s where I’d often visit him and his girlfriend, June. Miss June is herself a treasure. Together they were a gift to this world and most certainly to me. My gratitude is huge.
Micheal was an avid knife collector. He would sometimes rummage through his collection, make a careful arrangement of pocketknives on the table and ask me to pick one for myself. I still have two of the three he gave me.
He would take me out for meals. I would plead, “Can we go to Big Vern’s Steak House and Saloon, please? Pleeeease?” So we’d drive the 35 miles from their spread in Oklahoma to an uneven Texas town on old Route 66, Shamrock, where’d we eat, drink and get merry.
When I’d order my steak medium-rare, Micheal would always shout “AS GOD INTENDED!”
Whenever I left, Micheal would send me off with a piece of fruit and make a huge cup of ice water or coffee for me to take on the road. He didn’t ask. He just did it.
He told me once with a sweet smile, “You are a ray of sunshine.” I loved his lusciousness. I’d get a note occasionally on FB messenger: “Quit fuckin’ around and come visit us.” I loved his bluntness.
Once before parting ways he gave me a sweet kiss on the lips after which I pretended to fan myself like a coquette as I batted my eyes at him.
“Jerry Lee Lewis might be the Killer,” I said in my best (meaning terrible) Mae West impression, “But you, Mr. Smotherman, are the Thriller.”
It stuck. From that day on he had a new nickname.
“Hey Thriller!” I ‘d say when I saw him or picked up the phone.
“Hey Bayyy-buh.”
I’d smile.
When I was sad he’d hug my shoulder and say, “Remember, they can kill you, but they can’t eat you.”
I saw Micheal for the last time last week. June generously allowed me to come to the hospital in Oklahoma City after he’d had a sudden cardiac arrest and the future was uncertain. I held his hand and talked to him, told him how much I loved him and thanked him for the music and the mirth. I said to him of a life he where he seldom bragged about accomplishments and sometimes shared his regrets, “You did good. You did real good, Thriller.”
I couldn’t comprehend such a mighty heart could stop beating, but when life kicks you in the ass quarters, it kicks hard.
I will never be able to thank Miss June enough for letting me spend that time with Micheal. I didn’t ask to see him. I went to the hospital to bring her snacks, hug and support her during a time when I knew the man she loved deeply was in grave trouble. I didn’t even know if they would let me in.
“Do you want to see Micheal?” June asked in her gentle, direct way, “It’s up to you.”
I thought about it.
“Yes,” I said, “I do.”
She gave me a rare gift that day, one you don’t always get in life. The chance for a few extra stolen moments as the clock winds down. The time to hold a hand, kiss fingers, whisper an appreciation and recite a love letter to someone -- and I can guarantee this part -- the likes of which we’ll not see again.
There’s 7 billion people on this planet and I’ve yet to meet another like Micheal Smotherman.
You did good, Thriller. You did real good.
God, Therra -- you have lived a life! I had never heard of Michael, and now I can't get enough of him. I found his sister's channel on Youtube with a whole collection of his music. Thank you again.