I first heard tell of James Calemine when my band was playing a little club in Valdosta, Georgia, back in the early 90s. Griffin Bufkin was behind the bar; he was the one who booked us to play, and he was the bartender that early evening. He served up the beers and liquor drinks, and then played a cassette that proved to be a Bob Dylan mix tape. I’ve always been a huge Dylan fan, so this seemed a good omen for the night. Then a certain song played that I never heard before: it was “God Knows” from the Under the Red Sky album, I found out later. But at that time I was baffled I hadn’t heard the song before…usually, nobody knew more about Dylan than I did. I asked Griffin: “Hey man, who made this tape?”

“A guy named James Calemine.”

Alright. I knew I had to meet this guy, sooner or later…and a few months down the line I did, in the Roadhouse, a downtown bar in Athens, Georgia…James and Griffin were in there drinking, and I happened to wander in, and Griffin introduced us…and I knew right away that James and I were blood brothers, compadres, kindred spirits, whatever you wanta call it…and a few months later, we were roommates. James and I and Eric Carter, sharing a small apartment on Grady Avenue in Athens. Eric and I had the two bedrooms, and James set up his bed in the living room area. It was meant to be. We were, if such things are possible, mystically preordained to spend all that time together, drink all that moonshine together, get in all that trouble together.

These kinds of things are hard to explain, but occasionally you meet someone you almost recognize even though they’re a stranger. That was the deal with James and me, and Eric too…Eric and I played in a band called Bloodkin, and though other musicians came and went through our line-up, it was James who really seemed like the third member of the band. He knew some of the songs better than the other musicians ever did. He would hear me working on the songs: I’d be in my room playing acoustic guitar, droning a riff over and over and improvising lyrics, while James would be in the kitchen area, clickety-clacking away on his typewriter…and by the time I would finish a song, he’d have it memorized. It felt righteous, living with two brotherly artists…it felt like our own private version of the Beat Generation.

We had different mediums, approaches, styles, but shared a feverish dedication to our Art and Fun. James and I would each write our version of life events we saw happening around us; separate depictions that confirmed one another. And Eric’s guitar playing wove the soundtrack of our stories, the feel, the mood. We were wild boys alright–stoned, sloppy and prolific–it was an epic season of our youth, those early days in the apartment.

I remember one evening at our kitchen table, James and I started discussing William Burroughs’ famous quote about Kerouac: “Well, Kerouac was a writer. That is he wrote. And many people who call themselves writers and have their names on book jackets are not writers and they can’t write. The difference being a bullfighter who fights bulls is different from a bullshitter who makes passes with no bulls there.”

And James lived up to that definition of a writer. He sat at that kitchen table, pounding away on his typewriter for hours and hours, almost every night. “That is he wrote.” I knew a lot of other people at the time who claimed to be writers, but who always seemed to be out in bars drinking, bragging, glorifying…while James was always back home, working and working. He also kept a camera with him at all times, and he was determined about keeping a photographic record as he was about his writing. His work ethic was a clear lesson, and one of the early reasons I knew James was the real deal.

But James always repeated a mantra to us: “This ain’t gonna last.” He always warned us to appreciate it while we had it, our crazed little artistic gang…he seemed to view the whole situation from a higher vantage point, a novelist’s long term grasp of our storyline…but life sneaks on by, of course, as James predicted, nowadays that apartment seems like ancient history. But what remains is the work.

And here we have it. A fine selection of James’ work; some written back in the good old apartment days, some newer. I’ve just started reading through the stories in this book, and the first one is “Money and Snakes”…and my initial impression is, it’s like a lyrical mirror image of the early scene in Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood, where Hazel Motes tells the lady across from him on the train, “I reckon you think you been redeemed”…but “Money and Snakes” is short and symbolic, a little dream song that paints a vivid portrait, mysterious and gorgeous.

One of my favorite pieces of James’ has always been “the Local Stranger”…I first read it on Grady Avenue in the early 90s, and it struck a bittersweet note that lingered with me for days, the kind of peculiar atmosphere so few artists are able to create. I knew when I first read this story what a strange, cool voice James possesses: Southern, romantic, haunted, red clay rustic and switchblade vicious by turns.

And another thing, now, again, reading through these stories James has sent to me, I’m reminded he’s one of the few people I’ve ever known that I could truly talk to about the Bible, religion, etc…he always approached these subjects with reverence but not blind obedience, and he could write passages that renewed my faith, without sounding the least bit preachy, which is about much as you can ask from a piece of art. How many writers could depict spirituality in terms so strong and simple as “O Street Baptist Church”…? In fact, what do we even call this piece of writing? I don’t think exactly a short story…maybe an essay in the tradition of E.B. White? Maybe a little freeform gospel song? It’s certainly not inappropriate to describe James Calemine as a rare poet, even when he’s working in prose…but ultimately the categories don’t matter. All that matters are the words themselves and James’ words are high octane, electric, significant.

He isn’t “famous” yet, but that’s a whole different ball game. I’ll go ahead and say it: He’s one of our great living American writers, and that’s a sure bet. To quote Thelonious Monk: “I say play your own way. Don’t play what the public wants. Play what you want and let the public pick up on what you are doing, even if it takes them fifteen or twenty years.”

Yep. They’ll pick up on Jimmy eventually, but meanwhile those of us who discovered him early can claim a kind of kinship…we arrived at the show before the dance floor got too crowded. We’re lucky.

Daniel Hutchens
Athens, Georgia

The Local Stranger

AMAZON