60 Seconds with Butch Walker

Sure I would let him spoon me... with a clean bill of health from the CDC. We'd lie on top of a bed and he would lay his free hand on the back of my thigh. He'd lean in and just talk to me. I'd wiggle my butt and press it into him and ask for the Katrina story again (not the hurricane).

In reality, I would wait until my number was called and I'd walk into a coffee shop in Little 5 Points. He would be standing at the end of the bar, beer bottle at his side. It would be the just us; the coffee shop was not open this afternoon.

I've met him a dozen times over the years. I've seen him perform double that amount. I've even interviewed him once. He's been around for every love and, more importantly, for every heartache. He and I go way back. Just don't ask him that, because he'll have no idea who I am.

He leaned against the bar. Next to him laid a small stack of CDs from people hoping he'd produce their bands; he welcomed their submissions.

I smiled and stuck my hand out. He looked at it before taking it.

"Hi, I'm Jamie." Out of habit, I studied his eyes for a couple of seconds. For the first time, they weren't bloodshot.

"Hey there. How are you?"

"I'm good. I brought some stuff for you to sign." I fanned out the 6 CD covers and the DVD cover. He was only supposed to sign one item—the new CD—but the line had died down and I hoped my forward thinking move of already having the cover art removed from the cases would not reach any objections.

"Okay cool," he grabbed the stack from me and began scribbling. "So did you like the show?"

"Oh I loved it as usual. I really like the direction you've taken, both musically and lyrically."

"That's awesome to know, thanks."

"Actually, I have a question for you."

"Oh yeah, what's that?" His head was still bent down, signing.

"The song 'Joan,' is it intentionally ambiguous?"

He stopped signing and stared at me, thinking for a moment. It was like he was pondering the possibility for the first time. "Yes... ambiguous," he began slowly. His face lit up either from understanding the question or from the recognition of the answer, "It is!"

I felt the need to explain myself, "Because, you know, you never really say whether the blood is hers or her boyfriend's. Did the protagonist know her or just lived in the apartment after her? There isn't an answer to these questions; it's ambiguous."

"I had a really difficult time writing that song," he explained. "I personally didn't know what was going to happen, so I left it open-ended. The result is what you've heard. I've never written a song that didn't have a clear ending before. It was a difficult decision to leave it open like that, sort of unfinished. Did you like it?"

"You don't know the drunken debates I've gotten into over your intentions as a writer with that song. I've argued both ways. Every couple of months I'll change my mind over something as small as a inflection in your voice."

"It's my only song like that. It was challenging; I feel my writing has grown from that experience. I'm glad it goes over well." He finished signing my assortment and handed it back to me.

"Well, it was nice meeting you," I stuck my hand out again (loser).

This time he accepted it a little more willingly. My gaze followed his heart tattoo from his wrist back up to his eyes. I still couldn't believe there wasn't an ounce of red in them. He caught my gaze and held it for a moment.

"Bye."

"Bye, Jamie," he smiled.

I walked past him and a lady offered me a piece of chocolate cake. Because that is what you get after meeting Butch Walker. I walked out the back door of the coffee shop into an alley where a guy was wearing green short shorts and had a wooden sword duct taped to him. I smiled, but not at the freak in the shorts. I smiled because I still had a bit of journalist inside of me: it's not all forgotten. I asked the question that no one else asked.