Sir Doug
As if I needed more reasons to worship the man, here’s a passage from Texas Tornado, Sahm’s recently released biography:
Doug once explained his itchiness that often overtook him in Austin, his adopted hometown. “I can’t stand to get bored here. When you get bored here, and nothing’s happening, you can get pretty weirded out. But if you can keep some kind of edge going-that’s why I leave all the time. You know, jump in the car, get in my Cadillac and drive to Seattle, drive to Minneapolis, see the Dead, go to spring training. It keeps you going.”
The Dead of his reference were his old friends of the Grateful variety, and he was an ardent baseball fan. His favorite team was the Chicago Cubs, though he also was known to cheer for the New York Yankees, the Houston Astros, and Toronto Blue Jays. He used to drive band members to distraction by blowing off regular gigs and arranging his life so he could go to Florida or Arizona to watch spring training. One year a casting representative of George Lucas, the famous producer of Star Wars, called Doug and offered him a part in a sequel to American Graffiti. Eventually it worked out, and he landed a nice role in the movie, but friends who witnessed the conversation were thunderstruck. At first Doug told the caller from Hollywood that he didn’t think it was possible-the shooting schedule cut into too much of baseball season. During the spring training jaunts he drew on his stature as an entertainer to outwit gatekeepers and hang out with the big leaguers in the clubhouses and dugouts. He spouted major league stats until people rolled their eyes, and his kids would moan with boredom and embarrassment when he spotted a night game in some town, any town, and stopped to watch teams of strangers play a few innings. He was like an insect drawn to the lights.
Doug’s trademark mode of transportation was a Cadillac or Lincoln Continental. One of his Lincolns was a model that had been used in the TV series Hawaii 5-0. Before hitting the road, he would load a variety of instruments and small set of amps, the little gourmet coffeemaker he carried everywhere, and about a dozen suitcases. He’d tie up hotel elevators, trapping other guests in the cramped space, because suddenly he had to stop and count the bags carefully, making sure he had them all. In transit he was always writing, scribbling down a line of conversation or a highway sign that caught his fancy. He might linger in Lincoln, New Mexico, gathering material for a song about the murderous jailbreak of Billy the Kid, or stop and pay his respects in an old Spanish mission the highway offered up. He was know to drive from Texas to California to get a haircut or relieve a toothache.
