PLEASE MEET NATE:
The small camp intrigued me. There was curious energy, but not exactly the welcoming sort. A young man lay in the shade. There were a few chairs and a guitar case near the concrete bulkhead. A small tent. The man sat up as I approached. I felt tense eyes lock on with precision and suspicion. I hesitated, but soon sensed tentative permission to proceed with caution. Nate stood as I approached. We shared a few words. I handed him a water bottle and started to leave. But the tension eased and there was a hint of trust in his eyes. “Have a seat.” he said. “Let’s talk.”
Nate was angry. His wallet was stolen earlier. His eyes caught fire as he spoke ruthlessly of finding the thief. “I’m the most Christian non-Christian you’ll ever know. And I’ve been restraining myself lately. Trying to stay positive. But I’m about to snap. And right now I need a shot that would kill an elephant.”
Nate spoke of his life and family. The tension gripped as he reached for his guitar case, revealing a worn wooden hollow body arch top. “You see, I’ve got a beef with God and the devil.” he explained as he donned his brass slide. He winced as he positioned his guitar against an abscessed needle wound.
The air wept with sweet sound as Nate warmed up, drawing his slide deep. Extracting cries of hopelessness and despair from the simple acoustic instrument. He slid gracefully into a haunting rendition of the classic Depression era Skip James number, “Hard Time Killing Floor Blues.” Nate explained that this version was a homage to his friend who was shot in front of his wife and children during a home invasion in Houston.
Nate grew up in Texas. He suffered during his childhood. He speaks bitterly of the hypocrisy of his family and conservative Christian minister father. His brothers were divided when his parents split, deepening his anger and confusion. “I got tired of the lies. I was outcast by the Church, by the school. They rejected me, so I became their worst nightmare. I became a hell raising asshole and I like it.” Nate joined the armed services at age 17 and served honorably for several years.
Nate is an accomplished bluesman, and goes by the street name “Swamp.” “I play ramshackle back-porch devil music.” There’s fire in his eyes and chaos in his soul. He’s played clubs throughout the South and Northwest. The words MOJO HAND are tattooed across his fingers. “The Blues are a highly spiritual and emotional tool,” Nate explains, “Everyone’s searching from door to door looking for heaven.” Nate explains that heroin has its downsides, but helps him stay the course. “I’m not happy as an active alcoholic addict. And I’m not happy as a sober one. “And when I do pills or drink, I wake up in jail. But never with heroin.”
Nate exudes raw honesty and unprocessed truth. His music purges poison and passion from the bilge of his soul. His stories disturb me or make me laugh. He speaks of cruel revenge for those who have wronged him. But kindness lurks cautiously behind the anger.
Nate lit a cigarette and set his guitar aside. He exhaled a plume, and with head down explained, “I’ve gotten better about letting go. I ain’t gonna kill anyone. I’m a good Samaritan out here. I’ve been so kind to people.”
Beacon Hill Neighborhood | Damian
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