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The treasure hunt of a lifetime: Discovering Jimmy Buffett

I found Jimmy Buffett in the public library. He was sitting on some wooden boxes, barefooted and bell-bottomed, wearing a slight grin beneath the brim of a hat, a boat in the background.

A boy in the North Carolina foothills could discover all kinds of other-worldly treasures in the library. Dig deep enough and there were plenty of tales of adventure, revenge and justice and blood and guts to fuel a young imagination. There was even a well worn book with photos of exotic female vampires from the old Hammer horror movies that were a little too hot to play on Shock Theater, the Saturday afternoon TV creature feature.

I always found those more interesting than Godzilla flicks.

During those formative years, though, the library record bin was where I did most of my deep diving. Music grabbed hold of me at a young age. I recall my grandparents’ record collection full of Herb Alpert, Brook Benton and Ray Charles. Those artists, in my preschool opinion, paled in comparison to whoever sang “The Intoxicated Rat,” a song that my grandfather and I believed to be the height of musical artistry/hilarity.

It was about a drunken rodent.

My aunt Suzy gave me a Johnny Cash album for my fifth birthday. “A Boy Named Sue” quickly surpassed “The Intoxicated Rat” as a fan favorite, due to the mud, the blood, the beer and a cuss word. Perfect.

My search for music — the weirder, the rawer, the more transgressive the better — was on.

So, there I was in the public library looking at an album cover showing some guy in a hat with a boat in the background. The song titles seemed promising, with tales of holdups, crimes of passion and getting drunk. Perhaps an intoxicated rodent and a mean ol’ boy saddled with a girl’s name would show up once the needle dropped.

That day I left the exotic female vampires on the shelf — at least for the time being — and took home something called “A White Sport Coat and a Pink Crustacean.”

It changed my young life. This guy Buffett sang about a gas station heist gone wrong, a good-looking woman who could eat her own weight in crab meat (not an exotic female vampire, but still cool), a Cuban knife fight, stealing from a convenience store (with the promise to pay it back) and getting drunk and… what did he just say?

I had to play it again. Yep. That’s what he said.

It was at its core country music, but not the country music on the radio. There was a hint of the island sound that Buffett would later refine and master and turn into a billion-dollar career.

Best of all, there was great storytelling in those grooves – plenty of adventure, revenge and justice and blood and guts to fuel a young imagination.

That was nearly 50 years ago. Shortly after that library discovery, I bought a bootleg double eight-track of the live album “You Had To Be There” at a flea market. One song featured a drunken bear instead of an intoxicated rat, but I am positive my grandfather would have put it high on the artistry/hilarity scale.

That rollicking , rocking and rambunctious album helped cement my one and only real goal that year.

Was it passing junior high earth science?

No.

Was it making the baseball team?

No.

Was it getting to know the girl in earth science who sort of looked like an exotic female vampire?

That was on the list, but not at the top.

I vowed to see Jimmy Buffett live in concert and drag as many friends as I could with me. Once I found someone with a car and a valid driver’s license, that is exactly what happened (the girl in earth science who sort of looked like an exotic female vampire did not go, unfortunately).

The Buffett concert trips continued year after year, album after album, for a long time. It was a dysfunctional family reunion of sorts, always fun, always an adventure.

Billions of words have been written about Jimmy Buffett in the wake of his death on Sept. 1. These are just a few more. I am thankful to have found him there in the public library so long ago, sitting on some wooden boxes, barefooted and bell-bottomed, wearing a slight grin beneath the brim of a hat, a boat in the background.

Sail on, Jimmy. Sail on.

Scott Hollifield is a columnist from Marion, N.C. He has worked as a newspaper writer and editor for more than 30 years. Contact him at scotthwrites@gmail.com.