Max Stalling
at Blanco's, Houston, Texas



by William Michael Smith

September 14, 2001, Friday night, Blanco's Bar & Grill, Houston, Texas, USA. Three and half days after the World Trade Center catastrophe which sent the world's most powerful nation reeling, it was Max Stalling's luck to have an engagement booked in Houston, 200 miles from his home in Dallas. He probably could have cancelled, but that's not the way Max Stalling operates.

Max and the band were working on a sound system problem when my wife and I, absolutely determined to shut off the television and make some attempt at normality, arrived about 8:00 o'clock. They had been tinkering with it a while and just couldn't seem to find the problem. Seeing my wife and I, Max stepped around the sound board and extended that massive hand of his.

"Thanks for coming out. It's good to see y'all." We exchanged the usual pleasantries, everyone avoiding The Subject that hung in the air like the consarned Houston humidity. There was no reason to talk about it. Hell, there was nothing to say that hadn't been said.

The crowd was as sparse as I had ever seen it on a night when an act of Stalling's quality was on the bill and I told Stalling I had been wondering on the drive down how many people would feel like getting out and getting away from reality. Bands work for the door at Blanco's, so if no one shows the payday can be dreadfully thin.

"Maybe folks just aren't ready to get out yet," Stalling said. "But it's early, we'll see." Still, there were empty tables in a bar where there are never empty tables, so it didn't look encouraging.

The sound man finally located a switch on the equalizer that was in wrong position and Stalling's guitar strum came through the PA loud and clear. Everyone looked relieved. Stalling tested his microphone and there was feedback. More wrinkled brows and knob twisting, more "Test, test, test," more feedback. The sound engineer went to the stage and tinkered. He decided to switch out Stalling's microphone with the drummer's.

"Test, test, test." Perfect. With a fill-in bass player and a new guitarist, the band ran through a sound check number while the sound engineer tinkered with the levels and tones. The guitar player switched over to his electric guitar and the band strummed through another test. All systems were finally "go," but the band seemed lethargic and less than inspired. Stalling grabbed a bag of meals from the waitress and the band left to change clothes at the nearby Days Inn.

We sat drinking with the sound engineer and Stalling's brother, Jim, who lives outside Houston and had driven down to see the show and to handle Stalling's merchandise table. He commented on how few people were showing up. We took a quick count and there were only about 40 people in the bar and it was after 9:00.

When the band took the stage at 9:30, the crowd had grown to around 60. Eight of the new guitarist's relatives had come in to see the show and they grabbed a table at the edge of the dance floor. There is a regular crowd that shows up at Blanco's virtually every Thursday and Friday night, and I began to notice a few of the regulars filtering in.

After a tragedy like we've all just experienced, you wonder what an artist can do, what song he can sing that will seem appropriate after such a tragedy. There is a chance of seeming frivolous or, even worse, flippant or completely insignificant. I've known Max Stalling a while and if there is an artist who is a smart, deep, sensitive level-headed guy, it's Max. I felt sure he was up to the challenge, but I wondered how he'd handle it given the unusual events of the week and the super-charged atmosphere througout the country.

When they took the stage, a subdued-looking Stalling didn't make any introduction or say anything, he just looked around at his band, counted off the first song, and began. And I knew it was going to be alright. I looked at my wife and saw that she knew it too.

Every once in a while I do drift homewards
Sometimes I drive, sometimes I just dream
400 miles in 6 hard pushing hours
To check on a life that is just out of reach

There was no whooping and yee-hawing like there might have been on another night under different circumstances. But looking around, I noticed most folks were quietly paying attention, taking their emotional cues from Stalling. The band swung into the Mexican-inflected chorus.

I like the sound of a Mexican bass run
I like the feel that it puts in my bones
Sometimes I wonder how I ever got here
I'm just trying to get home

Blanco's is a two-steppers bar if it is anything, that little 15 foot hardwood square as much an attraction as the great Texas bands that inhabit the tiny stage for a few hours before moving on to the next town, the next gig. But it was the third song before one couple decided to step out and be first. Another couple quickly moved onto the floor to lend support.

Trying to live up to the words that some old writer felt
Spend your youth before you die and don't outlive yourself
But, Lord, that gets expensive on troubadours and minstrels
It's the price of a life of travelin' light

It happened slowly, almost accretively, but by the time the first set ended, the little bar was actually starting to fill up. The band took a break and Stalling wandered through the crowd, shaking hands, talking, making himself accessible. Two old buddies from his high school football days in Crystal City had shown up, and he spent a lingering moment with them.

Stalling knew he would eventually have to say something about The Subject. I thought he handled it with his usual high-mindedness, down-to-earth simplicity, common folks decency and class.

"Folks, we all know what happened this week. I'm sorry we don't have any patriotic songs to play, but we just don't. But I hope you all notice that it took some coordination for us to be wearing red, white and blue tonight." Indeed, the guitarist had worn a white cowboy shirt with pearl snaps, the drummer wore a red polo shirt, and Stalling was clad in navy blue. The crowd let out a yell.

"Since I don't have a patriotic song ready for you tonight, I thought the best thing we could do would be to sing one about home." And he counted off.

I'd rather be in Crystal City with H.R. drinkin' coffee
Down at Bee's Golden Bull, absorbing what he offers me

By the time the band worked its way around to the danceable "Polka Ranch," which brought a dozen couples to the dance floor, there was a feeling that despite Osama bin Laden, despite the Taliban, despite Saddam Hussein life would go on, that Americans would get back to the business of living and being who they are. For those who were in attendance at Blanco's Friday night, it was a piece of the recovery process, an attempt to quietly demonstrate to the terrorists who may have changed our lives and our society forever that we are Texans and we Texans gather in little bars on Friday nights to dance and to listen to the fine art of gifted people like Max Stalling, to live our version of the good life. I can't think of another artist who is more capable of helping us to return to normal.

Good dogs of Dime Box, thanks for your understanding
You know I wouldn't hurt a flea
Your good natured disposition, your kind hearted intuition
Wish that you could talk to her for me

When a man goes drive-about he's got some things to figure out
And he takes it all out on the blue and wide
And he prays to God and Chevy to lighten up a load that's heavy
Help him understand the how and why

Thanks from all of us, Max.

Visit Max Stalling's site at www.maxstalling.com




Contact William Michael Smith at: wms-at-rockzilla.net

 
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