Trying to Reason
Thoughts on Buffett, bandwagons, and belonging
By Michael Powelson
SEPTEMBER IN THE SOUTH is a ruse. Crossing guards and football Saturdays peddle summer’s end with a straight face, but our heat indexes always blow the deal. It’s probably why Labor Day weekend ambushes me every twelve months. I’m sweating so much, I never see it coming.
This one pounced with extra stealth, then an ironically cold reminder: Jimmy Buffett’s been dead a year now.
Yes, the bard de bons temps died amidst the same holiday of his first charting single—arguably on the very day the song’s narrator tells his partner that love is “the reason I just let you go.” Random coincidence? Poetic coda? Either way, Monday came and went.
And so, without intending to, I spent this year’s national day off wrestling my own remembrances.
The fact is, Buffett and his foundational body of work have done more for me than any other artist. The rub: I’ve always been too insecure to admit it. And it only took absorbing a year’s worth of public memorials to understand why.
From the New York Times to the National Review, Buffett’s obituaries crammed all the lifestyle-ing, business mogul-ing, and Parrot Head-ing into their opening paragraphs. And the songs, especially the early ones, got short shrift. No surprise that it would be the same in death as it was in life. This tension between pathos and persona even explains why some are reluctant to waive the Buffett flag. Doing so casts us as sentient Tommy & Tammy Bahamas, conga-lining from one Caribbean cruise to the next until it’s time to move all our “It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere” tchotchkes into some theme park of an assisted-living facility.
“In both the personal and professional, Buffett exemplified the virtues of living with excitement, generosity, lightness, and, most importantly, joy. It’s a value system that endures, especially in the melancholy times.”
I don’t really belong to this cohort. Though that’s hardly the point. It’s the fear of being lumped in that reveals my snobbery. And that’s one ugly piece of baggage I’m determined not to carry into the second half of my life. Still, coming out of the fan-boy closet means coming to Jesus on Jimmy.
Did Buffett’s craft suffer as the carnival it birthed took on more and more revelers and he more and more hats? I can’t argue otherwise. He’s certainly not the only artist whose output grew more general, uneven, and self-derivative as their work broadened (or bloated depending on your taste). But he may be one of the few whose knack for marketing and intellectual property built a level of public demand that afforded him an endlessly evolving menu of creative outlets and cultural experiences.
Short fiction? Why not. Broadway show? YOLO. Tequila imprint? It’d be rude not to. Who among us wouldn’t have strayed? Besides, hit middle age and you realize staying interested might be more important than staying impeccable.
It’s possible this is where the entertainer’s true legacy lies. In both the personal and professional, Buffett exemplified the virtues of living with excitement, generosity, lightness, and, most importantly, joy. It’s a value system that endures, especially in the melancholy times. “Come Monday” again offers a telling lens. Even in his pining for the traveling lover whose vacation he doesn’t understand, we never doubt the sincerity of the narrator’s wish that she be enjoying herself. Why? Because we know he damned sure would have been. In word and deed, Buffett encouraged us to smell every rose. And if returning that favor means stomaching the occasional “Cheeseburger in Paradise,” it’s the least one can do.
To be clear, this isn’t about the haters, with whom I have no qualms. Everything’s not for everyone. It’s the authenticity-obsessed acolytes like me who need to lighten up. Jimmy Buffett never claimed to be Leonard Cohen. So I’m going to stop pretending it’s a sin he turned into Walt Disney. Whatever side of the man entertained you, there was plenty of it to go around. And what’s dumber than weighing the validity of one smile versus another?
“Those records and the connections they made, convinced me it was worth wondering about life in places and times other than my own.”
That said, the early songs are a bigger deal to me than I’ll ever be able to express.
The first time I heard one I was 14. It was 1994, and a friend had brought her dad’s CDs on a road trip. I had a crush on her, so I acted interested. Then suddenly, I wasn't acting. The next few years were spent immersed in all those ABC/Dunhill recordings. Some of them are just objectively brilliant (the first verse of “He Went to Paris” stands up against damned near anything). But I love them for a more subjective reason. They broke the world wide-open for me.
Timing probably has a lot to do with it. If you’re lucky, at some point in your teens you start to get a sense of what interests you about life. When something clicks, you’ll follow it as far as it will go. And that’s where these records were different. They were filled to the brim with other things to follow. Each song was a treasure map of references, allusions, and backstories—all opening new windows into history, literature, politics, and humor. In short, humanity.
For me, Buffett was a direct flight to Twain, Dylan, Prine, Hemingway, Williams (Hank and Tennessee), Flannery O’Connor, Steve Goodman, Patsy Cline, Hunter Thompson, The Neville Brothers, Jim Harrison, Jerry Jeff Walker, and Tom McGuane (not to mention less conventional takes on Shell Silverstein, Steve Martin, and Jimmy Carter.)
Those records and the connections they made, convinced me it was worth wondering about life in places and times other than my own. They helped me fall in love with books. They rolled out the welcome mat to a psychic homestead, a place to belong no matter where you might wander. And they showed me that other people and their stories are worth more than just about anything else this planet can offer.
Most days, with a little reminding, I can still see that. And I will always be grateful for it.
So thanks to Jana and her dad. And thanks to Jimmy.
I hope you’re still, somehow, enjoying the scenery.
Photograph courtesy of the author; Michael Powelson is creative director at Riggs Partners.