Jim Parker
Dead Man Talkin'
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I've been called a lot of things since I first climbed onto a stage with a guitar in my hands and butterflies in my stomach, but the one word that seems to fit best (and miss the mark least) is this one: songwriter.

In fact, that's the one I use to describe myself as a performer, too -- especially after I hit a sour note in a vocal or blow a guitar lick, or otherwise need to extricate my ego from my performance in front of an audience. Whenever that happens, I just shrug it off as best I can, and remind anyone who needs reminding of the truest musical fact about me that I know: "I'm not a musician. I'm a songwriter."
Why this name?
My first choice, "Bruce Springsteen," was already taken. And, in a series of double-blind taste tests, 2 of 3 respondents preferred the brand "Jim Parker" over the leading national bandname brandname ("Bob Dylan"). Plus, it was already on my birth certificate.
Do you play live?
Yes. In fact, I'll play "Whatever, Whenever, Wherever" wherever and whenever. For whatever. [Plus expenses.]
How, do you think, does the internet (or mp3) change the music industry?
Among other changes, it's made it possible for you to listen to me (and vice-versa), without either of us running up massive long-distance charges.
Would you sign a record contract with a major label?
Only if money (or the prospect of money) (or a rumor about the prospect of money) was somehow involved.
Band History:
I was born under a bad sign. In fact, I was born in the back seat of a Greyhound bus, rolling down highway 41. My mother was a tailor; she sewed my new blue jeans. My father was a gambling man, down in New Orleans. So I skedaddled outta there, and landed in New York City.

There, seeking only workman's wages, I went looking for a job. But I got no offers. (Just a come-on from the whores on 7th Avenue.) And yes, I do declare, there were times I was so lonesome, I could cry. But other times, I did take some comfort there. In fact, the girls on 7th Avenue seemed to me like Sisters of Mercy: They were waiting for me, when I thought that I just can't go on.

But I did go on. Once, outside of Baton Rouge, waiting for a train, I was feeling near as faded as my jeans. That's when I realized that love hurts. Love mars. Love wounds and scars any heart not tough, nor strong enough, to take a lot of pain.

That's when I started to imagine there's no heaven, and discovered it's easy if you try. I also decided there's no hell below us and, above us, only sky.

So what else could I do? I gathered up my possessions, 37 dollars and a Jap guitar, and started down that long, lonesome road, babe. I'm still on it, in fact, and where I'm bound, I can't tell. But goodbye is too good a word, babe, so I'll just say fare-thee-well.

Why? I'm not sure. Maybe it's because I can't get no satisfaction. And I've always wondered what's over that rainbow. And I had to get outta there someday.
Your influences?
Early influences include the Beatles, Rolling Stones, and Bob Dylan. Since then, everything I've heard that's twanged inside my head, heart, body, or soul has probably left telltale signs somewhere. Overall, though, I'd have to include Leonard Cohen, Jackson Browne, Willie Dixon, Hank Williams, Don McLean, and Steve Earle at the top of my A-List of lyrical-musical Heavy Hitters.
Favorite spot?
Tempe, Phoenix, Chicago, Houston, New Orleans, Champaign, IL
Equipment used:
Ovation, Fender, and Sigma guitars, Hohner harmonicas, Ludwig drums, M-Audio Radium-49 and Yamaha keyboards, Power Mac G5, Apple Garage Band
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