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but if people’s everyday
needs are not met, it adds
to nothing,” says Johnson,
who started the Blue Door
a quarter of a century ago.
“We have to get people to
think about that.”
KOSU, a public radio sta-
tion operated by Oklahoma
State University, canceled
Johnson’s “For the Sake of
the Song” show in 2017 after
he disparaged Trump on air.
Johnson’s retort: “So much
for freedom of the press.”
He’s planning to hold a get-
out-the-vote fundraiser next
year to keep Democratic
Congresswoman Kendra
Horn, who represents Okla-
homa City, in office after
her 2018 upset over a Re-
publican.
“The hustle and con of
Trump are the outgrowth of
Reagan materialism gone
amok,” says Johnson. “My
political philosophy comes
from the Sermon on the
Mount, the Beatitudes and
a little Christian existen-
tialism.”
As he talks, Baxter ar-
rives with his band, the
Regular Joes.
“My lighting in this place
sucks,” says Johnson.
No one disagrees.
Baxter has been playing
the Blue Door for years. He
carries anti-Nazi stickers
and has written a few protest
songs. But he prefers par-
ables and stories about peo-
ple living hard lives, like the
janitors, waitresses and me-
chanics he grew up around.
He and other songwriters,
who seem a mutinous pla-
toon in a large army, cali-
brate their messages so as
not to offend audiences. But
Baxter is unabashed on so-
cial media: “I use Nazi 10
times a day. I want everyone
to start using the word.”
Johnson has never been a
man of calibration. All kinds
of cussing flies off him.
“[Unprintable string of
words] Trump,” he says.
Johnson disappears into
a back room and returns
wearing polished black
shoes. His brown hair is tow-
el-dried, his face creased but
somehow boyish; like there’s
a kid inside him who won’t
surrender. He steps behind
the mixing board. Baxter
and his band run through a
sound check, then all go out
to eat. They talk about
prostate cancer and the
Mueller report. When they
return, dark is pressing
down and a breeze strokes
the door. By the entrance,
where Baxter has laid out
CDs for sale, a man collects
tickets, his hair long, his
beard thick. Bass player
Marco Tello has changed
into a powder blue suit and
boots that curl at the toes.“You know, early on,”
Johnson says in an echo
of Piccolo’s comments,
“Oklahoma had a strong
progressive bent. We’ve got
to get that back. There is
a little revolution going on
in Oklahoma City.”
About 40 people arrive,
some carrying their own
beer. A reggae musician fol-
lows in two women in sun-
dresses. Baxter and his
band take the stage. His
voice is clear, his lyrics
known to most. He sings
about an old piano, a dog,
the weather, his wife. He
tells stories about playing
in bars for years, driving
home at 3 a.m., smoking nine
packs of cigarettes. He talks
about cold dusks descend-
ing on back porches when
summer ends.
The scent of weed settles
in the air. Johnson sits at the
mixing board, listening. He’s
sat here thousands of times,
waiting for the right song
and thinking that a man’s
life comes down to moments
when the purity of who he
is meets the resolve of what
he believes. Baxter, sweating
in an untucked shirt, rips
into “Sherry Worked Swing
Shift.” It’s about the beat-up
dreams of a factory woman
with a no-good boyfriend liv-
ing in a trailer park.
It isn’t a protest song, but
it feels like one.MEMORABILIAand more cover a wall at the Blue Door venue in Oklahoma City.
Michael DownesFor The TimesSinging the red-state blues
[Oklahoma,from F4]