Sam Moss owned a guitar store in Winston-Salem for many years. It was a bit of an institution. Guitar players and guitar player wannabes congregated there to try out different guitars, trade stories, discuss techniques and boast about the famous musicians they personally knew. Rarely did these cats ever buy anything. On Saturdays, the elite inner circle participated in the ritual Pulliam's run.
Every Saturday at noon, Sam closed up shop. He hung in the window of the front door a sign whose clock indicated the time he would return. And several folks would pile into his car and head over to Pulliam's for "dogs and 'q'." Pulliam's is a funky little joint that's been selling eats for over a hundred years. The only food they prepare is hot dogs and barbeque. But you can also buy a bag of chips, B & G fried pies, school cafeteria-style fudge, Super Bubble bubble gum and sodas from old-fashioned drink coolers.
Sam hounded me for months about joining the crew at Pulliam's. When I finally decided to meet there, I couldn't find the place.
So the following week, I met Sam at his guitar shop and rode to Pulliam's with the guys. We rolled into a gravel parking lot by an old house that sat slightly away from the road and tucked under generous old shade trees. Its green and white striped paint job created a camouflaged effect. It's sign was narrow and faded.
I walked inside and strode up to the counter. Sam instructed me to season my dog with Big Ed's Hot Sauce - made on the premises. "Big Ed's makes the dog," he said. "But start with the mild and work your way up to the heavy duty stuff. Trust me on this one." I did. He was right.
Now here's the deal about Pulliam's hot dogs: they are those red ones that probably have every atrocious body part and carcinogenic chemical a hot dog can possibly have and be still be sold legally. But my theory is this: Big Ed's Hot Sauce renders all potentially damaging factors null and void. It is, if you will, an antidote for the very food it flavors.
Pulliam's has no indoor seating. Instead, folks crowd around a tall stainless steel counter top, eat their dogs and tell stories. If you want to sit down, there are stumps out back.
I started going semi-weekly to Pulliam's. Sam would always greet me enthusiastically, always want to know what trouble I was causing, always be pleased when I'd tell him. We'd sit out front after eating a couple of dogs and smoke and joke. The grimeyness and the yumminess of those Saturdays is hard to convey. But I loved them.
One Saturday when Sam wasn't around, I was at Pulliam's eating a dog and I noticed an article that had been cut out from some tabloid, the name of which I've forgotten. It was an article about Sam's deceased wife, Dido, who had won a trip to Russia courtesy of this tabloid. Dido apparently was an avid tabloid reader. She entered all their contests. And in this instance, won.
The article included a photo of Sam and Dido embracing in front of Saint Basil's Cathedral. Sam looked exuberant. I'd never seen him so happy. And I realized that when Dido died, a part of Sam must have died as well. I imagine he was consumed with a grief that never quite finished consuming him. Maybe that's what got him in the end.
~~~
Sam and Dido had been crazy in love with each other. It was, everyone says, an epic romance.
~~~
Sam Moss sold me my guitar. I had been given a Yamaha some 16 years prior by ex-husband guy who was generously trying to help me realize my dream of playing guitar. But it was a clumsy guitar for me to handle and I grew frustrated every time I tried to play it. Eventually I figured it out: this wasn't the right guitar for me.
So I took the Yamaha to Sam Moss at his guitar shop and asked if I could trade it in for an old Silvertone I'd been eying. It was a beautiful guitar, late 1940's, made of dark wood and some sort of turquoise-colored trim. This guitar really seemed like it was the right one. But Sam knew better.
"Old guitars will vibe you," he said. "They've been in smoke-filled honky-tonks and juke joints and they've built a lot of character as a result. But that doesn't mean this is the right guitar for you."
Sam had me sit down and close my eyes. He put a guitar in my lap and said, "Now play." I awkwardly struck a chord. He then told me to keep my eyes closed as he took that guitar away and shoved another in my lap. This went on for a bit til I got the point. So I wandered around his shop and pulled damn near every guitar off the walls, playing them all til I found exactly the right one.
It's an Alvarez, DY-54. Shallow body, fiberglass back, low action. Acoustic, but pick-ups were added. I fell in love. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was my guitar. Turns out it belonged to Chris Stamey at one point in time. Sam would say, "I've got the papers of authenticity to prove it. If I can ever find them." Having seen Sam Moss' back office, I figured I'd never see those papers of authenticity. But it didn't matter. I loved my guitar.
Sam told me that I needed to hire an exorcist to get rid of any residual Stamey.
Sam encouraged me to write my own songs. "All you need is three chords to be a rock 'n' roll star," he said. I never wanted to be a rock 'n' roll star. I just wanted to use music as another vehicle for story-telling.
Sam gave me the confidence to start writing silly songs. Regretfully, I never played any of them for him. If I had, I think he would have laughed.
~~~
Sam Moss nicknamed me "The Vomitor" (emphasizing the "tor") after a rough tequila night. He kidded me about losing my shit. But in the end he'd hug me and tell me that he'd seen his share of rock 'n' rollers lose their shit and the degree to which I'd lost mine was impressive, right up there with the best of them. And so I feel that by hurling massively in Sam Moss' bathroom, or "The Vomitorium" as it came to be known post-kathyclark, I have somehow endeared myself to the Gods of Rock 'n' Roll.
~~~
Sam Moss had an uncanny capacity to make me feel wholly treasured, as if I was a precious being, somebody special. Maybe he did that to everyone. Maybe that's a testament to his unconditionally loving nature. Or maybe he himself wanted to feel like a precious being, like somebody special. So he did his best to make others feel that way. In the end, I think Sam didn't grasp how fully amazing and well-loved he was. This thought makes me incredibly sad.~~~
Several weeks after Sam's death, I continued to experience a very deep grief. I went to see a Native American healer whom I felt could help me somehow come to terms with his passing. She journeyed out of her body to check on him, to make sure he had fully crossed over. When she returned, she smiled broadly and told me that he's doing very well, that he is in a better position to do the work he was meant to do.
Sam gave her a message to related to me. He said, "Quit crying. Those tears are not for me. Quit crying for yourself and start doing the things that make you happy."
These words rang true. In my imagination, I could hear Sam Moss saying them.
Sam gave her a message to related to me. He said, "Quit crying. Those tears are not for me. Quit crying for yourself and start doing the things that make you happy."
These words rang true. In my imagination, I could hear Sam Moss saying them.
~~~
Ultimately, I believe Sam was too unhappy for this planet. The love of his life had ripped a giant hole in his heart when she departed. I think he walked with one foot in the grave ever since. He put on a great front though. He was always upbeat. Always partying. His partying got out of hand towards the end. He threw so much enthusiasm into getting wasted, it was hard to deny him. He rocked out on guitar up til the end, performing publicly with Peter May and the Rough Band and his own project The Sam's. His playing was superlative. He was a truly class act.
Sam had stories he wanted to tell me. I had planned to do a cover story on him for "Go Triad" when I worked there. But due to an unfortunate series of events, that cover story never manifested.
~~~
Sam had stories he wanted to tell me. I had planned to do a cover story on him for "Go Triad" when I worked there. But due to an unfortunate series of events, that cover story never manifested.
~~~
My grief subsided somewhat after my session with the Native American healer. But I never stopped missing Sam Moss. And I guess I never will. Hopefully he's reserved a spot in Rock 'n' Roll Heaven for me. And I can meet Dido and see the ethereal happiness she inspires in him. I'll sit on some ragged couch while Sam taunts me with a bottle of tequila and then pulls out his guitar and kicks out the jams. Strummer will stop by. We'll light a big campfire, swap stories and tunes. And I'll finally have the opportunity to play some of my silly songs for the man who most inspired me to write them.
~~~
Sam Moss: Rock In Perpetuity.
Wow....
ReplyDelete