I sit at the blackjack table for something like fourteen hours straight. A pretty girl in a sparkly white dress wins $400 and doesn’t tip the dealer. We give her dirty looks, me and this old lady from Omaha who’s saying “shit goddammit” every time a card hits the table. Wanda Jackson’s doing “Funnel of Love” on a jukebox in the other room and her voice bleeds through the carpeted walls, all slinky tough and sounding like good sex. The pretty girl orders a complicated drink and slaps me on the back when she leaves. I don’t know what this means. The old lady stabs her cigarette into the tray with one hand and lights a new one with the other. I can’t stop staring at the pattern of pink lipstick smudged across the pile of dead filters at her elbow.
The music stops and we listen to the slots beep and spin. We listen to a trucker jiggle his change. A cigarette bobs on his lip as he punches in “Funnel of Love” again. “Fuckin’ love this tune, man.” Wanda dated Elvis for a while, then she married a computer programmer from IBM named Wendell. He must have been a hell of a programmer.
Somebody says everybody’s broke. Somebody says the country’s going bust. I tap the green felt and realize I don’t really care. Let’s get rid of Wall Street and roll the windows down. A non-violent shock to the system might do us some good. We’ve earned it. Let all nations crumble and let’s erase the state lines while we’re at it, too. Cities with jukeboxes are the only things that matter.
Wanda Jackson – Funnel of Love
Man, just listen to how she sings “run away”; she packs like twelve syllables in there. And many thanks to WFMU for turning me on to the fact that Wanda sounds eerie and fantastic when she’s downshifted to 33⅓. Give this version a minute to work you over…
Nobody could smoke a cigarette like Linda Darnell.
Snapshots from my classroom.
Stories from the white spaces on the map.
A dub field of mid-century blues.
Love among the ruins.
Lonely gas stations and motel neon.
Her best friend was a little battery-powered radio.
He felt close to her while he drove, his insides vibrating like a teenage dream.
Somewhere Roy Orbison plays on a battered old radio.