Brian Burns The Eagle and the Snake: Songs of the Texians by David Pilot
	Brian Burns is a different sort of artist, playing the game unlike most in today's Texas music community. There was a time, back in the Waco days, when Burns was content to tour and play with full bands throwing out what the paying crowds wanted to hear. But over the last few years, while voicing the desire for a band that believes in the musical vision he chases, Burns has opted to forge a solo career that caters to his own personal take on the music. There are others in the Texas music community who play solo a-plenty, but Burns is one who does it damned near exclusively and nearly always by choice. His last two albums, Highways Heartaches and Honky-Tonks and Angels and Outlaws, have garnered him serious critical acclaim and a hard-core fan base that prefers to think of him as their own. Sometimes that's a blessing, sometimes it's a bane, but as Ol' BB himself sings, "music's not a choice I made; I believe the choice made me." So now, in late 2001, Brian Burns finds himself releasing a singular album, a concept album unlike any we've ever heard. The Eagle and the Snake: Songs of the Texians is, essentially, a love letter to Texas ­ the frontiersmen, the women and the cowboys who built the state. It's also a call to arms for those who live and love by the Lone Star's rules today, and sounds a lonely bugle note for the looming loss of lives truly lived the cowboy way. The disc begins its trail, fittingly, with a Marty Robbins tune, "Man Walks Among Us," set here in 1810 as the head of a musical Goodnight-Loving that will wend its way through ambushes and cantinas and massacres and triumphs with equal skill and ease. Where the unparalleled Robbins is concerned, perhaps the words of artists who hear in their heads some of the same music is best to describe what a song can truly do: "This was (and still is) one of those bigger-than-life songs. To me, it somehow conveys an awesome sense of oneness with nature, the universe, and all living things. Of course, I couldn't verbalize it in those exact terms back then This cut is my tribute to the early explorers of the West Texas desert... and to the great Marty Robbins for igniting my life-long love affair with music." - - from Burns' liner notes. As with any Robbins song, and as is increasingly true of a Burns tune as well, the sparse arrangement and warm vocal purvey the essence of a time and place as a veritable snapshot of history. It is one of those moments when the universe stands still and the vast expanse above seems to become the very hand of the Almighty reaching down to softly reassure the creatures of earth as the sunset explodes into prairie legend. The desert's expanse plays a central role in the next cut as well, though nothing particularly soothing can be found in Tom Russell's adaptation of the public domain "El Llano Estacado." The Spanish guitars here try their best to offer solace, and listening to Russell and Burns' aptly suited voices trade verses in this story of love for a senorita gone wrong is a truly beautiful thing. That vocal ballet tells of the ultimate parched end of the ill-informed vaquero who risked the sun's burning wrath for a drink from the Mustang Spring on the other side of the still-fearsome staked plains of West Texas. This is, however, a duet that should happen with more regularity in days to come. The first of many vocal visits from Burns's friends on this disc, this one is the best-these two voices were made to sing together and the stories their owners love to bring to life are ones that simply need to be heard. Love, loss, pain, anger, retribution and redemption: these are the subjects Tom Russell brings to vivid life in his work. Many musicians mine this vein, but Russell and Burns are two of the most adept, and both flourish when the border's unique irregularities creep in to tint the edges of the mosaics they paint. From the stark contrast of beauty and death in these first two songs and the beautifully framed portrait of Tejas they present, Burns delves deep into the lore of heroes for the next entry. Simply titled "Revolution," this sequence contains three separate stanzas. There is the reading of Travis' letter, backed only by a Spanish guitar, followed by Dimitri Tiompkin's "Ballad of the Alamo" and then Burns's original song "Goliad." The first stanza, the letter every Texan knows as soon as he or she hears it begin, is striking. The courage and simple honor of those 185 men who fought and died as they exited stage left to martyrdom and a hero's legacy at San Antonio de Valero is implicit and clear in these lines, and to his credit Burns here turns his voice into an instrument of metaphor powerful enough to evoke every agonizing second of the day when the decision to stand fast at Bexar was made. It is impossible to remain unmoved by these lines, regardless of the listener's point of view or interest in Texas as we know her today. Heard in the company of working men and women in a Stockyards saloon, this reading can do no less than bring a tear and a swelling pride that will not be put down. In these few lines, William Barret Travis proclaimed devotion to victory or death, and in the days following he and his men ultimately found both. Here they stand amongst us again as men we want our children to know and follow. In a stroke of musical greatness, Burns follows this weather-beaten letter's inspired reading with the chilling rise and mortal swell of Santa Anna's no-quarter bugle call "Deguello." As the attack on the Alamo began, in the quiet of dawn just before the onslaught, the Alamo defenders watched as the Mexican army raised a lonely red flag signaling that no prisoners would be taken. That flag began to flap in the prairie wind to the strains of "Deguello," and as a result that hauntingly beautiful and chillingly final bugle was the last sound that Travis, Bowie and Crockett heard before the cannonballs began to fall. And then. ... the final attack, the rush of an army that could not be held back, embarrassed by twelve days of standoff at the hands of a few hundred militia, and determined that the thirteenth would end differently. To tell this part of the story we all know by heart, Burns chose Tiompkins' "Ballad of the Alamo," a song at first out of place on this record if for no other reason than that it was a trailer for the John Wayne flick. But listen and find that the story and visuals here are impeccable and timeless. Driven once again by Spanish guitars, and with a percussion track that whips the tale along with the urgency it merits, the song takes on a life here that it lacked at the end of the Hollywood story. The schmaltz of Hollywood is gone and what remains is starkly beautiful and profoundly moving. And as with the other entries on the album, Burns makes this one his own from start to finish. One hundred and eighty five holdin' back five thousand, five days, six days, eight days, ten; Travis held and held again, then he sent for replacements for his wounded and lame, but the troops that were comin' - never came. Twice he charged, then blew recall, and on the fatal third time, Santa Anna breached the wall and he killed them one and all. Now the bugles are silent and there's rust on each sword, and the small band of soldiers lie asleep in the arms of The Lord. Any who have ever stood in downtown San Antone and found themselves oblivious to the skyscrapers and hotels and curbside vendors while lost in the dusky aroma of Balcones limestone that held fast once upon a time will now find themselves lost in this song and story, transported to a place that music far too often fails to take us in these fast-paced days. Beyond the Alamo, two weeks later as the history books tell us, another massacre occurred. This one didn't make the history books and didn't carry the trappings of legend that Crockett and Betsy inspired with their mythical stand atop shattered ramparts. It did, however, bring more sudden and tragic loss of life, as the Mexican army marched the shattered command of Colonel James Fannin out of the Presidio de la Bahia in Goliad to a summary execution on the rolling plains of southern Texas. The massacre that morning inspired Houston's men at San Jacinto as much as did the fate of the Alamo defenders, and while history has looked elsewhere for its lessons, Burns plumbs the depths of what truly made Texas the place it is today: I am proud to be in your presence tonight, fellow Texians, lend me your ear; was the grace of God brought us through the fight, and it is destiny now brings us here. Let us take off our hats to our brothers in arms and the chances that they never had. We are blessed in the bounty of Texas tonight, let us drink to those who marched that road to Goliad. Oh, I see the toil on each weary brow, but I know better days lie ahead where great men will build empires from the soil where the blood of our compadres was shed. So let us send out our hearts to our brothers in arms and the choices that they never had. We are blessed in the bounty of Texas tonight, let us drink to those who marched that road to Goliad. From this point on, The Eagle and the Snake takes on a widely varied range of Texana. There is Evangelina, the poor farmer's daughter from Puerta Penasco, brought to life in a beautiful reworking of Hoyt Axton's timeless song. Gary Carpenter steps in here to lend assistance on the pedal steel and the tune flows as smoothly as the tequila after a perfect mid-summer siesta. There's another Tom Russell song, the ubiquitous "Gallo del Cielo," and as legend would have it poor Carlos Zaragosa still cannot return to buy the land that Pancho Villa stole so long ago. Another Burns original is "The Crash at Crush," the story of an ill-fated trainwreck staged for the media as an advertising stunt guaranteed to bring fame to the Katy Railroad and the aptly named town of Crush. Joe Forlini adds an emotional electric guitar to this cut, as he and Burns play off each other expertly - - that has become the norm when these two get together - -and the now seemingly senseless trainwreck comes back to thundering life. From that collision, The Eagle and the Snake takes off on a journey through songs from three widely varied authors- - Australian songwriter Geoff Mack, Gonzo legend Gary P. Nunn and Bill Staines. Mack penned "I've Been Everywhere." Johnny Cash did an outstanding version of it a few years back, and Burns here turns it into "I've Been Everywhere In Texas." Nice bit of wordplay and a neatly laid out atlas of pretty much the entire damned state from a traveling troubadour's vantage point. Gary P. steps in next to help out on his own "Well of the Blues," and he and Burns give the earlier duet with Tom Russell one hell of a run for top honors. This song just as easily could be titled "Lost Saturday Night's Lament," and these two weathered voices backed once again by Gary Carpenter's pedal steel turn it into a heartbreaking story every listener has been an eyewitness to. Well, there's natural-born winners and losers out lookin' for the old time thrill, they get the Indians' luck, the burnin' cup, stuck with a whiskey still till it fills the head and makes the bed spin like a wildcat drill, borin' a hole down deep in your soul that only a bottle can fill. And that provides a perfect segue into the Staines nod, "Walker Behind the Wheel," one of the best snapshots of a musician's life on the road that's ever been put to a scale. Jackson Browne's got nothing on these lines: He said, "you see, son, there was a time when my song was just as sweet as yours, and I traveled and I worked with the best. But day after day got to be year after year, and the road gives you no time to rest. The runaway dreams put a rope to my soul, the nights took my company, the whiskey got the lyrics to most of my songs, and the age took my memory...tell me..." "Do the bluebonnets carpet the fields in the spring? Does the Brazos still run to the sea? Does the sun still shine down on those Texas girls? Once one gave her love to me." "A Cowboy's Prayer," an old Burns original from his days with Waco band Cherokee Rose that's been pulled out and polished up substantially for re-release here, echoes those sentiments from a busted up rodeo cowboy's perspective. It's heartbreaking to hear the voice of a man who once lived for the highway and the miles between here and Cheyenne throw in the towel and swear he doesn't want to be a cowboy anymore. It wouldn't be a record for and about Texans, though, if it tailed off right there. Instead, the music moves easily into Larry Joe Taylor's "Third Coast." Larry Joe and his band, all of 'em along with Davin James, showed up to help out on this version of the venerable song, and the fact is there aren't many more strikingly simple and honest songs to be heard. As faithful renditions of covers go, this is a gem to be reckoned with. Brian's voice with all its nuance may have been given to him for this very song, in much the way Johnny Bush has told all comers he's been trying to write Burns's "Haunted Jukebox" for twenty years. Sometimes these things just work out for those who keep on fighting, and here it works beyond description. If you are not intrigued by tales of revolution, buy this disc for this one song. Play it on a quiet night, holding your wife's hand or walking alone on the seawall along the Corpus Christi Bay. If you ever need to explain to someone just exactly why a Texan is a different breed, play them this song. The Goliads and Alamos and little cannons at Gonzales can come later; there's no better starting point than this for the resilience, pride, honesty and brutal self-examination that make us what we are. The last official cut on The Eagle and the Snake is another original from the Cherokee Rose days back in Waco, Burns's take on sci-fi western living titled "The Last Living Cowboy." He's the last living cowboy He's a lost lonesome refugee, Singing "Whatever spirits ride through Texas tonight, boys, Here's to my compadres and me." Set in the 23rd century, it's a haunting and thoughtful tune of what life will really be like for the last one of the breed. The synthesizer work is outstanding and perfectly suited to the subject matter, and ties together the album as a unique and century-spanning venture that does itself proud. Brian Burns has put together an outstanding collection of songs here, one that Texans will treasure and in which others will still find much of value. Other concept albums come readily to mind, from Redheaded Stranger to The Pilgrim to Gunfighter Songs and Trail Ballads. The Eagle and the Snake: Songs of the Texians holds its own well in that company. And yes, we know that's a mouthful. From Burns's vocals and multi-instrument playing, through sit-ins from Russell and Nunn and Carpenter and Forlini and Taylor and Alverson and a host of others, this is a lyrical and musical masterpiece. The album has been years in the making, and its status as a labor of love Brian would play in his own house if he never sold a copy is obvious. The credit here is that this album will sell, and well, for years. It's educational, it's inspirational, it's even didactic. And through all of that lofty verbiage, it sounds exactly like those songs you hummed the last time you canoed down the Brazos' still crystal waters in the silence of a moonlit night. It is a CD you need in your collection, both for your own musical soul and for the tool you need to teach your children what music is really capable of. Lacking sufficient superlatives to continue without sinking into shameless plugs, let it be simply said that The Eagle and the Snake is the one new CD of 2001 that belongs on the shelf of every Texan alive today. All musical preferences aside, this disc simply matters. It spans genres, it covers centuries and it paints a mural of Mythical Texas as backdrop for those who live and love and die in these harried times still inspired by those inimitable souls who carved a nation out of deserts and prairies so long ago. For more, go to www.brianburnsmusic.com. You can contact David Pilot at: tailgunner-at-rockzilla.net

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