Moccasin Joe - Revised 05.08.2019

The year was 2003. The time was approximately 2 am. Later that day I would attend KROQ’s Inland Invasion, a concert featuring The Cure and Duran Duran. I hadn’t been to such an event in a while and thus was excited about going to this concert later that day.

It was my second year and second job out of college. I was working at an accounting firm in Hollywood. The firm dealt mostly with high-end celebrity clientele, so it was very common for me to interact regularly with famous actors, writers, producers, and musicians. Occasionally I found myself in very unique situations. Such as the time I had to drop off a large sum of cash to a high profile actor waiting for me at the beach, or when a retired agent opened the door to her home while wearing nothing but a diaper and a T-shirt. While this type of job might sound exciting, often it wasn’t. Most of my memory of that time is comprised of dealing with people on the backend of their fame. Therefore, interacting with fading stars didn’t exactly create a happy work environment.

At the time I was living in the Los Feliz area of Los Angeles. Every morning I would have to drive to Sunset and Doheny in Hollywood. It was a seven-mile commute that took about an hour; normal for LA traffic. To escape my non-rewarding Hollywood job, occasionally on Friday nights I would make an even longer trek back to my old neighborhood in Covina, a suburb located in the eastern outskirts of Los Angeles.

In Covina, my old friends and I were frequent patrons of Elvies, a little dive bar that made killer drinks for cheap. That Friday evening before the Inland Invasion happened to be one of those nights spent throwing back drinks at Elvies. We hung out and drank until about 1 in the morning. We all then said our goodbyes before we would regroup later for the concert.

I was on the 10 Fwy driving back home to Los Feliz from Covina, when all of a sudden I heard a flip, flip, flip, …coming from my driver’s side rear tire. I knew I had to pull over and deal with this tire issue. However, I did not want to stop on the side of the 10 freeway. Therefore, I exited somewhere in Alhambra and turned onto the nearest side street in order to assess my damaged tire. The street I pulled onto was dark and in an area of Alhambra that I was not familiar with. I knew there were, and probably still are, some not so friendly areas in Alhambra. Because my surroundings were dark, unfamiliar, and located near the freeway, my guard was up.

Despite my uneasiness, I got out of my car to assess the situation. I went over to the rear driver's side and discovered a key sticking out of the tire. The handle of the key was bent over and was probably making the “flip flip” sound. While getting the little jack and donut-sized spare tire out of my trunk, I heard a voice come out of the sky. “Hey man, do you need a jack?” I looked up and all around as if I heard God’s voice speaking to me. Where was this voice coming from? Then it spoke again, “Up here bro!” My eyes followed a stairway up to the duplex in front of me and I saw a long-haired figure. “Do you need a jack?” he repeated.

“Yeah, sure. That would be great.” I responded. The long-haired dude sauntered on down the stairs of the duplex. It was so dark that it was hard to make out what he looked like besides his long hair.

After he descended all the way down the stairs, he went into the alley behind the duplex. I then heard a garage door open. He reemerged, rolling over an impressive professional sized floor jack. He placed it under my car. With two pumps on the jack, the car was high enough to take the tire off. I switched out the tires, and then he put the car back down. That was the quickest change of a flat that I had ever participated in.

After a tire changed that briefly got me to consider trying out for a NASCAR pit crew, I asked if I could use his sink to wash my hands. He said, “Go for it bro!”, so off I went. I was expecting his duplex to smell of bong water and stale dust. But as I entered his apartment, I noticed all sorts of well cared for pristine musical instruments; mostly conga drums. I headed towards his kitchen, which was around the corner from his living room. While I washed my hands I made a comment about all of the instruments and how beautiful they were. When I finished, I walked around to the living room to thank him. Due to the light, I now noticed this guy was a bit older than I originally thought. His hair was still long and dark, but I could see some mileage in what I assume were his Native American eyes.

I mentioned that I was a bit of an audiophile and that I used to work at a jazz club when I was in college. I added that in the mid-90s, I would frequent a lot of local music shows and had a particular fondness for the Surf Rock of that era. I think I also must have mentioned that I was currently going through a bit of a Bossa Nova phase. We talked at length about the local music scene and different styles of jazz.

He then started to play a lot of his own recordings for me. To my surprise, it was damn good. His music was very much influenced by his Native American culture, but it didn’t sound all that tribal, as one might assume. He mixed the progession so well with the incoming melodies. It had this flowing rhythm. One song, in particular, was about a journey to the afterlife, in which the spirit takes a canoe from this world to the next. Even though I initially pictured Little Hyuwatha from the old Warner Bros cartoons in that canoe, Hyuwatha soon faded away into someone a lot more proud, yet a bit weathered, much like my gracious host. That song was amazing. I think I could have listened to it for hours.

Apparently, this guy used to play as a hired musician with an old Native American 60’s/70’s band called Redbone. Their big hit was “Come and Get Your Love.” He was very proud of that. If you’ve ever heard their music, you’d understand his pride. It’s really that good! We ended up hanging out talking about music until 6 in the morning!

Since I was driving on a donut, and smartphones did not exist, he gave me directions on how to get back to Los Feliz via the streets. His directions were spot on. Before I left, he gave me his card, but I must have lost it at the Inland Invasion. He also gave me a CD of The Rick Lawndale Band, which was some local Surf Rock. To this day, I still have that CD. Aside from the Rick Lawndale album, the only thing else I had of him was what he referred to himself as; Moccasin Joe. Sadly, I never kept in touch with Moccasin Joe.

When I look back at that morning, I think how lucky I was to have had such an experience. The older I have gotten, the more I have come to appreciate these serendipitous situations in my life. Way back when, I tried Googling him. But using Moccasin Joe as a search term is like hunting for a needle in a haystack. There seems to be quite a few Moccasin Joes out there, but none of them fit the profile of the guy I met during the wee morning hours in Alhambra.

Over the years I have occasionally continued my search for Moccasin Joe. Although I must confess, I have not been too diligent. I tend to be the type of person who likes to leave memories where they are, in the past.

However, I recently wanted to connect with this memory again. Maybe it’s my age. Therefore, I tried Googling Moccasin Joe again. This time, my search included the name of his band, “Redbone.” What do you know? Something promising came up on Youtube and Facebook. I have messaged him, but have yet to get a response back.

You never know when events like this are going to happen. So do your best to identify and enjoy them when they do occur.