Last night on The Tonight Show, Jay Leno’s musical guest was James Taylor. Before Taylor played, Leno told the story about why he picked Taylor to do the honors of Leno’s last show farewell. He said that as he was moving to California to give himself a shot at big time show business, he played James Taylor’s song, “Sweet Baby James.” The line “With ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go” seemed apropos. [song after the jump]
Leno’s nostalgic look at a song significant to his life as he traveled from his past to his future by traveling to a new place, reminded me of my own traveling from my past to my future song.
When a friend and I traveled across the U.S. for three months–mostly by bus, after our two-years in the Peace Corps the song “America” by Simon and Garfunkel captured our emotional state the most. I remember looking out the bus window watching the scenery roll by while listening to that song with a shared Walkman and two pairs of headphones.
Neither of us had any idea what was ahead for us, but we were looking. Three months of interacting with the physical America helped with our direction. I ended up in Albuquerque, New Mexico and she headed to Washington, D.C. Since then, we’ve both traveled elsewhere.
Of all the experiences I’ve had in life, nothing was more strong than that move back to the U.S. from The Gambia, looking for a place to land where I would feel comfortable and thrive. Simon and Garfunkel were fitting companions on that journey.
By the looks of the hug James Taylor gave Jay Leno after he sang, Taylor’s song helped Leno find his way.
Have any songs helped you find your way as you’ve traveled to a new destination? Metaphorically or physically, it’s all part of the the traveler’s path. For more songs that have inspired us at Gadling, here’s our series Sounds of Travel. One of Annie’s songs was “America” as well.
And, here’s James Taylor singing “Sweet Baby James” in 1970. He’s traveled a bit himself since then.
Here at Gadling we’ll be highlighting some of our favorite sounds from the road and giving you a sample of each — maybe you’ll find the same inspiration that we did, but at the very least, hopefully you’ll think that they’re good songs.
Got a favorite of your own? Leave it in the Comments and we’ll post it at the end of the series.
WEEK 4: “King of the Road” sung by Roger Miller
When my brother and I were young, our parents gave us Hummel figurine music boxes. His figurine was a small boy sitting on a fence with a bundle tied on a stick that rested on his shoulder. When the key was wound, the melody “King of the Road” played while the boy turned.
My figurine was a girl feeding chickens. Although, I dearly loved my music box– the girl looked like Heidi, that independent lass who lived in the Alps with her grandfather, I was drawn to my brother’s more. There it sat on his chest of drawers in a spot within reach.
Even before I knew the lyrics, the title of the song was enough. King of the Road. What could sound more grand?
The lyrics, though, said it all. Hitting the road without cares or worries–the thrill of being in control with each step towards the horizon. A life spent enjoying simple pleasures as long as a person can keep moving and make connections with folks along the way.
Never mind that I happened to be female–and at the time, one of the only known female travelers who got much press was Amelia Earhart–and we know how that turned out. I come from a line of women who have wandered.
Those women carried the aura of far away places, particularly Aunt Clarissa. It wasn’t the stories my great aunt told me of her time in Japan as an Army major after World War II that captured my interest–I don’t specifically remember any– it was the feeling I surmised that traveling gave her. The zippidy do dah.
When Roger Miller wrote King of the Road in 1965, he was telling the tale of a carefree traveler at the same time Miller was on the road seeking out his dreams as a singer-songwriter. After he sings in the video, Miller recalls that the song was inspired somewhere between Dayton, Des Moines or Chicago when he saw a road sign that said, “Trailers for Sale or Rent.”
What caught my attention about this version is Miller’s utter exuberance, both in his voice and his body, particularly when he belts out the third chorus and throws that fast crook in his elbow–and how the song stuck with me all day once I listened to it again.
When I think of my King of the Road experiences, the ones where this song played in my head, I am:
by myself on a bus heading to Maine from New Paltz, New York to work at a summer camp after my senior year in high school, the possibilities endless. This summer was late nights doing laundry so I could head out every weekend to places like Boothbay Harbor,Camden and Ogunquit, eating lobster and clams dripped in butter and skinny dipping in a lake with the moon shimmering across the water;
I’m walking down the streets of Arhus, Denmark, my arms swinging in stride with my legs as I head to the Viking ship museum, my entire body feeling in sync with the sidewalk beneath my feet and the breeze through my hair. I’d come alone–or if I was with someone, I can’t recall because the memory of being so in touch with my body on that day and the sense of adventure has eclipsed a companion;
I am walking away from my village into the Gambian bush to hang out under a tree for a few hours drinking tea, writing and listening to music, soaking up a bit of R&R from being the village Peace Corps volunteer. As cows grazed nearby and finch flitted and darted between the scrub brush, I regained balance;
and I am taking a friend of mine on a road trip through New Mexico so he can see how the landscape changes. As the hues of reds and browns change with each turn past Jemez as we get closer to Bandelier National Monument, we marvel at the wonder of us and our good fortune to have a car and all the time we need.
Whenever I hear that song, my feet start tappin’ and I want to head out–see new places, make new friends, visit old ones and know that the world is my oyster. What better feeling is there than being a king of the road?
Despite the lyrics, I’ve never smoked a pack of cigarettes in my life. I do, however, look at trailers with great affection.
Here’s a bit of King of the Road trivia: It’s been used in the movies: Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby, Swingers, Into the Wild, Im Lauf der Zeit (In Due Time), and if you saw Brokeback Mountain, who can forget the scene where Jake Gyllenhaal as Jack, confident and full of energy, is heading in his truck to see Ennis? King of the Road was playing on the radio. Of course, that was before Jack’s hopes were dashed.
Still, the song for me is an optimistic all will work out.
When Aaron asked in his post for “Words English needs but doesn’t have,” I thought of a Wolof word to add to the list, but I don’t know how to spell it. enday san? n’day san?
The word is used for expressing sympathy, but much more than an “I’m sorry.” It’s like a combination between “I’m sorry,” “I feel for you,” and “That’s too bad.”
It’s a good for tossing around if someone stubs his or her toe or loses his or her life’s fortune.
I don’t know how to spell it because when I was learning Wolof as a Peace Corps volunteer in The Gambia, Wolof was mostly an oral language and not widely written. Therefore, the two Wolof language trainers had their own versions of spelling and kept harping at those of us learning Wolof to listen instead of whining, “We’re Americans. We’re visual learners. Write it on the board.”
I still know what the word listen is in Wolof, but I don’t know how to spell that either.
Most of the Wolof I know, I never saw in a written format. I added vocabulary and phrasing over my two years of service by asking questions, writing words the way I thought they sounded and paying attention to context clues.
As a health education volunteer, I mostly learned health related conversations. I can whip out the “road to good health” talk on cue, but as for writing it down correctly, forget about it.
When Aaron asked for the word list, I did a Google search to see if I’d find some answers. Although I didn’t find n’day san, or whatever it is, I did find this online course for learning Wolof.
Wolof, spoken in The Gambia, Senegal and Mauritania, is grammatically easy and flexible. There’s one section of the Web site with audio samples. If you can pick up a few words, you’ll so delight vendors that you’ll be able to bargain like a champ.
What is one of the most important words to learn? Jërejëf “Thank-you.” That is the correct spelling. I learned it from the Web site. Click on the word to hear how it sounds.
For those of you who find books handy, the one in the picture is one I came across in my search. Here’s the link with the description.
Whoa! Wait a minute. How can that be? Where have I been? I keep thinking I have more freedom of movement about the world than I actually have. Here’s one more place I can’t go.
I just read that at the Phoenix Country Club women are not allowed in the men’s grill room where the serious business deal making and dining occurs. No, the women who want find food to nosh on are pushed off into the women’s grill which is smaller and without the buffet, the bar or the lovely view of the golf course. The women’s grill has a hotplate.
There’s a bit of a fuss going on at the country club since some members want to move on into modern times where a couple can eat eggs together for breakfast, for example. Some of the men are as appalled by living in the days when women weren’t allowed in saloons–“respectable” women mind you and are having a time of it for standing up for their wives. This is true. Here’s the article that covers the details. The story involves peeing on a pecan tree as well as other juicy grammar school-like tidbits.
But before you go to the article, consider this. Several years ago, and I’m talking many–when I lived in Columbia, South Carolina during middle school, my mom took my brother and me to a roller skating rink. When we found out we had to be members in order to skate, we decided that rink wasn’t for us. Why not? Becoming members had to do with religion and skin color. We just happened to be the right religion and and the right skin color, but we didn’t like the rules. We thought the rules should change.
Since then, I think, rules have changed. But, I often live in La-La-Land where we all get along, so I can’t say if this is 100% so. *Before those of you from the south start sputtering, let me assure you I loved so much about South Carolina. Seventh grade was my Renaissance year and I was sad to move.
But, this story is about men and women and not race and religion–so perhaps, they aren’t similar. After all, there are men’s clubs and women’s clubs–and most people wouldn’t argue about that, so what’s the difference?
If the women had a grill as good as the men’s, and the business deal making happened outside the men’s grill so women could participate, I wonder if there would be as much of an issue?
Here’s what I mean. When I was in the Peace Corps, I had some friends who lived in my village who were from Pakistan. The women in the family–18 year-old twins and the mother, didn’t interact with men other than their dad/husband because he was the only family member who lived in The Gambia.
These were wonderful people who treated me extremely well. Once there were men coming for dinner. Since the dad was to have guests, I was invited to keep them company where they would eat in another room. The food was put in the dining room. While the men filled up their plates, we waited in a bedroom with the door closed.
After the men went to the living room, and the door was closed to the dining room, we got our food. Okay, sure the men at first, but there was plenty left.
But, this isn’t the same as the men’s grill either. I was told I could go visit with the men if I wanted to. I didn’t want to. Probably because I had a choice–and I was already in the best company.
As for the women who are at the Phoenix Country Club looking for some equity, I hope they have a frying pan if they want to cook up those eggs on their own.
And if any of you are heading off to a private club somewhere, check to see who can get in. It might surprise you.
Wildlife one comes across in ones travels is one way to know you’ve arrived somewhere new. In Singapore, it was the geckos that climbed on our walls to take refuge behind the artwork.
In The Gambia, it was the pouch rats that jumped over the corrugate fence in my back yard or the enormous snake that I can still see in the circle of my flashlight as I was walking to my latrine one night–or that monkey that makes for a terrific tale. Later for that one.
If you’re driving across West Virginia, you might see a black bear dash across the road like I did last summer when I was heading to Washington, D.C.
If you had been in Noonamah Tavern in Noonamah, Australia last Sunday, you’d have been drinking a beer with a crocodile acquaintance. Noonamah is near Litchfield National Park not far from Darwin.
The crocodile might have been underage though since it was only two feet long. According to the AP article on Salon.com, a grown-up can be 16 feet, much harder to get into a bar.
Three guys who saw the crocodile outside the tavern thought it would be neat to bring it inside and have a few. The crocodile didn’t drink, though. They taped its mouth shut. Not a particularly hospitable way to treat a guest, but it was a crocodile with sharp teeth after all.
Happily, the story ends well. There is not a drinking and driving accident to report or anything like that. The salt water crocodile, a protected species, is now at a crocodile farm where it may have come from in the first place.
I wonder if it has come up with any jokes yet? “There were these three guys in a bar. . .”