Kinky Friedman – In Memorium

Yesterday’s unfortunate news of Kinky Friedman’s passing has been difficult to grapple with. He had an oversized personality that was a constant presence in my life, and it is a sad realization that this presence is now a memory. I’m not sure what this is that I’m writing; it’s not an obituary. I guess these are my memories, and my way of saying goodbye.

Growing up, there were two types of music in the house. Records, which belonged to my dad, were meant to be played in the living room out of the stereo speakers; and CDs or cassettes, which belonged to my sister or me, were meant to be played in the bedroom, preferably through headphones. Kinky Friedman held a revered position in the record collection, and “Sold American” was always at risk of being plucked from the shelf and dropped on the record player. From the day the infant version of me moved out of Huntsville Memorial Hospital and into my parents’ house, until the day teenage me moved out of that house and into the Moore-Hill dormitory on the University of Texas campus, the Kinkster made regular appearances on the living room speakers.

One year, for the church talent show, my dad pulled out his acoustic guitar and played “High on Jesus.” He hadn’t learned how to play the guitar yet, so he hid a boombox behind the stage and lip-synced the song while holding the guitar. It didn’t matter; the evangelicals loved it, and it stole the show. It was an even bigger hit than Mr. Williford live-drumming to a recording of “Smoke on the Water.”

Certain high school teachers liked to say that when we got to college, we would learn that what we thought we knew was all wrong. What I learned was that Kinky Friedman was not well known among my new peers. This was a surprise to me because I grew up believing Kinky was at least as famous as Bob Dylan. Luckily, the dormitory had a high-speed internet connection, and I had just found a website named Napster that made obtaining music easy and affordable. I set about burning a collection of CDs to fill the deficiency I had discovered in my friends’ lives.

Soon, Kinky Friedman was making regular musical appearances on battery-powered CD players by the swimming pool and at house parties on Riverside Drive. He was a hit. Everybody loved Kinky…that’s a lie. He confused some people. There is a certain type that were convinced they were listening to a 1970s cowboy comedy performance, and there’s a feminist in every crowd who has heard enough before you are three lines into “Get Your Biscuits in the Oven and Your Buns in the Bed.” Irony can be a bitch, but that’s life, I guess.

Kinky did grab a lot of attention among my peers when he started writing a regular article in Texas Monthly. My roommate had a subscription; he would excitedly flip to the back as soon as the new edition was delivered and read it first. Among this crowd, it was completely reasonable when Kinky announced his bid for governor, and we eagerly supported him. Sure, the crowd contained a few provocateurs who liked to cast ballots for Leslie Cochran in the mayoral elections and had been known to drunkenly call into Alex Jones’ public access show to rile him up with concocted stories about Bohemian Grove, but I was a true believer.

I applied to be on the campaign staff. My application consisted of jotting down a few recent accomplishments and emailing them to the address on the website, along with an offer to do whatever they needed for what they could afford to pay. I figured a guy who was liberal enough to support gay marriage but conservative enough to say it was because “they deserve to be as miserable as the rest of us” might just have a shot in this state, and I wanted to help get a non-Republican elected. I didn’t hear back, but I was a loyal surrogate throughout the process anyway. It was the most satisfying vote I’ve cast, but take that with a grain of salt since I’m a disenfranchised Texas liberal who has never supported the winning candidate in a statewide election.

My personal interactions with Kinky have been sparse, but memorable. The first time I remember seeing him, I was in a beer garden celebrating St. Paddy’s Day when I heard a commotion in the crowd behind me. Kinky walked in wearing a sparkling green three-piece suit, a black cowboy hat, and chewing on a cigar the size of a canoe. A crowd was magnetically pulled to him, and he was taking pictures and shouting out quips as he threaded his way towards the bar. Most of the crowd didn’t know who he was. They weren’t trying to get close to Kinky Friedman; they just wanted a picture with the witty man in the festive suit. Some people have it, and he had it in spades.

The year was 2013, plus or minus a few years. I was drinking wine at Opa’s on South Lamar when Kinky walked into the courtyard. I had come there to see him, but didn’t think it was appropriate to take a picture of a man without his permission, so I kept my phone out of sight while snapping the shot. I was congratulating myself on getting a clear picture of his face from the surreptitious angle when he changed direction and walked straight up to me. He stuck his hand out and asked my name and if I would like to take a picture with him. Then, he bummed a light and lit the ubiquitous cigar. We stood on the front porch smoking together while other fans filed by, hoping he didn’t notice as they took pictures from slyly positioned phones.

After one cigarette, I rejoined my group. Kinky worked the room. He shook every hand, took a picture with anyone who asked, played a set on the indoor stage with Little Jewford, and hung out to sip tequila and smoke cigars afterward. We didn’t interact the rest of the night, but I walked past him on my way to the exit, and he broke away from the conversation he was in to slap me on the back and say, “Thanks for coming out tonight, James.” His ability to connect a name and a face that easily, after a night full of meeting people, absolutely floored me. Some people have got it.

Coincidentally, the last thing I wrote for the blog was a listening lounge post for “Under the Double Ego.” I didn’t know he was ill when I wrote it. I’m not sure who I expected to update me on Kinky’s health, but nobody did. I’m glad I didn’t know though. I spent a few weeks scouring through 1980s newspaper archives for mentions of Kinky and the Double Ego. It was an enjoyable investigation, and I’m grateful it wasn’t marred by melancholy.

The album is beautiful. It’s different from the rest of his catalog; it’s not the type of album that anybody would mistake as cowboy comedy, and there is not a single lyric that can be misconstrued as offensive. It’s full of thoughtful lyrics written by a middle-aged Kinky Friedman who is saying goodbye to the music industry and contemplating what the next chapter of his life will look like. He didn’t know it at the time, but his next chapters would be long and adventurous. Nobody wants to read their own obituary, but I think that the 1983 version of Kinky Friedman would have puffed contentedly on his cigar as he read about the life he was about to lead.