William F. Gibbs's news

The good folks at Pitchfork thought enough of William to give him his very own review! You can read it here: Pitchfork William F. Gibbs Review

It seems that there are some people out in the wide world that like William F. Gibbs enough to write about him. Here is a sampling of some of the press he's been getting the last month or so. Just click on the link to go to the articles:
Paste Magazine

RCRDLBL-"Darling, You Were Beautiful Once"

RCRDLBL-"Streetfighter"

Herohill

Babysue

Urb Magazine

Have You Heard?

Crawdaddy

Greenville Scene

"Well at least it ain't hot out.", Roger Metts mutters at me. He is standing exactly 3 1/2 ft. away from me, perfectly square-shouldered, arms dangling at his waist, as if we were about to draw down on each other with six-shooters.

I raise my eyes to see if he's shittin' me. There is a well-worn-in grin on his his broad 65 year old face, and sweat beads are clinging to his creased forehead and nesting in his thick salt and pepper eyebrows. Indeed, he is shittin' me. Occupying the 3 &1/2 ft. space between us are a dead man in his best suit, some old letters, a colonial-pine-lacquer casket, and an enormous floral arrangement. Clockwise around the casket starting from Roger Metts are, Jerry Gibbs, Jamie Gibbs, Austin Gibbs, 'Lil' Al Gibbs III and finally myself.


An elderly employee from the Roundtree Funeral Home rocks and gimps his way in between the casket and the bumper of the hearse. He pushes the casket on its accordion-gurney a few feet away from the hearse and swings the door open, then about faces and rights himself to address us.

"If you boys will lift the casket d'rectly up'n'tha'air," he says, evenly and steadily raising his arms as though he were about to deliver a benediction "then Howard and m'self will pull ou' the gurney."

We hefted the casket, with the floral arrangement shaking dry and near dead at eye level. Even with all the grain and knots of pine magnified under the lacquer I could still see my reflection almost peerlessly. Haloed about my dark head in the reflection the grey skies that plain over this unimaginable town.
"geya-damn, Red." .
"He ate at Jimbo's 2 meals a day. 's'what Carolyn says."
"Howard said at Visitation he weighed 225 lbs."
"How in the hell you weigh 2 and a quata' at 94 years old?"

The six of us shuffle forward with the casket, ease it on to the rollers and slide it into the hearse. Howard swings the door closed.

"He wanted all the 'paul-buriers' to be ridin' behin' an' accumpn'y his body to chu'ch" Carolyn says as she steps into the midst of the six of us gesticulating around with the fat of her palms, jewelry and bosoms swinging.


"Alright."

We all nod solemnly in front of Carol, feigning a light veneer of grief. I look over Roger's right shoulder, not a hundred yards away the church parking lot is filling with mourners. It would take near to ten minutes for our procession to reach the church.

Three days ago I received a call from my dad:
"Willy, I talked to Carolyn this morning and Red passed away a little after nine."
"Hm. She alright?"
"Yeah, I think she's tired."
"How'd it happen?"
"She says he just stopped breathin', just went on."
"Well, I guess that's about as much use as you can get out of a 94 year old human body."
"Yup, 's'bout it."
"When is the funeral?"
"This Sunday, so, Mom and I are gonna come down tomorrow we're gonna rent a van and you, Danni, RM, Amy, and Ole will all ride down with us. So will you call a rental place and see what we can get for tomorrow?"
"Sure. Let me call Danni."

From there on the day was an absolute cluster I'll run it down:
11am A strange number calls me. It's my wife, and she's dropped her phone in Lake Murray.

1pm I take my son and dog Jim Hargate III into the backyard to throw the ball. The ball disappears over a hill and Jim follows. I hear the most unholy racket carry down the creek bed. Jim returns with the ball and drops it at my feet sopping with blood... his mouth is full of it. He has attacked a raccoon.

3:45pm I finally return from the Veterinarian with a recovering JH III (I'll just interject here that our Vet's name is Dr. Wiggers. His facilities are ancient and beyond outdated. We've chosen his practice solely upon proximity and his name).


5pm beers with Brad...so this part wasn't so bad.

9am next morning retrieve rental van.

10:45am leave with seven people in the van, one of them 8 months old, for Homerville GA.
6pm arrive in Homerville for Visitation.

I'll bring us back to Homerville now for one of the greatest soul-suckers I've ever experienced: My Great Uncle Red's Visitation and Funeral.

It's three in the morning. I'm lighting spoonfuls of moonshine on fire and tossing the the dripping blue flames across the patio behind Jeremy's house in Whittier, CA. The liquid flames splash on to the brick pavers, curl, settle, and burn up. "Do it again." I lean over in my chair and grab the gallon milk jug marked "XXX" with permanent marker and dole out another spoonful. Oliver hands me the lighter, and I thumb the wheel and set the flame to the bottom of the spoon. "Beautiful." I flick the spoon and scatter the flames.
I'm not necessarily a good fit for this city. Neither is Oliver for that matter. Jeremy and Vikki were born in La Habra about 30 minutes from downtown. They are well-adjusted, but Oliver and I've seen enough of LA in one day alone to be overwhelmed: from the Buddhist Columbrium at the top of Rose Hill Cemetery (the world's largest cemetery) we saw the unnatural yellow-brown cloud cover above the city hemmed in by the mountains, on Whittier Blvd. we watched mile after mile after mile of strip malls, strip clubs, car washes, and burger joints tick by our window, in East LA we saw the Hispanic sprawl and open air store fronts hawking cowboy hats, Mary paraphernalia, and hammocks, downtown we saw Skid Row squalor and cardboard beds made up one after the other in the sidewalk with pedestrians regarding the slumbering as they would a puddle or pile of trash, and finally, in the evening, we witnessed the indulgence and opulence of OC and Huntington Beach with it's arrogant youth, fake breasts, deep even tans, parades of luxury SUV's, ungodly amounts of hair gel, and night clubs with lines around the corner on EVERY corner. However, there was a short 5 hour window in my visit where LA felt familiar or comfortable, but it had little to do with the environment.
After playing a show with the Austin James band in Huntington Beach Oliver and I stayed up after Vikki went to sleep and Jeremy unceremoniously passed out. Our conversation was the normal fare: God, life, family, humanity, and trying to make sense of any of it...we couldn't. Oliver drug a plastic trashcan over towards where we were sitting and I upended the contents of our ashtray into the can. We resumed our conversation. Pummf!!! The trashcan, which was full of insulation, exploded at my side, the flames climbing several feet over it's rim. I kicked the can over scattering it's contents and the burning fiberglass on to the patio and Oliver stomped out the flames with a great deal of disinterest. Adrenaline having been raised a hair we discussed alternatives to sitting and burning up Jeremy's moonshine. We wanted to get into something.
"Walk?"
"Indeed."
We filled our little travel cups with moonshine and lit out the door at 3:30am. Not 25 minutes later I'm looking over the basin. All of Los Angeles alight. I have both of my arms wrapped around an enormous metal crucifix. I'm covered in pigeon waste. I'm wearing most of the moonshine. Thirty feet below me the pitch of the sanctuary roof at Whittier Lutheran.
"I thought you said there was a partition or railing or something?"
"I thought I saw one."
"Well there's not."
"How far up are we?"
"75. Maybe 80. I gotta get down. I don't want Jeremy to have to come get us out of jail, or Danielle to have to explain such an dumbass death."
"Agreed."
We gingerly made our way down the steeple tower. I went down first which was a mistake because Oliver kicked dried bird crap all over me throughout the descent. I reached the roof of the church and hucked my moonshine cup out on to the church lawn and Oliver did the same. I crawled under the roof onto the natural rock face at the front of the church. I'm a terrible climber so I pretty much climbed out on to the rock face and fell ten feet. We strolled across the church lawn through the spotlights scooping up our cups as we went.
30 minutes later I'm collecting pine needles and hay along along the curb with my instep at the corner Howard and Citrus St. I pick up the pile with my hands and set it next to the curb where we've been sitting. In goes a lit match and the pile flares up. A car full of Hispanic kids rolls by and they watch us warily as we sit and stare at our small brush fire on the curb.
"Where's Jeremy's?"
"Somewhere behind us. Couple streets. We took a left from the Church."
"Where's downtown?"
"Couldn't Say."
As we negotiated our way back to Orange St. and Jeremy's house I noticed a palm tree, spindular and dark against the sky, and for the first time since I'd landed in LA I didn't feel out of place. Instead, I found myself wondering how Oliver and I had ended up under a palm tree.