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Roger
Miller never slept. No one could keep up with him. Arrogant songsters
and musicians alike tried. None succeeded. Closest anyone ever came,
as far as I know, was Thumbs Carllile, Roger's brilliant sideman.
One night, after the midnight show (when the artist is supposed to
go back to his suite and rest/sleep/whatever) Roger was changing from
tux to jeans preparing to search out 24-Hour pawnshops looking for
anything interesting. Kris Kristofferson asked Thumbs "When does Roger
sleep?" and Thumbie said, "Don't know. I've only been with him for
three years."
I was with Roger one night in a pawnshop about 3 or 4 am. He saw an
old Derringer. "That loaded?" he asked the pawnbroker. "Nope," said
the man. Roger placed the tip of the barrel against the palm of one
hand and pulled the trigger with the other. BOOM!! Shot himself in
the palm. Surprised at the noise, the smell of black powder, and the
blood spurting out of his hand, Roger said, "This imitation bullet
sure do hurt a lot." I hysterically ripped through my purse for a
Kleenex throwing the other contents all over the floor in a panic.
Roger stared at the hand, then said to the man, "Got something I kin
put over this here wound? Better make it a shot glass."
For the next week or so onstage, he held up his bandaged hand, told
the audience what happened, removed the bandage so they could see
the still-black hole in his hand, replaced the bandage, and played
and sang as usual.
[ Thirty or More Things You Should Know
About Roger Miller]
© Maggie
Van Ostrand
"A Balloon In Cactus" January
20, 2004 column
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