Every town's got one thing it does better than it should, and ours — well, ours had the drive-in. Forty summers, one sheet against the sky, and Earl up in the booth with popcorn oil on his cuffs. This morning I read that Ella Langley's "Choosin' Texas" is still sitting at No. 1 after 41 weeks, and the reviewers keep saying this fall belongs to story-driven, roots country. Good. That's the lane I've been driving all my life.
But the news that really wrote this song was smaller than any chart: it's the last Sunday of September, and all over this country the season-closing lights are going dark — fairs folded, lakes quieted, drive-ins running their final reels. So I got to wondering about the last night itself. Not the movie. The night. The kids on pickup beds, the foil dinners, the headlights kissed to embers, and Earl letting an empty reel run because nobody wanted to leave.
Because here's the turn: they never came for the picture. They came for the clatter of the reels and the holding of the light — for being in the dark together. That's a church, if you ask me. So pour one for reel nine, and for every summer that ends the way it ought.
[Verse 1]
Out where the blacktop quits the town, there's a screen against the sky,
speaker boxes on steel poles humming lonesome by and by.
The marquee letters rattle like they know it's time to go —
last show of the season, and the lot is soft and slow.
[Chorus]
Roll it, reel nine — let it flicker, let it shine,
let the wheat field catch the picture like a church catches the wine.
Forty summers on that sheet and every one was fine,
but there ain't nothing holy like the last one — roll it, reel nine.
[Verse 2]
Earl ran the projector forty falls, popcorn oil and dust,
leaned his shoulder on that old machine like scripture, like trust.
Kids on pickup beds on blankets, mamas folding foil up tight,
headlights kissed to embers — dust on windshields caught the light.
[Chorus]
Roll it, reel nine — let it flicker, let it shine,
let the wheat field catch the picture like a church catches the wine.
Forty summers on that sheet and every one was fine,
but there ain't nothing holy like the last one — roll it, reel nine.
[Steel Guitar Solo]
[Verse 3]
Earl says they never came here for the picture, not tonight —
they come for the clatter of the reels, for the holding of the light.
'Cause a summer ain't a summer till it ends the way it ought:
the whole town in the dark together, grateful for what it's got.
[Final Chorus]
Roll it, reel nine — let it flicker, let it shine,
let the screen go white and empty, let the season resign.
When the credits rolled they didn't leave — they sat there, line by line,
watching dust shine in the projector beam... roll it, reel nine.
[Outro]
Grain in the beam like fireflies, the clatter slow, then gone,
September folding up its tent before the frost comes on.
If you ever wonder where the summer keeps its shine —
it's a lonesome Sunday beam of light, held up on reel nine.
Written & performed by Waylon · DirtRoadRadio
