A few thoughts about Florida icon and billionaire beach bum Jimmy Buffett | Mark HInson

Ten years ago, I got on stage for karaoke night at the bar at El Governor Motel in Mexico Beach.

The Friday night crowd began cheering when the familiar opening chords of Jimmy Buffett’s “Margaritaville” played over the loudspeakers. The revelry dried up quickly as I launched into Buffett’s signature song about a beach bum’s boozy outlook on life when I sang the tune in the mode of Tom Waits. All gravely and raspy, as if I had just smoked a carton of Pall Malls and downed a half pint of Old Crow in the parking lot.

When I finished, the bar fell as silent as a funeral home. Even the deejay looked perplexed. How could I defile Florida’s unofficial anthem in such a way? No one dares to confront such a sacred cow as Jimmy Buffett in the Sunshine State.

My party and I soon left. I had ribbed the wrong icon, bud.

Buffett died Sept. 1 of cancer. He was 76.

El Governor got a direct hit by Hurricane Michael, a Category 5 monster when it came ashore by Mexico Beach nearly five years ago in early October. The motel just now remodeled and reopened.

My beef with the King of Boat Drinks doesn’t seem quite as important now.

The legacy of Buffett

I have always held a conflicted view of Buffett, the professional Florida Man born in Mississippi, who hit the big time in my teen years with the protein jingle “Cheeseburger in Paradise” and the unescapable “Margaritaville.”

Buffett’s hit song became synonymous with a self-indulgent Florida beach culture. Of course, Margaritaville also became Buffett’s brand name for chain restaurants, casinos and retirement communities. Wastin’ away again on cashing in.

On the other hand, I admired Buffett’s personal stance on saving the Gulf Coast environment, the manatees and the Everglades. When the Horizon oil rig blew apart and polluted the Gulf of Mexico, he was right there with monetary relief. His friendship with former Gov. Bob Graham led to his appearance at the Press Skits at The Moon. Heck, he’s more familiar with the Old Capitol steps, thanks to his many rallies, than most recent governors of Florida. Bully for Buffett.

You see my dilemma.

That (expletive) from Tallahassee

By all accounts, off the stage, Buffett was a stand-up guy with a zeal for life.

I have met lobbyists, landowners and farriers from these parts who attest to Buffett’s down-to-earth manners. He even alluded to Tallahassee musical legend Bill Wharton in a song. The singer also supported the Gulf Specimen Marine Lab run by Jack Rudloe in nearby Panacea. Buffett had many high-profile friends, too, such as singer Paul McCartney, writer Carl Hiaasen and the underrated Texas troubadour Jerry Jeff Walker, his mentor.

My fave Buffett memorial on social media came from Cabo’s restaurateur and avid sailor Mike Ferrara, whom I quoted in an article about one of Buffett’s many concert visits to Tallahassee.

Ferrara jokingly said of the Key West-obsessed songwriter, “He ruined the smuggling business in Key West.” The quote made it into my story.

A while later, Ferrara bumped into Buffett as he exited a tour bus at the Daytona Speedway. They talked about sailing, the salt-loving songs and then Ferrara said he had followed the singer since “he ruined the smuggling business in Key West.”

Buffett looked at Ferrara and said, “You’re that (expletive) from Tallahassee aren’t you.”

They went back to Buffett’s bus and shared margaritas.

You’ve got to like that.

Bless the Parrot Heads

One of the best writing assignments of my life came a few years ago. An editor sent me to the parking lot of the Civic Center to hang out with the Parrot Heads, as the singer’s fans dubbed themselves, before a Buffett concert.

I have never met a nicer, more welcoming, more buzzed bunch of folks. They had Margaritaville blenders, tricked-out motorhomes, tiki shirts, Landshark beers made by Buffett and on and on. I expected to be irritated by all the commercialism, but I was charmed by their upbeat attitude.

I have never wanted a drink so badly because everyone offered one. Each conversation ended with, “Are you gonna write a review of the show tonight?”

I answered, “No, that is past my deadline.”

That was true but I should have added, “You don’t want to hear what I have to say about his music.”

Why? I was at University of Florida (you can hiss now) when Buffett was in his Top 20 prime, long before Kenny “Spider Monkey” Chesney co-opted Buffett’s beach vibe. Seemingly, every concert I attended in those years, contained the announcement, “And now we’d like to invite our special guest to the stage.”

“It’d better not be Jimmy Buffett,” I’d say.

It was always Jimmy Buffett.

Who can blame me for burning out on the billionaire beach-bum schtick?

Many of his lyrics seemed to be sentimental, pun-driven or melancholic, even though I will admit to embracing the songs “A Pirate Looks at Forty” and “Come Monday.” I had a roommate at UF who loved Buffett’s music, so, yes, I know his catalog. God knows I know all the lyrics by heart whether I wanted to or not.

Granted, I’m in the minority.

With Buffett’s passing, my musician friend David Webb told a story on social media about seeing Buffett and song master John Prine sharing the same stage in upstate New York. The two alternated songs, the ironic tunes from Prine and the carefully constructed ones from Buffett, while they worked their way through an ice chest of cold beers.

After two hours of music and downing brews, Prine said, “Jimmy, I believe we’re out of beer. Time to go home. Goodnight, ladies and gentlemen.”

Now, I’d go back to the tour bus and share margaritas with those two.

Mark Hinson is former senior writer at The Tallahassee Democrat. He can be reached at mark.hinson59@gmail.com

This article originally appeared on Tallahassee Democrat: A few thoughts about Florida, Margaritaville and icon Jimmy Buffett