What Would Larry Jack Do?
Despite the fall breeze fluttering the sycamore leaves, heated confusion set the scene in our backyard.
A stream of sweat dripped past my ear as I watched the timer tick down on the online shopping cart.
“We have six minutes to decide,” I informed my husband, my thumb hovering over the “Buy Now” button.
Mark had just discovered that one of our favorite bands, JJ Grey and Mofro, was playing in a couple of weeks at the historic Martin Centre, a 750-seat jewel of a venue two and half hours away in Douglas, Georgia. We mostly keep our musical forays close to home, but we’ve traveled before for this bouncy swamp blues outfit and it’s always worth a road trip.
However, from our handwringing you’d have thought we were agonizing on whether to sell off our belongings and book flights on the next SpaceX rocket.
“Should we? We shouldn’t,” I flip-flopped nervously. “We just bought a new generator that’s still in the box. And it’s the weekend before the election. Maybe we should be apocalypse prepping.”
“Might be our last chance to get out of the county before Georgia goes full Fury Road,” he shrugged, pointing out we could also check out nearby Braxton Rocks Preserve, an intriguing warren of caves and waterfalls carved into the sandstone on our list of natural wonders to visit.
“Good idea, possible dystopian refuge,” I murmured. “So, does that mean we’re doing this?
“I didn’t say that.”
We watched the chart on the Martin’s website dwindle down to the last two remaining seats.
“Three minutes and fourteen seconds.” I wiped my brow nervously.
You music lovers know there are always reasons not to buy the concert tickets. It’s money that should probably go towards the retirement fund or the still-terrible sump pump situation under the house. It feels icky to fill the coffers of the corporations that still dominate the live event industry even for modest acts, jacking prices and monopolizing profits that ought to go to the artists.
Plus, we’d have to find someone to watch the dogs, and there is also the matter of my recent return to full-time self-employment. (Turns out, spreadsheets are not my calling, which should come as a shock to no one.)
Yet if all those Swifties and Deadheads can come up with beaucoup bucks to fly to London and Vegas to bask in the presence of their favorite musician and fellow fans, surely we could scrape together gas money to Middle Georgia. Technically, we reasoned, the sojourn could serve as late or early birthday presents for either of us, and there’d be no need to worry about Chanukah.
Also on the pro side, our dollars would go far to help the local economy of Douglas, hit hard by Helene (the first Airbnb we tried to book was down for repairs.)
Most importantly, one must never discount the jangling truth that live music brings us so much joy. We’ve been dancing at shows together since our first date and intend to keep at it as long as our knees and eardrums hold out, even if I’m no longer the freaker by the speaker.
Still, with under a minute before the vaunted second row balcony seats disappeared into the ether of the internet, we kept dithering like the bumbling vultures from The Jungle Book.
It was time to invoke the spirit of Larry Jack Sammons.
It’s been over a year since Savannah’s most ardent live music fan unexpectedly departed for the endless line-up of the Great Beyond, leaving the local music scene with a big empty space on the dance floor.
Known for his genre-bending adoration of anyone who could command a stage, Larry Jack achieved legend status in life, racking up ticket stubs and hand stamps like a bespectacled squirrel gathering acorns. He reportedly saw more than 280 shows in 2023 before he passed last September, cheerfully cashing in his nurses’ salary on big city travels to catch the Rolling Stones and U2.
His goofy grin belied a serious commitment to local musicians, often cruising through four or five shows in a night to make sure he showed everyone some love. “Larry Jack’s Magical Music Tour” recommendations on the hissing lawns blog were gospel—and an admonishing reminder that whatever your problem is, music is the answer.
Even if you never encountered Larry Jack, his influence lives on. The man can still rouse a crowd on a school night, as witnessed last Sunday at Larrypalooza, filling the southeast corner of Starland Yard with some of Savannah’s favorite bands and acolytes, including strummeister Matt Eckstine and the cosmic pickers of Swamptooth.
“We’re gonna keep remembering Larry and what he stood for,” said co-organizer and perpetually punk-af Josh Peacock.
“Everyone—the musicians, the sound, the venue—donated their time to honor him. It’s a beautiful thing.”
As old friends and newcomers swayed to honkytonk honeys of the Anders Thomson Trio under the sunset, it seemed understood that by celebrating Larry Jack we were also bolstering the community created in his wake. While none of us may have the fortitude to attend twenty shows a week, LJ taught us that we strengthen the scene every time we make the effort to put on our boogie shoes.
However, for Savannah to become a true music town a la New Orleans or Nashville, we have to show up and show out (it’s called SUSO, look it up.) While big global acts continue to literally float the economy, attendance for small shows around here has yet to ramp to before-COVID numbers.
Of course, we need to know when and where. Even Larry Jack couldn’t track every show, and with the decentralization of local media, we often find out about that incredible set or blistering late night collab after the fact.
If only there was a comprehensive music calendar that made it easy for fans and helped local musicians promote themselves, you say?
Enter the Savannah Music Collective, the soul child of Georgia music industry veteran Mary Armstrong Dugas (she has Widespread Panic on speed dial, OK?)
Mary has spent the last year building a hub for not only the city’s raucous rockers but its classical and country aficionados, gospel and goth groupies, bluegrass buffs, jazz jammers, musical theater mavens, and every other kind of music fan looking to commune with others.
With a mission of building a community that elevates Savannah’s music landscape for artists and audiences, SMC hosts up-to-the minute listings for local venues large and small, all searchable by date and genre—whether we want to catch the next Philharmonic or plan a Larry Jack-esque all-night outing.
It’s the essential inspo we need to get off our phones and leave the Netflix cocoons.
“We’ve got to train people to come out and see live music,” urges Mary, who is also building a database of local musicians on the site and offering professional support.
“We’re making sure that people know that the music they love is here.”
Bookmark the calendar; you’re bound to find yourself something to love in next few weeks and months:
This Thursday, Oct. 17, Kayne Lanahan and her crew keep the Stopover vibe alive (and free!) at the Park at Eastern Wharf with The Bones of JR Jones, but you’re gonna have to pull a Larry Jack to catch the bad bluegrass boys of City Hotel making their triumphant return to Starland Yard.
As we await the headbanging resurrection of The Jinx in its new Starland home (a source tells me the old bar has been installed!), Graveface Lodge of Sorrows continues Savannah’s hallowed Halloween tribute tradition with Rage Against The Maxines on Oct. 26.
If you’re looking for family fun and wide open spaces, find your way down Tennessee Ave. to the 912 Group’s Dairy Daze Fall Music Fest Nov. 9-10, featuring our psychedelic reggae brethren Xuluprophet and the flat-out phenomenal Salt Flat Pickers.
If we had Larry Jack’s wherewithal we’d also be making the rounds from Victory North to the Wormhole to El Rocko, and we’d already have Dog Days Festival, It Takes Two Fest, and Poograss on the radar for next year.
Maybe it’s all we can do to show up and show out for our local troubadours once in a while. But I guarantee your presence will be appreciated. And whether you prefer a nice Beethoven chorale or homegrown hiphop, it’s vital to remember that in these wild and unsettling times, hope and joy can always be found in the music.
I’m only echoing the wisdom I heard Sunday from Jason Bible—who played with a pared-down Trainwrecks that included an absolutely searing drum sit-in from his 11 year-old son Jack—in his ballad “Smile Like Larry Jack”:
If you feel down, go out and catch a show/Let the music carry you, where you’re safe down in your soul.
Hope to see you out and about this fall. And yes, of course we bought the Mofro tickets—with nine seconds to spare. Still might stake out a spot in the caves, just in case.
An honest tune with a lingering lead has taken me this far ~ JLL
Jack White just played GAMH in SF(470 seats!) and we missed it because we were trying to adult for a change. I would rather go watch live music than eat, tbh
I heard a rumor that Savannah Stopover is coming back. I pray to the Alternative music gods!