Jeff's Crashed Car

For the last twenty-five years, Jeff Calder has been as good a friend as I've ever had. He's also as good a songwriter as I've ever heard, and I'm not saying that because we're friends. I'm saying it because it's true. Compare his lyrics to anything by Bob Dylan, Jim Morrison, Capt. Beefheart or anyone else you care to. They may be his equal, but no one is better.

I was fortunate enough to be able to record with Jeff as the Supreme Court, and also to be around when he first moved to Atlanta to assemble the earth shaking juggernaut known as The Swimming Pool Q's. I was also there the night it all almost slipped from his grasp.

That evening, Jeff and Pool Q's guitarist Bob Elsey were at my house. This was back in the days when Jeff was known to take a drink or two, and that night he may have had a little more than that, maybe a bottle or two. Regardless, Jeff decided we should hook up with our close friend Bill Rea, but when he tried to call him, there was no answer. "Bill's not home," he exclaimed, "we must find Bill."

The three of us got into Jeff's car and headed over to Bill's, which was a couple of miles away. It was late at night and for some reason, Jeff decided to drive the entire way backwards. On the way over, he barely missed several telephone poles by inches, and backed across North Druid Hills, a busy four-lane road.

When we got to Bill's, Jeff continued driving backwards, through the yard and up onto the front steps. He hopped out of the car and did a quick run through of the house. "He's not here," he cried out, "Where could he be?" "He's probably at the golf course," I replied, "he likes to take walks there at night." Jeff insisted we get back in the car and go find him.

As we approached the golf course, we were driving forwards. Jeff turned off his headlights, so he could sneak past the late night security guard on the opposite end of the parking lot. When we drove onto the fairway, Bob decided he wanted out. He jumped out of the back window and rolled out from the moving car.

Undeterred, Jeff drove on, until he reached a putting green that struck his fancy. He parked the car on it, and I went out looking for Bill. After searching in the darkness for awhile, I heard a sound and headed in its direction. Then I noticed a beam of light cutting through the trees. I followed it to its source and discovered Jeff, still in his car on the green.

He had the radio turned up full blast, the headlights on, and was sprawled out in the front seat with one foot hanging out of the car. There was a great big smile plastered across his face, and he looked like he was on top of the world, living the good life at the country club.

The sight of him snapped me to my senses. "Come on," I ordered, "we've gotta get out of here before we get caught." We drove back out the fairway with the headlights off, so the security guard wouldn't see us. Jeff was driving really fast, so I yelled at him, "Slow down! You don't know where you're going!" "Listen," he replied, "I know exactly what I'm doing." At that instant, we drove into a brick wall.

As I came to, I realized my head had gone through the windshield. My profile was formed in the shatterproof glass, and blood was running down my face from the countless specks of glass that had lodged in my head. I looked over and saw Jeff. He didn't have a single scratch. He was holding his hand in front of his face and wiggling his small finger. "My pinky," he was whining, "I've hurt my pinky. I'll never play guitar again."

Thankfully, Jeff did play guitar again, and he went on to create a body of musical work as powerful as a car smashing into a brick wall in the darkness. Trust me on that, I know.

--Glenn Phillips/November 2001