Marshall Chapman Pays Tribute To Her Dear Friend, Jimmy Buffet

On September 1, 2023, the world lost more than a legendary Southern musician.

When I saw that first text saying that Jimmy Buffett had died, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Yes, I knew that he’d been having health issues, but death? Jimmy Buffett? No way. Now that I have had some time to reflect, it seems as if more than a man is gone. Something like an entire season. Summer, for instance.

For nearly a half century of summers, Jimmy Buffett faithfully toured America with his Coral Reefer Band, playing to an ever increasing throng of devoted followers known as Parrot Heads. I’ve always said that, unlike most performers’ fans, Jimmy’s “breed in the off-season,” producing Parakeet Heads who then grow up to be Parrot Heads.

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In the summer of 1987, I was privileged to be a member of the band, playing rhythm guitar and singing background vocals. Since I was also a songwriter, Jimmy would have me take center stage while he took a break in the middle of the show. What that meant was that I got to sing two of my songs backed by his world-class musicians including Michael Utley (“Mister Utley”) on keyboards; Tim Drummond on bass; and the Memphis Horns, featuring Andrew Love on sax and Wayne Jackson on trumpet. 

I first heard about Jimmy in the summer of 1973. I was in Atlanta when a photographer friend gave me a promotional copy of A White Sport Coat and A Pink Crustacean.

“Here,” he said, handing me the LP. “I think you might like this. It’s a little bit different.” I was just starting to write music myself, and the album captured my attention so much that I learned every song on it.

Two years later, I would meet Jimmy for the first time in Austin, Texas. He had just played a club called Castle Creek, accompanied only by a guitarist he kept introducing as Marvin Gardens. After his show, a bunch of us retired to a nearby spot where a local pickup band was playing Texas two-step music. Jimmy was splayed out in an easy chair nursing a longneck beer when his manager introduced us. Not knowing what else to say, I asked him to dance. “No way, man,” he said, his eyes big as saucers. “You’re way too tall.”

Ironically, 10 years later, Jimmy would ask me to dance. We were at Sound Stage Studios in Nashville, listening to a playback of his Last Mango in Paris album. When my song “Perfect Partner” came on, he started waltzing me around the console room, dipping me all the way to the floor and back at one point.

People often ask me what Jimmy Buffett was like, and this is what my patented answer will always be: He was one-third poet/musician, one-third P.T. Barnum, and one-third Huey Long. But he was much more than that. He was a generous and loyal family man, friend, and employer. It was always easy to surrender whenever I found myself in his inner circle. It was like he had this big pot of gumbo going, and sometimes it was just plain fun to be an ingredient.

Sail on, my friend.

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