Jimmy Buffett

The loss of Jimmy Buffett brings a lot to mind: his songs, his legacies, and my Uncle Billy's time on Key West. First off, my first concert was 1976ish, a triple bill at The Omni in downtown Atlanta: Richie Furay opening; Jimmy Buffett; and the Marshall Tucker Band with special guest Charlie Daniels on fiddle and voice. My old pal Sam Bentley may have clearer memories of attending, but I remember Furay cheerfully and Tucker loudly: but who opened for whom? I think Buffett was in the middle and such a showdog.

I loved Buffett's top 40 hit, "Come Monday," particularly during the summer of 1974 at Camp Carolina. That song always gets me, with its discursive mellow tone. But Buffet leaves both big shoes to fill and interesting legacies. His music deserves more listens and more discussion.

In Florida, and the rest of the Gulf Coast, there is so much to say about Buffett. My late Uncle Billy Bryan lived in Key West roughly 1974-6 and his stories included the influence of our man Buffett, which Billy would pronounce: "Buf-FAY." When I moved to Florida in the 1990s, I heard constant tales of Buffett's work for Save the Manatee, important Florida politics and politicians, and good works. I enjoyed seeing him in the film of one of Carl Hiaasen's juveniles, I think Hoot.

My teacher at FSU for a Coastal Ecosystems course was the late Anne Rudloe, who I had already appreciated as a commentator on WFSU. Her husband Jack and their Gulf Specimen Marine Laboratory have posted to Facebook of Buffet's generosity and support, and that is characteristic.

In Atlanta, his Margaritaville empire bulldozed a keynote structure in music business history; here's part of that story. But Buffett had always included Atlanta appearances and fans in his plans. I seem to recall him as I would read headliner ads as a youngster at both the Great Southeast Music Hall and the Bistro. I got a little tired of the big hits getting overplayed, but that was part of growing up: songs you knew by heart. Even that lost shaker of salt...

There is a lot of writing, now, as well there should be, about Buffett in this moment of retrospect, without him. Retired Florida journalist Jeff Kinkenberg catches something I feel in his immediate reaction on Facebook: "...More than a talented musician, Jimmy Buffett wrote escapist songs that bolstered a Florida beach lifestyle of carefree days, drunken nights and casual sex. The great majority of his fans took the Margaritaville vibe all in fun, but many of us knew folks who took it seriously to death. We saw them at beach bars barely able to stand in those calloused bare feet..." You can balance this with the songs themselves, even "Margaritaville," with its changing refrain to, finally, "It's my own damn fault." Jon Pareles in the NYT puts it well: Jimmy Buffett Was More Than Beaches and Booze.

More happily, I have his songs in my brain for good. I have to re-listen to "A Pirate Looks at Forty" now I'm sixty. I love remembering that he shares "Banana Republics" with author Steve Goodman. But a special favorite, lyrics all mixed and personalized, is "It's My Job." As I graduated from Westminster in May 1981 I had two jobs, one at McDonald's and the other doing cleanup for the Shelter Company, and the latter I kept all summer. My pal Tim Cole (photographer) brightened our work with music and stories, including Buffett and this song, which he shared with our pals Jake and high school classmate Mark Wilson. Tim sang, "Because it's my job!/ To be cleaning up this house [or, fill in your favorite noun, here] / And that's what I'm gonna do." Memorable. Got me through, too. 

Here's Buffett and "It's My Job." Not just for Labor Day week. 

God bless, rest, and keep our man, Jimmy Buffett.