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Of Luckenbach, Waylon and Big Ass Rocks
My Hill Country Weekend
By David Pilot
 Been eyeing this past weekend
for months now. Started with just a little blurb on Chris Wall's
tour schedule back in February, said something about a Sunday
afternoon get-together for a birthday party memorial in honor
of Waylon Jennings. Just a chance for a bunch of strangers who
feel like family to huddle up on a steamy afternoon and honor
Old Hoss's memory in the town he made famous with a song he grew
to hate. Irony? Yeah. Waylon woulda liked it. He might not've
been so keen on the three renditions (train wrecks?) of "Luckenbach,
Texas" that made their presence ever so viscerally felt
through the course of the day, but at the least he'd have had
himself a belly laugh. But that's getting ahead of the story.
Come a cloudy Sunday morning in Fort Worth, I was out of bed
by 8:02 and out of the shower by 8:11. Wife? Still sound asleep
on the couch where she'd crashed when she got in about 3am. Yeah,
no letting the grass grow under her feet the first weekend the
twins have been elsewhere in months. Got her up by 9 (roughly)
and, once I was sure the coffee was brewing and she was aware
she was walking, I lit out for the beer store. Oops. 9:15am on
Sunday. Okay, the Coke and root beer and ice and jerky store.
And some of those cheap Swisher Sweets Outlaws that somehow hold
ethereal sway over my life. They charged me thirty bucks for
the goods, but the disapproving glare as I carted a case of Lone
Star to the counter only to be reminded I was breaking the law
was, apparently, complimentary that day. By 9:45, the ice chest
loaded, the Dodge gassed up and a wad of Skoal in my lip, I was
ready to go. The wife? Sitting on the couch in her robe, eyeing
the Weather Channel, muttering ominously about "thunderstorms"
and "flash floods" and other obscure ramblings I couldn't
(wouldn't?) decipher. By 10:30 I finally had her loaded up and
all the various duffel bags, suitcases, makeup kits and similar
paraphernalia safely stowed. Hot coffee in hand, the ice chest
and a quickly cooling bottle of Jack well within reach, the wife
settled and George Jones belting out "Amazing Grace"
on KHYI, I was certain - - I mean CERTAIN - - we'd still be in
Luckenbach by the time the party kicked off around 2 o'clock.
Luckenbach is a long friggin' way from Fort Worth. We opted
for I-35 to Austin because the wife was jonesing hard for a little
Mexican joint just past Sam Bass Road, but I figured we'd still
be okay. I wasn't counting on the apparently mandatory stop at
Robertson's in Salado for mesquite jerky. Wasn't counting on
looking all over Round Rock for the Mexican place the wife was
jonesing for that she couldn't recall the name of but absolutely
had to eat at. Found it about 12:45. It's called Ole Taco. It's
closed on Sundays. The Taqueria Chapala at the gas station across
the way was open, though, so we gassed up the van and then ordered
up some chorizo breakfast tacos and gassed up for real. Hit 290
West somewhere around 1:45, realizing that up the road a piece
a party was about to start on Father's Day without me. Best Father's
Day present I've ever had, and I was missing it for Mama's enchiladas.
And as usual, nobody was actually getting any enchiladas, but
it was a nice thought while it lasted.
Finally, about 3:30, there it was. Right there off the side
of the road as I barreled down a hill doing 80. Luckenbach, Texas.
Place I've wanted to see for years. Familiar ghosts I've never
met and couldn't wait to see again. Right there, that turnoff.
The one I just blew by. Dammit. But we found a turnaround and
we made it. Rolling in slowly to the little town time forgot,
windows down, smelling the sausage on a stick, seeing the smiles,
feeling the corporate muck of my weekday life peel off like the
paint on the Titanic's bow, hearing Waylon singing on the PA
as a bunch of musicians I was mighty happy to see wandered about
near a beer tub ringed with ice cold sweat, man, I was happy.
 Then we realized just who all
was there. Chris Wall, of course, he hosted the thing. All 3
of the usual Luckenbach residents. Danny Terry, up from the suburbs
over by the farm, picking his acoustic guitar and singing softly
old songs that warmed a soul. Geronimo Trevino unleashing that
voice. Chuck Barnes, a guy I'd never heard before, singing in
a way that did things to my wife I've yet to figure out how to
do myself. She'd have left with him if he'd have winked I think,
just to listen to him talk or maybe sing a lullaby. Smokey Wilson.
Big John Mills. Brigitte London. (You ever caught that girl live?
Christ. She doesn't get into a song, she flat out possesses it.
My God.) Barbara Maltese and Kevin Higgins, two of the Cosmic
Dust Devils, Luckenbach regulars of late when they can run down
from Marble Falls and hone their art while they inherit the atmosphere.
Tommy Alverson showed up. Bunch of others up there on stage who
weren't listed on a program and who can't be named here because
I, uh, lost my notes somewhere in the murky depths of my Father's
Day present.
What a show. Everyone got a turn. Most did a song of their
own and then a song of Waylon's, with Wall taking a star turn
now and then for any of several mini-sets he played through the
afternoon. The big buzz hit of the afternoon was Barbara Maltese's
version of "Storms Never Last." Put her heart right
through that thing like a pike, left it all out there on the
stage doing Jessi proud. Got the crowd talking. (shameless plug
look for a Cosmic Dust Devils review coming on this site
shortly. It's a cool record. And Barbara and Kevin are a couple
of nice folks.) The biggest surprise for me, given that I don't
make it to Cuero or the vicinity often, was Smokey Wilson. I
covered his Texas Saturday Night album last year, but
had no idea what his warm, well, smoky baritone was really capable
of. No clue. Smokey needs a better producer for the next CD or
I need new ears, but what that man did with a microphone Sunday
afternoon was spiritual and altogether a shock. Tommy Alverson
of course did his best to steal the show, uncorking a chestnut
with Mickey Newbury's beautiful and bittersweet 'The 33rd of
August." Got a lot of help on that one, everybody wanted
a piece of the action. Who can blame 'em.
This being Luckenbach, and somebody just havin' to go for
a record and all right there within eyeshot of Hondo's bust,
the stage filled up to bursting for the last go-round of the
town's namesake song. Proudly proclaimed an official world record
as the "most performers ever on the same stage to sing 'Luckenbach,
Texas'," the effort worked better than the previous two
tag-team attempts simply because by the early evening as the
sky began to swirl with pastels overshot with cotton clouds and
the last official beers were tipped the loose and raucous and
energetic and friendly and welcoming strains of a bunch of South
Texas' favorite voices mingling in an old familiar way throughout
an old and treasured song just made it clear that everybody is
somebody and somebody is always welcome in Luckenbach. Even drunken
Rockzillaworld writers on field assignment from the Fort Worth
bureau who write run-on sentences from hell when they wax nostalgic.
Waylon would've liked this party. Everyone that was there
sure did. And they're gonna do it again next year. Make your
plans.
Last thing to mention here, since I put it in the title, and
then we're done. After the wife and I spent a cozy night in Fredericksburg
and ate the world's best huevos rancheros (and FRESH by God jalapenos)
at the Sunday House Monday morning, we moseyed on out to Enchanted
Rock. Laurie's always wanted to see that place but even with
her yearly Hill Country family forays she'd never made it there
before. Since I apparently love her more than her daddy does,
I took her. And we both were simply and absolutely struck dumb
with awe. What is it about a giant slab of rock thrust up from
the ground that inspires such a spiritual hush? I don't know.
We couldn't climb the rock that day, the wife's still recovering
from back surgery and it just wouldn't have worked. We're back
there in two weeks though for vacation, and I'm going to the
top. I'll sit there all week if I have to, and when I figure
it out I'll explain it here. There's . . . something there. Old
Indian medicine? A gateway to the Anasazi's mythical Third World?
A lonesome cowboy's last stand? I don't know. But I'm gonna find
out.
Oh, yeah, one final thing. Ole Taco is open on Mondays. Get
the enchiladas.
Contact David Pilot at: tailgunner-at-rockzilla.net
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