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Gregory Dean Smalley: a life of piss and vinegar
Friends and acquaintances of Bubbapalooza spearhead Gregory
Dean Smalley gathered Wednesday, March 27, at the High Hat to honor
and remember the in-your-face redneck from Cabbagetown. Smalley
passed away Monday, March 25, after a two-year battle with AIDS. He
died in his mama's arms, on a bed jacked up on cinder blocks, while
Elvis sang “How Great Thou Art.”
And that’s the way he wanted to go. Peaceful-like, joined by friends,
lying between his wife Ginger and his mama Nancy.
Not like the night before. His bed had collapsed under the weight of
the distraught gathered around him. Greg seemed to be telling us to
calm down, that dying ain't so scary. The busted slats sent us into laugh
ing fits, stopping us from wasting time crying over his body. His spirit
was hootin’ and hollerin’, finally free of that damn disease.
With that in mind, a little hootin' and hollerin' broke out at the High
Hat Club the night of Gregory Dean’s funeral.
Regretfully, I can’t seem to properly remember who sang what. I do
recall that the Delta Angels came to town with tiny Karen Jo and that big
voice of hers. She broke my heart singing “Cabbagetown," the Angels'
track from the 1995 release Bubbapalooza Volume 1: a Chronicle of the
Redneck Underground, compiled by Gregory Dean himself.
Next, we heard from the Lot Lizards, led by Patterson Hood and backed
by members of the Possibilities. Too bad this band ain’t more than a side
project, because Patterson sang with a spark that some folks waste a
lifetime trying to capture.
Afterwards, Hood recalled one of the many times when Smalley had
showed off his piss and vinegar. The Lot Lizards were playing Dottie’s in
Atlanta, opening for SmallGReece, a side project Smalley had with
Redneck GReece. Smalley was feeling poorly that night, yet his strength
reappeared when he hit the stage. He kicked into the George Jones clas
sic “He Stopped Loving Her Today." During the second verse, a cough
ing fit took hold. He could not finish the verse, but he finished playing
the song. In spite of the perfect opportunity
to milk a little pity, the little son of a bitch
smarted off, “Sorry about that second verse,
but I didn't wear a rubber." I’ll bet you my
mama's undershorts that he then pulled out a
Merit Ultra Light and lit her up, in recklessly
honest style.
Not a whole lot could keep that 100 mph
stockcar-loving redneck from the stage. In at
least four bands at a time, Smalley played for
the Bubbamatics. the Blacktop Rockets, the
Diggers, the Chant, Jennie B and the
Speedbillies, Redneck GReece and the
Stumpbroke Steers, and Slim Chance and the
Convicts. He played perched on stools. He
played in a wheelchair, a button proclaiming
“I’m not dead yet" pinned to the back. He
played two, three sets, until they carried him
off stage. He had wanted to die on stage, but
the boy put on too good a show to do that. As
long as he played his guitar, we knew that
Death could not catch him.
But it did. Back at the High Hat, the more
Pabst Blue Ribbons I poured into myself, try
ing to fill the spot that Greg Smalley had in
my heart, the less attention I paid to who paid
tribute to the man who birthed Bubbapalooza.
I have foggy memories of folks from the Dash
board Saviors in a new project called the Stateline Rats, Jack Logan,
Bloodkin, the Hot Burritos, and Kelly Hogan. Boy, I must have really
gotten gone to forget what Kelly sang, but it's lost to a honky tonk haze.
Redneck GReece did vividly cut through
fog when he silenced the bar to read a let-
from Ray, Greg's 7-year-old son. Ray told
us about going to Six Flags, playing Putt Putt
with his Daddy, and how Daddy didn't even
mad when the boy fell in the water on a
fishing trip. Tt n he wrote, “I know you all are
sad like me, but Daddy wouldn't want us to
cry. I know he is in better place.... if there are
guitars in heaven, I know he is playing one
while he watches over us," and he signed it,
“Daddy’s little monkey! Ray."
The Greg Smalley I know was all of that
and more. He loved.David Allan Coe as much
as he loved Steve Earle as much as he loved
Thin Lizzy. He had once wanted his ashes cast
into lawn jockeys for all of his friends, just to
piss everybody off. He showed me how he
fixed that pompadour he wore nearly every day
of his life. I have watched him strip down
nekkid for a Diggers audience, get spanked
by his mom, love his son and fight death.
That last night Greg clung to life, a friend
and I went out to watch the comet glowing
low on the horizon. We joked Greg was gonna
hop that comet. He always did know the fast
est ride in town, we laughed, but today I get
comfort from that thought. I hope everyone
who is sad does, too. Gregory Dean Smalley has finally hopped that
good comet home.
Gretchen LaBudde
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