Letter From thenLower Rightnby John Shelton ReednBilly, The Fabulous Moolah,nand MenWhen I first heard that V.S. Naipaulnwas writing a book about the South, itnmade me nervous. What would thenauthor of Among the Believers malce ofnJim and Tammy? Could we look fornLouisiana: A Wounded Civilization?nWell, I’ve been reading A Turn innthe South, just out last winter fromnKnopf. I’m supposed to review it fornanother magazine, so I won’t do thatnhere. But I will say that Naipaul takes itneasy on us. His characteristic way ofnworking (harder than it looks) is to gonaround and talk to people, and henfound some good Southerners to talknto. He’s properly impressed with ournreligiosity, and he even kind of admiresnrednecks—although he may just bensaying that to tease the readers of ThenNew York Review of Books.nSo it’s ungrateful of me to complain.nBut I have to say that Naipaul makesnthe South just the teeniest bit — well,nboring. And that’s not right, becausenboring is one thing the South has nevernbeen and, please God, neyer will be.nI’m reminded of another pleasantnbook called Journeys Through thenSouth, written by a journalist namednFred Powledge back about 1977. Powledgenhad spent part of the 60’s pinnedndown by sniper fire at the University ofnMississippi while covering the matriculationnof James Meredith, so he wasnstruck by how much Old Dixie hadnchanged. In 1977 he traveled all overnand nobody shot at him, even thoughnhe did have a beard. (One of mynall-time favorite bumper stickers, fromnSouth Carolina, says “Don’t Shoot,nI’m a Local Hippie.” Think aboutnthat.)nAnyway, Powledge’s book was upbeat,nreflecting the South’s mood innthose early days of the Carter administration,nwhen the idea of the “Sunbelt”n36/CHRONICLESnCORRESPONDENCEnhad just begun to catch on and peoplenwere talking seriously about silly ideasnlike how the nation’s future lay in thenSouth. Roy Blount Jr. reviewed Powledge’snbook for The New York Timesnand gave it pretty good marks, complainingnonly that the picture it paintednwas so relentlessly normal. Blount saidnsomething like, “I kept wishing HarrynCrews would run by with a handful ofnsnakes.”nFor those who don’t know him,nCrews is one of the foremost latter-daynpractitioners of the Southern grotesque,nmy candidate for successor tonErskine Caldwell, and author of a booknof essays with the great title Blood andnGrits, which I wish I’d thought of first.nAnd Roy Blount’s Crackers is, to mynmind, one of the funniest and truestnbooks ever written about Our People.nBut this is turning into a bibliographicalnessay. Let me get back to thenpoint, which is that the South is an oddnplace, and any portrait that implies itnisn’t, lies.nBoth Powledge and Naipaul did runninto typically weird Southern stuff, butneach chose to downplay it—for differentnreasons, I suspect. Powledge rannacross Alvis Lassiter drying a parachutenin his front yard, for instance. Now,nFred grew up in Raleigh, so he knewnwhy Lassiter kept a parachute aroundn(“he just liked the way it looked,” that’snall). In other circumstances he mightnhave paused to savor that; in his book,nthough, he quickly passes over thensubject, presumably because dwellingnon it would interfere with the “SouthnRejoins Union” story he’s trying to tell.nWhen Naipaul found himself beingndriven around Mississippi by a blacknman in a hair net, with shaving creamnon his face, on the other hand, it wasnall he could do to maintain his sangnfroid. He doesn’t have the advantage ofna Southern upbringing to help him justnaccept the fact that folks have theirnreasons. Naipaul’s a good sport, but henseems to find the episode rather sinister.nApparently he likes to know what’sngoing on, and his book moves rightnalong to characters more easily understood.nnnMy point is that the odd happens allnthe time in the South, and a truenportrait would not only report it, butnmarvel at it, revel in it. Any picture ofnthe South in the late 20th century, thatnis, should save a prominent place fornthe likes of the Reverend Billy C.nWirtz.nThat’s all wind-up. Here’s the pitch.nI’ve had occasion before to mentionnthe Reverend Billy in these letters.nHe’s a Raleigh boy, a former specialeducationnteacher turned boogiewoogienpiano player, 6’4″ with a spikynpunk haircut, tattoos on most of hisnvisible parts, and a silver earring in thenform of a chain saw. He writes his ownnmusic, which he describes as “middlenof the rude,” or “queasy listening.”nHis songs have titles like “MennonitenSurf Party” and “Your Greens GivenMe the Blues”; his lyrics run to “Sticknout your can / ‘Cause here comes thengarbage man.” His first album. SalvationnThrough Polyester, went nowherenat all, but his second, Deep-Fried andnSanctified (just out), got reviewed innPeople magazine and may be a comer.nI caught the Reverend’s act onenevening last winter at our university’snStudent Union, and wrote an appreciativenreview for a regional magazine. Hencalled me up to thank me.n”Wanta be in show business?” henasked.nAre you kidding? Is a wild IndiannCatholic? Does the Pope — Yes!nTurns out the Reverend’s recordncompany was flying a film crew intonRaleigh from Los Angeles to make anmusic-video of “Teenie WeenienMeanie,” a love song addressed to —nuh, well, to a lady wrestler. A midgetnlady wrestler. Billy assured me that thenvideo would be “tasteful.”nSo, on the appointed evening innMarch, my buddy Fetzer and I drove tonRaleigh. We found the Reverend outsidenthe big, cave-like nightclub wherenthe filming was to take place, eatingnfried chicken and turnip greens off anstyrofoam plate and surrounded by hisnentourage, which that evening includednfour members of a motorcycle gang.nIn full colors. Ugly boys.n