Bob, Bourbon, and Books: 75 Years Young

Bob, Bourbon, and Books returns for Bob Dylan’s 75th birthday!

Bob: “Ain’t Talkin’”

Daniel Ford: “Love and Theft” and “Modern Times” offer plenty of dark tracks best consumed with a glass full of brown fire. “Moonlight,” “Lonesome Day Blues,” and “Workingman’s Blues #2” spring to mind immediately. However, nothing offers the bleak landscape and weary growl of “Ain’t Talkin’,” the final track on “Modern Times.”

If Dylan had never wrote or recorded another album, “Ain’t Talkin’” would have been one hell of a swan song. Spanning more than eight minutes, it evokes epic ballads like “Highlands,” “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands,” and “Desolation Row.” Unlike those songs, “Ain’t Talkin’” fully embraces its despair, promising no hope in a world gone wrong. 

“Ain't talkin', just walkin'/Through this weary world of woe/Heart burnin', still yearnin'/No one on earth would ever know.”

Dylan sings of sick mules, absent gardeners, desired revenge over a father’s death, and, of course, “that gal I left behind.” He’s walking to escape the terrible burden of heartache, vowing to get her “out of my miserable brain.” Dylan’s rasp marks the dirge’s slow unravel into oblivion; it goes down as smooth as cheaply distilled rotgut. 

“Ain’t Talkin’” is also about what happens when you’re finally out of time to fully purge your mind and spirit of all the demons you’ve accumulated along your rough rode. What more can you do than walk through the hours you have left with a glass of bourbon in your hand, thinking,

“The suffering is unending/Every nook and cranny has it's tears/I'm not playing, I'm not pretending/I'm not nursing any superfluous fears.”

Bourbon: Elijah Craig 12-Year-Old Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey

David Pezza: Bringing back the triple B in honor of the title man’s 75th calls for a classic bourbon, one with a history and a pedigree. Elijah Craig is an old school bourbon that hasn’t lost any of its touch. Distilled at Heaven Hill Distillery (in its current form, since the end of Prohibition), Elijah Craig gets its name from an 18th-century Baptist who was incorrectly named the inventor of bourbon. It’s one of those bourbon’s that you’ve completely forgot about, until it’s your only viable optional at the bar top. And then you remember, holy shit, this is good bourbon.  

Elijah Craig can hold its own with the better brands like Maker’s Mark, Buffalo Trace, and Woodford Reserve. What differentiates this bourbon, in my opinion, is its bite. It’s your grandfather’s bourbon. It wants nothing to do with those new-age, smooth-as-hell, artisanal bourbons made in some hipster’s loft in Brooklyn…or is Queens the new hipster central? They’re spreading! 

Elijah Craig packs a punch, but has an unmistakable cherry cola/cinnamon flavor to it, perfect for opening day of fishing on the chilly water or after a long morning of shoveling out the car. This bourbon, like Bob, has helped generations leer life straight in the eye, and maybe even provide a little bit of courage to get us through.

Books: Finders Keepers by Stephen King

Dave: Finders Keepers is King’s second installment in what has come to be known as the Mr. Mercedes trilogy. King’s foray into the crime/murder/mystery genre, Mr. Mercedes, has spawned what might be some of King’s most exciting fiction in a decade. 

The book’s main action picks up tangentially from the events of Mr. Mercedes, following the incarcerated thief of a literary genius’ house and the son of one of the victims from the first novel’s inciting incident. King manages to encompass a compelling and all but spate mystery plot in the trilogy’s main movement. King is truly in rare form. By the book’s resolution, you feel satisfied by the neatly managed story you’ve just finished and faith in King’s ability to pick up right where he left off in the third installment, but leave it to the master of mystery to reward that faith in a style befitting his legacy.

Bob/Bruce, Bourbon, and Books Archive

Even More Happy Hour

Bruce, Bourbon, And Books: Wreck on the Highway to Bull Mountain

This series alternates between Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen songs that perfectly complement a good bourbon and a quality book. You can make your own suggestions and recommendations in the comments section or by tweeting @WritersBone.

By Daniel Ford

Bruce

Since author Brian Panowich has become a mentor/Twitter friend, I let him choose the Springsteen song that would accompany my review of his debut novel Bull Mountain (which is available starting July 7). Much to my chagrin, his first choice was “Adam Raised A Cain,” a song I once described in this column as “redundant and uninspired.” I sent him back to the drawing board and he came back with the splendidly depressing “Wreck on the Highway.” Better yet, Panowich gave us permission to re-publish the following short story, which is included in Trouble in the Heartland: Crime Fiction Based on the Songs of Bruce Springsteen. The story features a loose end from Bull Mountain, but he assured me it doesn’t contain any spoilers.

Wreck on the Highway By Brian Panowich

I shuffle a crooked cigarette out of the pack and carefully drop it into my mouth. Of the three left in the box, it was the only one left that wasn’t broken. I was favored by the gods.

No light. Shit.

I should have known better. I just let the damn thing hang there, and stare out the window. The sun is coming up, although from this angle it looks like it’s coming down. I have a perfect view, as if the skyline adjusted itself just for me. I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about a sunrise right now if I didn’t have this sudden forced moment of peace. I think about how many times people wake up to that big ball of fire smiling at them, and nobody gives a good goddamn? They just keep running in the same circles, making the same mistakes, competing for the same nickel.

Like me.

I look at Frankie hanging next to me. He’s sleeping through the moment. I let him. He wouldn’t give a shit anyway. I try to remember the last time I watched a sunrise, but it’s hard to think. My head is still foggy. I’m pretty sure, the last time was from the hood of Scabby Mike’s Model T just south of Bull Mountain with…

Hillary.

Aw, Hill baby, I’m sorry. I fucked everything up again. But you knew I would, didn’t you? You knew there was no such thing as one last time. That’s why you said goodbye when you left. You never used to say goodbye. I should be sitting in your kitchen right now, drinking your coffee, watching the sun come up with you. Not with Frankie. Not like this.

There’s a scarecrow just past the edge of the cornfield to my right. He must have been on his coffee break a few minutes ago. Way to go, asshole. Nobody takes pride in their jobs these days. Nobody cares. Well, you don’t have to worry about it now, buddy. That’s a little over seventy-five grand blowing all over your hometown, so maybe now you can climb your lazy ass down off that post and retire. Go tell Mrs. Scarecrow you hit the jackpot off of some poor bastard’s bad luck.

Speaking of poor bastards, Frankie’s head is starting to look like an eggplant. I pull my knife from my jacket pocket, and cut his seat belt. He falls straight down with a hard thud. That woke him up.

“Gimmie a light.”

He doesn’t even hesitant to try get his bearings first. He digs his Zippo out of his pocket with his good hand and tosses it over. I light up and the rush of smoke is a stream of battery acid down my throat.

“The fuck happened?” Frankie says.

“A bird, I think.”

“A bird?” He tries to right himself by grabbing at the back seat above him, but can’t.

He’s busted up pretty good.

“Yeah, a big one.”

He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a thick, wet cough that sprays blood all over the roof below us. He ain’t got long. I put my cigarette to his lips and he takes a grateful drag.

All better.

“Where’s the money?” he says. Now it’s my turn to laugh, as I look out the window and see the bills scattered like confetti all over the two-lane road.

“Frankie, my friend, I think we went through a lot of trouble just to end up paying off some farmer’s bank loan.”

More laughing. More coughing. More blood.

I ask him if he can see the sunrise. He doesn’t bother to answer. I knew he wouldn’t care. Hillary would. That’s all that would matter to her right now. She’d hold my hand right up to the end, which is pretty close now, because I’m beginning to hear the sirens.

I keep my gun in my boot, but I can’t reach it. My legs are so twisted up; I don’t even think they can qualify as legs any more. I’d be screaming hysterical in pain right now if it wasn’t for all the Oxy pumping through me. Thank God for the miracle of prescription medication.

“Can you reach your gun?” I ask, “Mine’s stuck.”

No answer.

“Frankie?”

No answer. He’s gone. Shit. Sorry buddy.

I take one last drag and tamp out the bloody butt on the asphalt. Then I reach over and pull my dead friend a little closer until the .38 in his armpit shows itself.

The sun is high above me now. It’s a new day. The sirens are all over the place. I tell Hillary I’m sorry one more time and put the snub-nose to my head.

I’m never going back.

No bullets. Shit.

Bourbon

Fun fact: Fiction editor Dave Pezza and I shared an office at our day job for so long that we would be considered common-law married in some states. Our professional lives deviated a couple of weeks ago (excluding Writer’s Bone, of course), but we sent each other off the only way we knew how: with a bottle of brown alcohol. Dave gifted me Maker’s Mark 46, which I’m currently imbibing while refreshing my email waiting for a literary agent to be wowed by my query letter (or the sack of money I sent). For those of you who have gotten their hands on an advanced reader copy of Bull Mountain may question this pairing, preferring perhaps that I chose a less sophisticated bourbon given the book's setting. However, from now on, this bottle will signify to me an end and a beginning: the end of being in close proximity to one of my closest friends, and the beginning of an exciting time where both of us get to shine editorially during our waking hours. To me, Maker’s Mark 46 tastes like brotherhood, something the main characters in Bull Mountain know a thing or two about.

Book

Inspired by The Band’s “Up on Cripple Creek,” Brian Panowich’s debut novel Bull Mountain is a welcome addition to the quality Southern noir we’ve reviewed during the past year. The novel, which Apple and Amazon just named one of their top picks for July, follows the Burroughs clan throughout several decades in the North Georgia Mountains. At the center of the story stands Clayton Burroughs, the sheriff of Waymore Valley, an honest man standing at the foot of a corrupt mountain. A shadowy Federal agent gives him an opportunity by to finally extricate his family name from drug running and death, however, his hillbilly crime lord brother wants no part of any such redemption.

The narrative spans several generations of Burroughs men, always at odds with themselves, their kin, and the innocent bystanders in their wake. As with many of the other crime novels we’ve featured recently, this one shines because of its literary dedication to its main characters. They feel as old and familiar as the book’s mountain setting and are hardwired into the plot in a dramatically complex way. I’ll also echo author Steph Post’s thoughts in a recent podcast interview (which goes live on Monday), and say that Panowich’s lead chapter is a master class in how to start a novel. It feels as if the story was hatched on a foggy mountain outcrop and shot onto the page by a hunting rifle.

Fathers and brothers may be the bedrock of Bull Mountain, but the female characters are the soil that allows it to grow wildly. If you’re not in love with Clayton’s wife Kate by the end of the tale, then you are someone I never want to share brown liquor with. She’s more than just a Southern bell standing behind her lawman; she’s as conflicted as her male counterparts, tough as mountain stone, and has the force of a supernova when the blood starts rolling down toward the valley.

Be warned, there’s a good chance this book is going to light your house on fire, but don’t worry, Panowich is a firefighter. I’m sure he’ll squelch the flames as long as you share your bourbon.

For more Bruce/Bob, Bourbon, and Books, check out our full archive.

Bob, Bourbon, and Books Meets Johnny, Jim, and Longmire

This semi-regular series alternates between Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen songs that perfectly complement a good bourbon and a quality book. You can make your own suggestions and recommendations in the comments section or by tweeting @WritersBone.

Bob

Bob Dylan & Johnny Cash - Girl from the North... by Palaiokostas1

Daniel Ford: How has it taken so long for us to get to this song? I blame the bourbon. This version of “Girl From the North Country” with Johnny Cash leads off Bob Dylan’s excellent “Nashville Skyline” album, and is the perfect introduction to the sound Dylan was striving for with that project. Whimsical and love sick, the whole album could easily have been sung by pioneers settling the Old West. Cash’s razor sharp voice lends the song even more poignancy, making it seem like the pair are just two old cowboys sitting around a campfire talking about old conquests and heartbreak. Dylan’s lyrics are especially haunting in this tune, giving mercy no quarter as he laments, “I’m a-wondering if she remembers me at all/many times I’ve often prayed/in the darkness of my night/in the brightness of my day.” As is often the case with Dylan songs, it doesn’t look good for our hero, but at least he has at least one beautiful memory he can envision when he meets the end of his dusty trail.  

Dave Pezza: Make “Nashville Skyline” your go-to for summer nights! It literally has everything you need: “Girl From The North Country” for a sunset driving with the windows down and the radio up, “To Be Alone with You” if you are down for a little grooving and a little dancing, “Lay, Lady, Lay” for, well, laying…, and “Tonight I’ll Be Staying Here with You” to keep the party going and the booze flowing! “Girl From The North Country” opens this album magnificently. You can hear the history in air between Cash’s boom and Dylan’s falsetto. The best part of this song isn’t the pain of love lost both men emote so well, it is the simplicity of the song: Dylan, Cash, and two guitars. That’s it. That’s all you need. It’s not perfect. It’s not flashy. It’s real and honest. Cash and Dylan are feeling each other out the whole song, working off of each other’s voice and guitar. Cash even messes up the lyrics and Dylan just keeps on keeping on as if to say, “If Johnny Cash wants to change the words, dammit we’re changing the words!”

Bourbon

Dave:  Jim Beam. Jimmy Beam. Jim is a bourbon mainstay and was formerly my bourbon of choice. I even visited the Jim Beam distillery while on a road trip to Nashville. If you’re out at a bar, you order Jim Beam for shots, and you order it with cocktails. Anything else could cost you more Jacksons and Grants than you’d care to lose in a single night out. Jim Beam has been the face of bourbon for some time; however, since selling its distillery to Suntory Holdings Ltd. in January of 2014, Jim Beam (including Maker’s Mark) has been replaced on some bourbon enthusiasts shelves (myself included) with bourbon owned and operated by American distillers (such as Buffalo Trace’s massive distillery and wide selections). I haven’t bought a bottle of Jim since, although I can’t say I haven’t ordered it out. It might be a silly thing to protest, but something about one of the largest distillers of America’s official alcohol being owned by a foreign company rubs me the wrong way. To each their own.

Daniel: Young David and I have ended more than a few days with a shot of Jim Beam and a Budweiser chaser. I’m not sure whether my night improves or worsens after that because more drinks usually follow. Also, a slug of Jim Beam might be the kind of thing Walt Longmire’s foulmouthed deputy Vic might pour on your head after you try to hit on her. I’d love every minute of it.  

Book

Daniel: If you’re reading a Walt Longmire novel, odds are you’re drinking a Rainier, but since Pappy Van Winkle makes a cameo in Death Without Company, it’s the perfect occasion to pour something a little bit more special into your glass. I waited a long time to read another Craig Johnson novel because I so loved The Cold Dish. I didn’t want anything to sully the memory of that novel, so I held off on digging into the rest of the series. Boy howdy, I’m an idiot! Five pages into Death Without Company I remembered what made Johnson’s debut so special. The plot moves at a quick pace for sure (kick started by the seemingly innocuous death of an old woman in a nursing home), but the best moments are saved for Walt’s interactions with Vic, his best friend Henry Standing Bear, and his assistant Ruby. They keep Walt on track with cursing, Native American folklore and friendship, and Post-It Notes. Despite those warm and familiar relationships, my favorite Walt scenes might be those in which he’s alone with his thoughts, his dog, or his visions of the Old Cheyenne. Johnson isn’t afraid to show that Walt is highly educated despite his rural post, and that his scars are permanent and not easily overcome. Walt’s melancholy bleeds across every page, but it doesn’t stop him from being a badass sheriff who stops at nothing to solve a mystery. Death Without Company is set over the course of a couple days in the deep winter of Wyoming, so you’ll need a full glass of Jim Beam by your side to stay warm.

For more Bruce/Bob, Bourbon, and Books, check out our full archive.

The Worst of Bruce/Bob, Bourbon, and Books

This semi-regular series alternates between Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen songs that perfectly (or imperfectly in today's case) complement a good bourbon and a quality book. You can make your own suggestions and recommendations in the comments section or by tweeting @WritersBone.

Bruce/Bob

Daniel Ford: Before you read my thoughts on Springsteen’s “Adam Raised A Cain,” become reacquainted with the lyrics and chorus. Go ahead, I’ll wait.

Gah, even the lyrics make me wish I was Cain getting split open by a scythe.

I can defend most Bruce songs. (yeah)

But I hate this one. (yeah)

Adam raised a Cain? (yeah)

Okay, your father was a dick. (yeah)

You already wrote “Growin' Up” and “Independence Day.” We get it, Bruce. (yeah)

This tune is redundant and uninspired. (yeah)

Faux angst is the worst kind of angst. (yeah)

And it has the most awful backup singer cheers other than “Glory Days.” (yeah)

At least “Glory Days” knows what it is. (yeah)

“Adam Raised A Cain” is filler on an otherwise great Springsteen album. (yeah)

Dave Pezza: Let’s be honest with ourselves about something; even the best of the best phone it in sometimes. Every now and again, even power houses like Bob Dylan just come up with a total, utter dud. “Dignity” by Bob Dylan is most certainly that lemon. This song sucks out loud, in electric and acoustic. The most well-known versions of this song are probably from the “MTV Unplugged” and “Tell Tale Signs: The Bootleg Series Vol. 8” albums. In both albums this song stops all recognizable audio and emotional flow. In the bootleg series it follows a double shot of prime rib Dylan blues and sorrow. This really, really, really good volume of Dylan’s outtakes/rarities series opens with a truly soulful and heart wrenching version of “Mississippi” and follows with what is, in my opinion, the best recorded version of Dylan’s hopeful heartbreak ballad “Most of the Time.” What could possibly follow up this tandem? A gritty version of “The Times Are a Changing” perhaps?  Or how about a much more listenable take on “Idiot Wind?” Nope. An aborted version of “Dignity,” a piano-based track that must have been recorded by some tramp Dylan pulled off the street in exchange for a ham sandwich. This is the Dylan equivalent of the Beatles’ “Piggies.” Not only is it a truly bad song, but it sticks it’s wretchedness right in the middle of pure audio art, like a middle-aged women who shoves her landslide of a shopping cart in front of you in line at the supermarket, just as you catch the eyes of the cute check-out girl.

Even in the “MTV Unplugged” version, Dylan punches you in the face with this preachy pile of sour milk by hiding it between a masterful eight-and-a-half minute live version of “Desolation Row” and a bluesy, harmonica-accented “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.” Bob should have left this one in the dumpster next to his Christmas horror movie theme song.

Bourbon

Even the logo is depressing.

Dave: Old Grand-Dad is not good. It’s not good to taste; it’s not good for your body (they call it gut rot for a reason); it’s not even that good to mix. But it is cheap, like really cheap, and it is bourbon. So, there you go. Drink up.

Daniel: Dave mentioned the name of this bourbon and I grew an extra patch of hair on my chest. I know he’s going to make me drink this during a night out with Sean Tuohy when we’re trying to play the part of brooding writers. My hope is there will be multiple beer chasers nearby. 

Book

Daniel: I hated A Separate Peace, but I really hated Lord of the Flies. Everyone in my high school class seemed shocked and saddened by Piggy’s death, but I considered him lucky that he didn’t have to suffer through the end of this dystopian turd. Instead of rescuing these young heathens, the adults should have dropped a few nukes and then built a luxury resort. I’m not a huge fan of allegories to begin with, so I don’t give a damn whether or not Ralph crying over Piggy’s death symbolizes “the end of innocence” or that the whole book is a critique of human impulses. Fuck you! I’m pretty sure an A-bomb would have been a more effective metaphor. Read 1984, The Road, The Giver, or A Clockwork Orange if you’re hankering for a dystopian novel. Or watch “Blade Runner” for Christ’s sake. Anything else is better than trudging through this jungle filled with prepubescent assholes that deserve napalm for Christmas.

Dave: I don’t like Lord of the Flies either. But I really hate The Awakening by Kate Chopin. There are numerous ways to make the book better, but the most satisfying way is to have Edna Pontellier walk herself into the Gulf of Mexico over and over again until it drowns away the time I just spent torturing myself. And I don’t believe for a second the myth that this book helped turn-of-the-century female authors break-out of the male, chauvinistic writing world. If anything, this novel sets women’s rights back a decade. Yea, the only way to solve this love triangle is to have the lead female character off herself. Jesus. Melodramatic much? Skip this work entirely and pick yourself up some top quality books written by some top quality female authors like To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf or 1970s' Desperate Characters by Paula Fox.

For more Bruce/Bob, Bourbon, and Books, check out our full archive.

Bob, Bourbon, and Books: Tinker Tailor Solider Basil Hayden’s

This semi-regular series alternates between Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen songs that perfectly complement a good bourbon and a quality book. You can make your own suggestions and recommendations in the comments section or by tweeting @WritersBone.

Bob

Dave Pezza: We bent the rules just a tad this week. “When I Get My Hands On You” is the lead single off of The New Basement Tapes’ one-off album “Lost on the River.” Comparable to the Traveling Wilburys, this collection of artists, including Marcus Mumford (Mumford & Sons), Jim James (My Morning Jacket), Elvis Costello, Taylor Goldsmith (Dawes), and Rhiannon Giddens (Carolina Chocolate Drops), were asked to create music based on a collection of uncovered, unused Bob Dylan lyrics. The album is worth checking out, if only for this single and “Down on the Bottom.” The whole collection has Bob Dylan’s fingerprints all over it. Although Dylan wrote the words, these artists managed to infuse his blues/folk simplicity and sarcastic, rueful emotion into every track. “When I get My Hands On You” fits well with our book this week, John le Carré’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, but I’m sure Daniel will subtly tell you why.

Daniel Ford: Number of men who sang this tune to George Smiley’s wife in Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy: 578 (“Oh, sorry George old boy, I didn’t realize you were sitting right in front of me when I called your wife a dirty whore.” “Ricky, I’ve been asking you questions for two hours.” “Spot on, sod off!”). 

Bourbon

Daniel: Basil Hayden’s was my first bourbon. I had strictly been a scotch man before someone slammed a bottle of this joyous brown liquid down on a picnic table in front of me while I was attending a wedding in Tennessee. This guy had asked the local liquor store owner for a good bourbon and he had recommended Basil Hayden’s immediately. The next thing I knew, I was sitting in the back of a small yacht meandering the Tennessee River while sipping this sweet, satisfying bourbon. We drank the bottle all day, which gave us a warm glow and insatiable hunger for the smoked pork ribs served during the rehearsal dinner. I don’t interact with any of the people from that wedding (with good reason), but Basil Hayden’s remains a friend for all seasons.

Dave: I hadn’t tried this bourbon until a company outing with an open bar, so obviously I ordered a top-shelf bourbon. Basil Hayden’s is a terrific upper class bourbon, a little pricey, but worth every drop. Hayden’s always tends to go down fast for me, and not because of a particular smoothness or dilution.  It has a really rounded taste and kicks just the right amount. It’ll keep you tipping the bottle, especially on a cold, snowy night. Not a bad choice as a companion for an old school spy novel.

Book (and Movie!)

Daniel: It took me a while to get into John le Carré’s style, but once I did, I devoured Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy in two lengthy sittings (there were a few good things about these Boston blizzards). It reads more like a play at times, just two or three characters at a time talking in a quiet setting. How information is revealed throughout the novel is brilliant; the readers starts with a small morsel of intelligence that grows each time he or she turns the page, so that by the time George Smiley has his eureka moment, you’re exhausted, yet hungry for more. I’m eager to read the rest of the series and find out more about our pudgy, slightly rundown hero. 

Sean Tuohy: The movie adaption shares DNA with another era. You feel as if you have taken a step through a portal into the 1970's and landed right in the middle of the Cold War. The film is filled with a lot of long shots, which makes the viewer feel as if they are peeping Toms watching deeply private interactions. You have to keep your eyes glued to the screen and pay attention, which is very easy because of the way the film is shot and acted, because otherwise, you’d miss important clues that led Smiley to crack the case.

Dave: I saw the most recent film adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy a year or so ago, and loved it.  It’s the British version of “The Good Shepherd,” but better because it stars Gary Oldman! Like most good movies, I learned that that it was based on the first of novel of John le Carré’s Karla Trilogy that follows the exploits of British intelligence officer George Smiley and his hunt for the KGB mastermind codenamed Karla. Le Carré fully immerses his readers in Cold War espionage, a subject he’s more than familiar with as a former MI6 and MI5 employee. If you’re looking for a well written, accurate, and entirely suspenseful spy novel, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy will hit all the right notes.

For more Bruce/Bob, Bourbon, and Books, check out our full archive.

Bruce, Bourbon, and Books: Wild Turkey in the Night

This semi-regular series alternates between Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen songs that perfectly complement a good bourbon and a quality book. You can make your own suggestions and recommendations in the comments section or by tweeting @WritersBone.

Bruce

Hazy Dave Pezza: “Spirit in the Night” has become one of my favorite Bruce songs and defines, in my opinion, the magical nature of Bruce’s debut album “Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J.”  “Spirit in the Night” is, has been, or will be every 20-something’s mantra: a few kids living through the spirits in the night, drinking, screwing, and fighting their way to sunrise. How Bruce manages to get your body moving, your eyes tearing, and your libido boiling simultaneously is a mystery that has inspired generations. This early, but legendary, track features some of Bruce's best lines and innuendos and keeps you alive all night, from cocktail hour to nightcap.  My only suggestion: grab your own Crazy Janey and a bottle of Wild Turkey first.

Daniel Ford: I must admit that “Spirit in the Night isn’t one of my favorite Springsteen songs. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a brilliant display of songwriting and musicianship, but not a song I can listen to on endless repeat. A little bit of this tune goes a long way for me. And unlike Dave, I’m partial to the live versions from 1973 and 1975. That being said, I think “and she kissed me just right, like only a lonely angel can,” is one of the best lyrics in the history of songwriting, and any song with a characters named “Wild Billy” and “Hazy Davy” and settings like “Greasy Lake” and “Gypsy Angel Row” is the perfect companion to this Friday’s bourbon.

Also, I have to confess that while Hazy Davey and I were listening to this song repeatedly in order to accurately capture our feelings about it, I was pounding my foot on the floor, dancing manically in my chair, and singing the entire time. 

Bourbon

Hazy Davey: Ah, finally we have made our way to Wild Turkey 81, the definitive working man’s bourbon. Wild Turkey is not smooth, at all. Named 81 after its proof, Turkey 81 will remind you what drinking bourbon is all about. Harsh and warm, it makes it easy to keep tipping that elbow on a cold fall night. Wild Turkey 81 might not be the fanciest or best-tasting bourbon on the market, but it’ll get you where you need to go with some attitude. Perfect as a shot with your night’s first Budweiser, Wild Turkey might be a dangerously good companion to “Spirit in the Night.” Drop the needle, pour a shot or two, crack a few beers, and toast to a weekend well-earned. See where it takes you…

Daniel: One of my favorite journalism professors (the late, great Kalev Pehme) ended every class by telling us how eager he was to be reunited with his bottle of Wild Turkey. It was tough for him to hand out compliments, but I received two during my college tenure. I like to think he was at the bottom of a bottle when he graded both of those papers. In his memory, I bought a bottle of Wild Turkey 81 while stocking up for Hurricane Sandy in 2012 (hurricane preparation in New York City typically involves buying copious amounts of alcohol). Let’s just say, the lights in my apartment weren't the only ones that went out. The events of that evening convinced me that I should opt for Wild Turkey only when I’m in the deepest depths of writing despair and need as many “spirits in the night” as possible. 

Book

Daniel: What goes better with a working man’s bourbon than a book featuring good ole American ass kicking? Rick Atkinson completed his epic Liberation Trilogy last year by expertly depicting the Allied Force’s liberation of Europe in The Guns At Last Light. Much like the first two entries in the series—the Pulitzer Prize-winning An Army At Dawn and critically-acclaimed The Day Of Battle—The Guns At Last Light details plenty of glory, but also military incompetence, poor leadership, and smoking (the amount of cigarettes the armies went through every month is truly staggering). If you need a drinking game in order to plow through the 896-page tome, take a shot of Wild Turkey 81 every time Ernest Hemingway pops up. You’ll be drunk by the time you reach an Allied-occupied brothel in Paris (I’d recommend drinking every time British General Bernard Montgomery acts like a wanker, but I don’t want to kill you).

Hazy Davey: Canny Danny recommended this book to me some time ago, and I only just picked it up and began devouring it. Atkinson has been praised for creating one of the best World War II narratives from the American perspective, and the praise is entirely earned. I started at the end of his Liberation Trilogy, jumping right into the invasion of Normandy. Atkinson paints the war effort in remarkable broad strokes from the highest general to the lowest private. He throws in facts so unprecedented that your head begins to hurt. He even traces the roles famous American and British figures throughout the war, such as Kurt Vonnegut’s capture and imprisonment by German forces in Dresden (surviving the inferno caused by Allied bombing that would inspire Slaughterhouse Five) and Ernest Hemingway, who was reporting on the war for Time magazine and lead a cadre of resistance fighters behind the Allied  troops during the liberation of Paris (he and his irregulars entered into the Ritz and ordered a round of drinks soon after). Atkinson makes it all too easy to be a proud American in this large final volume, while not forgiving the U.S. of it major flaws. Bruce, Wild Turkey, and American World War II badassery? Happy Friday!

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