Blue Danish
July 28, 2000

So here I am, Raiford Starke, in a Copenhagen blues club, lifting my tankard and shouting "Skoal!" every few minutes. I don't really do chewing tobacco endorsements, but my Aunt Sing Sing Starke always told me to try my best to fit in. I can smell her breath now: "Raiford, when in Rome, do as Roman Polansky would do."

So when fists went skyward - every few minutes - and the air filled with gutteral sounds of slurping and saluting, I felt it best to act in a like manner.

I figured a trip to Scandinavia might help resurrect my crucified career. Let's face it, long as Ricky Martin, the Dixie Chicks and Little Elian are in control, I ain't makin' it here in the good ol' U.S. of A. Chief Billie's pilot, Peter Vedel, is the one who suggested Denmark . "It's my home country, Raifjord - land of the Wikings," Peter told me one day. "It's a wery, wery beautiful country. People there von't treat you mean."

Sunset Beach Pete wanted to go to the Galapagos Islands, instead. He said that was HIS home country, but I didn't believe it. So, an eight-hour plane ride later, me, Pete and our Danish guide Per are crammed like pickled herrings in a can of young Vikings at the Mojo Club downtown. According to Per, the word "mojo" means "Dew Drop Inn" in Danish.

A drunken blond man of ancient seed wearing a black t-shirt that says, "It's a Wiking Thing, You Vouldn't Understand," staggers out of the rest room, reaches over and starts tugging on the Amish beard that like a field of Pennsylvania seed leaf, has taken me months to painstakingly cultivate. "Hey, I say hey pardner. I say leggo my beard," I snarled, "before I put my hands on your I say, I say before I put my hands on your throat!"

Per had already warned me that Vikings are scared to death of Foghorn Leghorn. Sure enough, the Viking let go, backed off and drew a large sword: "I vant to apologize," he said, brandishing the saber. "Do you know any tunes by Bobby Winton? How about anything from the Wonkeys?"

Such is the modern day Viking way. Rudeness followed by an apology. It seemed strange to me at first, but then it made sense. For years Vikings have been emasculating themselves trying to shed those old stereotypes - you know, the mead-drinking, boat-building, hell-raising, harem-stealing heathens. These days you're more likely to see a Viking in a Chevy than a Fjord. And, as I keep telling my Lowella back home, those rumors of friendly buxom blondes here in Viking Country are completely unfounded.

Tonight however, it is fame that has girded my loins like a bull in the chute. It is jam night at Mojo's and I signed up on the sheet over an hour ago. I look across the club and see Per talking to Lars, the guitar-player running the jam. Per pressed 3000 kroners in Lars' hand and, next thing you know, ol' Lars takes the microphone and calls out: "All the vay from the You Ess Ay, the guitar vonderkind, Rai-fjord Starke!"

"Skoal!" the crowd roars. Fame a-calling me. I jump on stage and stare out into the milling crowd. Quick, I'm thinking, come up with some glib patter. "Howdy folks," I say, "Are we having fame yet?"

Stone silence. I try my favorite joke (Why did the chicken cross the road? Colonel Sanders had bad breath!) Bombed bad. "Skoal," I shout.

"Yo mama is a vhale," someone shouted back. That did it. Nothing like insulting my dear old mom to get me going. I turned to the Fender Twin my guitar was plugged into and jacked everything up to ten. Lars' face flushed red, and he started screaming like a starship engineer. "You're owerloading my speakers -- ve can't take that kind of power!" I flash him a cracker smile: "Varp factor 10, Scotty . . ."

Sure enough, the speakers in the ol' Fender Twin commence to breaking up, filling the Mojo bar with a mournful howl. The house lights flicker as if another condemned Texan man was meeting his final fate. My face begins to morph. I am turning into my Great Uncle Sam Sung (Aunt Sing Sing's dad). I grab a-hold of the microphone.

"Alright, people," I shout, "You asked for it. You got it. A 'Merican song. Straight from the streets of West Memphis, Starkansaw where we let sleepin' dogs lie and the next door neighbor's name is always Guy. And any Viking who don't like it, can grab an oar and catch the next wooden ship back to Minnesota!"

And with apocalyptic fervor I sing my newest hit:

Well I stopped by the Nation's Capitol
On my way to Wilkesboro, North Carolina
I'm gonna pick up the Washington Monument
To ram your Great Wall of China

Well you treated me just like a slave
In ol' Thomas Jefferson's barn
Now my heart's locked up in the Smithsonian
Inside the world's largest ball of yarn

It's Monumental Love, you see
And Monumental Love ain't free
I'm erecting a statue to our lost love
That's how Monumental Love can be

I open my eyes and see a scene I won't soon forget. The Viking youth are going crazy. Sword fights are breaking out all over the dance floor. A maiden swooned at my feet. Soon as I hit my last chord, a chant rose up from the crowd. "Ex-ter-min-a-tor! Ex-ter-min-a-tor! Ex-ter-min-ate him!" Like a longtailed rat in a room full of Orkin, I grab my Telecaster by the neck like a Louisville Slugger ready for the hordes. They close in toward the stage and the chanting grows even louder: "Ex-ter-min-a-tor! Ex-ter-min-a-tor!"

Pete and Per have fought to the front of the crowd. "Raifjord!" Per yells, "you're taking it the vrong way. They love you."

"Then why are they calling for an exterminator?" I ask.

"That's 'ekstra nummer. Ekstra nummer.' That's vat we Danes say when ve vant an encore! It means 'extra number!' "

A thrill went through my soul. They love me. That ugly beast fame was now Jennifer Lopez all over my mind. I started thinking: these Vikings are alright. I'm gonna give them an extra number they won't forget - the "Freebird" of extra numbers. The greatest extra number of our time.

I hit a "G" chord "You people want an extra number?" I say, I say. "Well, y' all are gonna have to help me out. Help me sing along. Ain't nothin' to it. We've all had this one in math class. Pink Floyd called it 'Circumference Of A Circle.'

"Me, Raiford Starke, I just call it 'pi!'

(To the tune of "Will the Circle be Unbroken") pi=3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197169399375105820974944592307816406286..."

After a few hundred decimal places, I hear Per's voice on stage left. "Whew!, That Raifjord!," he was saying, as people swarmed to congratulate him on knowing such a famous man. " When it comes to pi . . . he really takes the cake!"

-- Raiford Starke is a South Florida blues musician.

© July 28, 2000, The Seminole Tribune