A Song for Kinky Friedman

Me, a guitar, and a few memories.

The song is one of Kinky’s. It’s called “Autograph.”

What if Kinky Friedman had been born in an earlier America, as he sometimes seemed to have been? He might have sold patent medicines, or been a carnival hypnotist, or cheated saloon owners by counting the cards in poker games. I mean that in the nicest possible way, of course.

He might also have been a mathematician—or a poet, if he ever learned to let his guard down. I’m not sure he ever did.

Instead, Kinky was a singer, songwriter, and novelist who used novelty, humor, and straight-up offensiveness to make his biggest splashes. The humor and shock value served a deeper purpose. He was able to demand attention and yet remain hidden. That’s a trick people learn when they’re both ambitious and fragile—and when they’re part of a widely disliked minority.

And make no mistake about it: to be a Jewish kid in 1940s and 1950s America was to know you belonged to a disliked minority. You were different, other. To be a Jewish kid in Texas—well, that must’ve taken it to a whole other level. So, Kinky mastered the art of laying low, even when he was bellowing a spiel like a strip-club barker on a hot Panhandle night. But every now and then some fragility and compassion came through, as in the song above.

Richard (Kinky) Friedman died last week at the age of 79. I had a few long conversations with him over the years—two on the air, a couple more for a print piece, and another one or two just for the hell of it. I couldn’t help but like him. Sure, he was a tireless pitchman and a relentless self-promoter. But he had heart. You could tell by the charities he founded. It was an animal rescue ranch back then. More recently, he and his sister ran a camp called Echo Hill Ranch for the children of fallen military members and first responders. (Like these kids, my mother came from a Gold Star family.)

You can’t beat heart. Not with charm, not with charisma, not with talent or intelligence. He had those things, but heart is what matters m ost.

Smart? Kinky was so smart that people couldn’t tell how serious he was. It came through in his lyrics, his humor, and his childhood chess-playing skills. He was also a hardcore leftist when that wasn’t such a safe thing to do, especially in Texas. (I’m not sure how safe it is now.)

He wrote a song called “Dear Abbie” for another brilliant, funny, irreverent radical Jew and got it past the record company with lyrics that appeared to address the then-famous “Dear Abby” advice column. But then there are lines like these to give the game away:

And I'm wondering about America
Wondering if we lost more than the war ...

The song began, “From a friend of yours in Texas.”

As for his best-known song, “Ride ‘Em Jewboy”: By the title, you’d think it’s played for laughs. It’s not. It summons two ghosts that haunted the hearts of Jewish-American boys in those days. The first one was the Holocaust. It left a vast ringing emptiness, a carrier wave of grief vibrating beneath each holiday and family gathering. The second was the cinematic Western dream of the cowboy—a dream that often felt unreachable, even in fantasy, for the descendants of Jewish immigrants.

“On your sleeve you wore the yellow star,” one verse says, echoing the silver star of the sheriff-hero. Then, in a throwback to the cowboy lament “Streets of Laredo,” it concludes: “Can’t you see by your outfit who you are?”

And as for this line: “Dead limbs play with ringless fingers/the melody which burns you deep inside”—it’s just this side of overdone, like a lot of good writing.

Kinky ran for governor of Texas (and a couple of other offices, too, as I recall). He was usually liberal-ish, but there were some conspicuous exceptions. Once he tried to persuade me that Rick Perry would make a good president. When I expressed skepticism he said, “He’d be good for Israel.” (I guess he’d pegged “Eskow” as a Jewish last name and, like any good pitchman, used what was on hand to make his pitch. It didn’t work.)

“My politics are pretty jumbled and mostly fueled by bitterness,” Kinky said once. That may not be exactly admirable, but it’s a lot more common than some people think. At least he admitted it.

Yeah, he had flaws. Who doesn’t? But he was honest, he was smart, and he was really funny. And he used those things to bring happiness and, occasionally, insight. I admire that.

Still, when it comes right down to it, I feel the same way about songs as I do about people. I appreciate lots of them, but the ones I really cherish are the ones with heart. Kinky had heart, and I wanted to honor that. I’ve done my best.

You can donate to Echo Hill Ranch here.

Kinky’s animal rescue charity seems to have disappeared, but feel free to donate to my favorite—or to this unjustly maligned rescue organization for humans. (I don’t know how Kinky would feel about that, but these kids would sure appreciate it.)

Related Zero Hour posts:

Exploiting Jewish Trauma
Downtown Boys: a song recorded in 1977