From the Top by Michael Perry Page B

pint-sized drunken Englishman whoopin’ it up at a Confederate Railroad show.
    Tim—I called him Swifty—was from the Midlands of England, an ocean away, and there would be no funeral. A day after I got the news I went down to the pole barn and started digging through boxes of old CDs, pulling everything that reminded me of the music Swifty and I listened to on our English rambles: the Waterboys, Marillion, Simple Minds, Siouxsie and the Banshees, the Cure, Bronski Beat, Roxy Music, Status Quo … Back in my writing room I played them over and over, every song cutting loose new-old memories, and sure, some tears.
    It’s a fine line that separates wallowing from remembrance, but as I listened to those songs late into the night, I didn’t care. Track by track I was back with Tim, riding shotgun in the left-hand passenger seat of his Mini, strap-hanging on the Tube in London, or simply shuffling home from the local pub. By the time the sun came up I had sorted some things out and stored some things away. And now when I’m running down some Wisconsinbackroad with Status Quo in the deck and the three-chord stomp of “Rollin’ Home” comes thumping from the speakers, I grin and cast my eyes to the right, where I can see Swifty, with his hand-rolled cigarette and easy grin, and I’m thankful right down to my boots for the time-bending power of music.
COOLSVILLE
    Rickie Lee Jones was the guest for this show. She is cool in the coolest sense. That got me to thinking about what it is to be cool.
    Welcome back to Tent Show Radio, folks, from the backstage dressing room with the one lonely little lightbulb burnin’ …
    Y’know, I’m just sittin’ here listening to Rickie Lee Jones and considering the idea of what it is to be cool. What it is, and how to have it. How to get it. Cool is ineffable. Cool is about presence as much as action. You can’t force it, you can’t fake it, you can’t chase after it. Because, well, that wouldn’t be cool. Maybe you can earn cool, I’m not sure. I know you can own it.
    Willie Nelson is cool. Willie Nelson is cool because he can wear braids and running shoes and play golf and still be cool and that is a powerful cool indeed. I bring up Willie a lot when I get in discussions about cool and the difficulty of remaining cool. For instance, for a moment back in the 1980s David Lee Roth was cool. No, seriously—put aside your bald jokes and your perpetual failed reunion tours—but at some point the spandex tights have got to go. Whereas Willie’s deal is still cool because he makes it seem as if he’s just ramblin’ along, and you can ramble when you’re sixty or seventy or more whereas the scissor-kicks are harder to come by.
    Aretha Franklin is cool. Nina Simone was cool. Julia Child was cool. Joan Jett was and is cool. Sade is cooler than cool. Emergencyroom nurses are by and large cool. Cool transcends occupation, although tonight I’m leaning heavily on music.
    Ray Charles was cool. There’s a shot that Ray Charles was the coolest of the cool. For all time, really. Ray was cool right into the grave. (Although perhaps if you talked with a Raylette or two you’d discover that even the coolest cool is a matter of perspective, or distance. Cool should not be confused with good behavior.) There’s a moment in Ray’s version of “Do I Ever Cross Your Mind” when he sings the words melancholy jailer and his delivery of the word jail-ah has enough cool in it to last me three years if only I could pull it off. And that’s the other intangible element of coolness. Part of being cool is knowing when you’re not cool and just letting it ride. You know—it’s okay to sing along with Ray when you’re alone, but shame on you if you think you’re gettin’ anywhere close to Ray. There’s this moment on a Ray album I own when he’s singing “America