Much of his original work was inspired by candy stores, statues on the square, furniture factories and the people who worked in them.
Last night, at High Rock Outfitters (which often served as Scott's performance headquarters), it was Lexington's turn to repay the love. About 80 people showed up to listen to 18 performers, either live or on video (one video came from St. Petersburg, Russia; another, from Texas) reminisce about Scott and to play some covers of his work.
The walls of HRO served as a photo gallery of Scott, with some wonderful images of him created by several local photographers.
The tribute was organized by Scott's daughter, Lindsay Goins, who worked tirelessly to put this gala together. Tirelessly? It showed. Even though the program lasted more than three hours, it flowed flawlessly, with each artist handing off a share of the program to the next performer.
Including me. I can't sing, I can't dance, I can't play a musical instrument. But when Lindsay asked me if I wanted to be a part of the program, I couldn't say no.
So I wrote a poem. It seemed somehow fitting, because I once read some of my original poetry during an open mic night at HRO. Nearly all of my poems were written more than 40 years ago when I was still in college. But Scott was in the audience, and afterwards, he asked me why I wasn't currently writing poetry, and maybe I should get back into it. A patron of the arts, Scott was always lighting a fire under someone else's muse.
|A candid photo of Scott Gibson, by his friend Donnie Roberts (click to enlarge)|
So I wrote a poem. It was inspired by this image (above) taken by my friend, Donnie Roberts. The statue, in fact, was also an inspiration for Scott, who wrote a song about the soldier on the square titled "The Watcher."
My poem is called "Elegy for a Troubadour"
I saw you sitting with The Watcher the other day –
Legs crossed, head lowered, lost in thought.
You were earnestly taking notes.
Being the minstrel that you are, I wondered if they were musical notes.
Or soon would be.
I imagined the guitar on your back. I imagined the words you were writing were a poem, soon to be lyrics.
That the poem would become a song, with the guitar picking out minor chords and major themes.
I could see you taking your new song to the people,
wearing your craggy, folksong face; your perfect fedora; your earthy voice telling us the truth as you saw it.
Then it occurred to me:
You were The Watcher.
You were singing about us. You were always singing about us.