Jim White

Talk about your Renaissance men. In his 47 years on Earth, quirky folk-rock raconteur Jim White has been a taxi driver, professional surfer, furniture craftsman, filmmaker and well-paid European fashion model. Add to this his three whimsical solo sets—including the new, oddly-dubbed Drill A Hole In That Substrate And Tell Me What You See, on Luaka Bop—and he’s achieved enough for three or four average lifetimes. But as far as the Pensacola-based White is concerned, he’s barely getting started. He just completed production on an album by Floridian blues belter Mama Lucky; put the finishing touches on his upcoming semi-autobiographical novel, Lost Apostle; and narrated/starred in Searching For The Wrong-Eyed Jesus, a study of rural Southern life by British director Andrew Douglas, which premiered at the Tribeca Film Festival this spring.

As in much of White’s gorgeously Gothic sonnets, the film (and book) are merely attempting to make secular sense of his decidedly religious upbringing and Southern surroundings, a la the landmark ’70s documentary, Grey Gardens. Inspired by tales from White’s primal debut disc, Wrong-Eyed Jesus, “These English filmmakers liked my stories so much they wanted to come over and find out if any of ’em were real,” chuckles the singer. “So we rode around for a coupla days and I took ’em to trailer parks, and they talked the BBC into giving ’em a pile of money to make a film. So we rode around again for two weeks just talking to people. We started in Georgia, then went to Louisiana to Jerry Lee Lewis’s home, then we went up into the mountains, where we filmed my ex-mother-in-law and her two sisters singing ‘Knoxville Girl’ in the Jesus Is Lord Catfish Restaurant And Truck Stop. We even got Harry Crews to be in the movie—he talks quite a bit and says some very interesting things.”

Douglas has reportedly already been accused of exploitation for the flick. “But it’s not a freak show,” White defends. “It’s just normal people in the South. And the book I’m writing deals with that issue, as well—the culture shock you experience when you get to the poor South. We were calling it the Ulan Bator of America, and that seemed to go over pretty well.” Even though he was raised in sunny California and later assimilated to Dixie, White likens himself to author Flannery O’Connor, whom he says, “was a Catholic in the South, an outsider who was at once fascinated and repelled by Southern religion, just like I am.” Ergo, you get curious Drill dissertations that reckon there’s a “Phone Booth In Heaven” and wonder what it would be like “If Jesus Drove A Mobile Home.” On two self-produced tracks, White relies on the Lomax-primitive acoustic instrumentation that powered his older work. But on six Joe Henry-engineered selections—taped ensemble-style in one studio session—he branches out into grander, more gospel dimensions. Stalwart fans will be stunned by the stylistic shift.

And this lovable eccentric has a unique way of making the murkiest topic sound disarmingly simple. And vice-versa. Opening ballad “Static On The Radio,” sung in his trademark whispery quaver, ponders the innate mysteries of AM-radio static. But its roots go deeper. “John Cage did that [4’33’’] thing, where it was just him sitting in a room, silent, and people started listening,” White explains. “So my basic idea was that, beneath what we seem to think is meaningless, there are incredible levels of meaning that you only get glimpses of. And you can’t just get it in the fast-food lane at McDonald’s—you really have to apply yourself in ways that probably aren’t too comfortable for people in this culture. And the whole notion of static itself is anachronistic, because people don’t listen to radio static anymore. Like, I remember nighttimes around midnight when I was a kid, we used to hear this one cool radio station that came outta Little Rock, and you had to get your car in just the right place to hear it. And if a cloud came by, it would disappear—it was beautiful.”

Only one number, according to White, shoots directly from the hip: “Combing My Hair In A Brand-New Style.” Which he actually is these days, now that he’s ditched his signature cowboy hat. Why the sudden switch? “I got tired of that hat,” White murmurs, painting—as usual—a much bigger picture. “That hat was a disguise, and after a while I realized I didn’t need it anymore—I was a disguise unto myself. That’s why I mention buzzards a lot on my album. Things just died and they’re attracting the messengers of the next incarnation of existence.

“And that’s my life right now—I’m moving on, and it’s hard. It’s hard when you’re well-acquainted with sorrow to move on to a realm of happiness, but that’s kinda where I’m going.And I don’t have a vocabulary yet to describe this new world, so I’m kinda walking backwards, looking at where I was, but walking toward a good world.”

A universe of sunshine and smiles? Why not? White’s tried his hand at just about everything else.