There’s just something about those Texas singer/ songwriters.
It is at once one of the most fascinating and improbable of musical traditions. Hard drinking, crusty Lone Star guys with dust covering their boot heels putting elegant poetry to song.
Waylon Jennings. Willie Nelson. Kris Kristofferson. Townes Van Zandt. Okay, there are way too many to name. But I must mention Jimmie Dale Gilmore, whose voice is the most haunting of the lot, perhaps in all of contemporary pop music.
And, of course, Guy Clark, a fellow who can fashion a phrase with the best of them, say Chuck Berry, the kind that cuts right to the moment.
I’m a sucker for melancholy. So my favorite has always been the magnificent, “Desperados Waiting For A Train.” It’s a young man’s homage to the old fellow who took him under his wing.
Enough drab gab. Here’s a version, led by Clark and Nancy Griffin, along with a phalanx of genre superstars, performed one night on the Letterman show:
There’s a part of me that wants to post some other versions. Like the one by The Highwaymen. Or Clark doing it solo.
But the one above should have already ripped your heart to shreds. More would be superfluous. So I’ll let that one wash over you and leave it at that.
So, if you’re a little younger, and wondering why all the fuss and nostalgia in the wake of Dennis Hopper’s passing, you’re just going to have to take our word for it.
Hopper’s an icon of the Baby Boomers. His loss hurts, confirms our mortality.
He was Billy in “Easy Rider” for chrissakes. There isn’t enough time and space here to explain what things were like in ’69. Or why this seat of the pants, making it up as they went along flick about a couple of guys, flush with cash from a drug deal, taking off across country on motorcycles, still resonates.
It both instilled the rebel in my generation, and certified why it was legit. There was a basis for our paranoia, things needed to change, and with a little help from our friends, human and chemical, we could get it done.
Or, as the movie so adroitly taught us, maybe not.
By the by, that is Phil Spector with whom they did that deal at the movie’s beginning. And Jaaaaaaaaack Nicholson as a lawyer on the lam, talking about “Venutians” around a campfire.
But, Hopper’s career didn’t start there. He was in “Rebel Without A Cause.” And “Giant.” He acted in over 200 movies. “Red Rock West” is one of my faves. You surely know him from “Hoosiers” and “Blue Velvet.” Or, maybe, “Apocalypse Now.”
Not a bad career for for an egocentric, out of control druggie. Which apparently Dennis Hopper was for a long time.
By the time I ran into him at Churchill’s Turf Club one Derby Day, he seemed sort of quiet and subdued. And short. He was supposedly sober by then.
Dennis Hopper also directed one of my favorite guilty pleasure movies, “The Hot Spot.” A noirish steamer, it features Don Johnson, and Virginia Madden and Charles Martin Smith and comely newcomer, Jennifer Connelly. Rent it some time, it’s a fun one.
It’s worth it, if only for the soundtrack. John Lee Hooker moanin’ and groanin’ over his guitar and Miles Davis’ horn. It smolders.
Dennis Hopper. You mighta been a rascal, but you done good, dude. R.I.P.
When LEO hit newsstands in the summer of 1990, college sports was not mired in the profit über alles ethos it is today.
ESPN was but a decade old and had not yet cornered the market in collegiate football, basketball and baseball. Nor in minor sports, which with the advent of ESPNU, are now in the stranglehold of the beast from Bristol.
The rah rah sis boom bah, win one for the ol’ alma mater attitude had died years before with the Gipper and Rudy Vallee. The once-legit concept of “student-athlete” — at least in major sports — had become delusion.
Not every school that eked out wins over East Nevada Tech and South Dakota A&P found a spot in a bowl game named for some upstart Silicon Valley venture. Schools that didn’t make it into the NCAA basketball tournament accepted without squawking that an 18-14 record was not post season-worthy.
The difference between University of Louisville sports then and now is just as great in some respects. Just the same as it ever was in others.
At the time, there was no women’s lacrosse at U of L, a sport that now has it’s own dedicated stadium. Nor women’s softball, which now has its own bucolic diamond. Nor women’s golf. Nor women’s rowing.
What is now a state-of-the-art athletic complex that has hosted national and conference championships was then a gravel parking lot near I-65.
Cardinal baseball — which also has its own new ballyard — was an afterthought. With a College World Series appearance now on its résumé, U of L baseball is becoming a national power.
The summer of 1990 marked the halfway point of Howard Schnellenberger’s regime as coach of Cardinal football. Hired before the 1985 schedule, the first five seasons for the former national title coach at Miami were up and down as he attempted to reinvent U of L football. Playing in ramshackle Fairgrounds Stadium, his squads suffered through three desultory seasons before going 8-3 in 1988 but without a bowl appearance. They fell to 6-5 the following year.
The Cardinals reached unprecedented heights the fall after LEO was born, tying their opener to San Jose State, losing at Southern Miss, but winning 10, including an improbable and resounding 34-7, New Year’s Day victory over Alabama in the Fiesta Bowl.
During Schnellenberger’s tenure, Louisville remained staunchly independent at a time when conference affiliation was becoming increasingly imperative. In fact, the coach cited U of L’s nascent affiliation with Conference USA as one of the reasons he jumped ship before the Cards collided with the national title he promised. As well as before completion of Papa John’s Stadium, for which he was the prime mover.
Louisville football has been a roller coaster ride ever since.
Louisville basketball also reached a cusp in 1990.
The ’89-’90 season ended 27-9 but with a disheartening loss to Ball State in the second round of the NCAA Tournament. It was the type of opponent to which Hall of Famer Denny Crum’s teams rarely lost. U of L was the team of the ’80s in college basketball. National championships were won in ’80 and ’86, with two other Final Four appearances.
It all changed during the ’90-’91 season. The Cards went 14-16, the school’s first losing campaign in a half century. Only one time after that did a Crum-coached Cardinal team make it as far as the Elite Eight. Crum resigned during a contentious scenario with Athletic Director Tom Jurich after a horrendous 12-19 record in 2000-2001.
Louisville ended its Final Four drought in 2005 under Coach Rick Pitino. Last season, the school’s final stint in Freedom Hall, ended with a resounding defeat to California in the first round of the NCAA tournament.
U of L football, hoping for yet another refurbishment, will open next season with a new coach, Charlie Strong, in an expanded stadium.
U of L basketball will open next season in a new downtown arena against national runner-up Butler. Most longtime season ticket holders are feeling left behind by the athletic department’s money-over-loyalty policy that is governing the current seat selection process for the new facility.
The stench of upcoming major conference realignment is in the air. The demise of the Big East may be a reality sooner than later.
The University of Louisville, not an obvious fit in the SEC, Big 10, ACC or Big 12, might be an odd school out.
For all the successes and expansion of the last score of years, Cardinal athletics remain in a state of flux today, just as they were in 1990.
If you come here regularly, you know I periodically riff about my favorite films.
I’ve never discussed “The Money Pit,” director Richard Benjamin’s slapstick opus to the travails of renovating an older home, starring Tom Hanks, when he still did comedy, and Shelly Long, when we still knew who she was.
It’s too late to do it now.
I don’t need to watch, I’m living it.
This rant could have been called “The Money Pit: A Reality Series.” But that would infer some sort of televised extreme makeover status, including a hyperactive commentator in a personalized hardhat and a crew of 50, painting and fixing our entire 90 year old home in 72 hours or less. On somebody else’s dime.
That is most assuredly not the case. Besides we don’t need a complete makeover. Been there, done that.
Truth is Joanie and I had contractor Jim Phillips, and his boffo crew and cadre of subs, do some major renovations before we moved in. Gutting rooms. Moving walls and doors. Adding rooms and fixtures and other modern accoutrements.
From that experience, we learned one salient lesson. It was only the beginning.
The first hint came when we added a shower to an upstairs bathroom. We discovered that the previous owner — known around the neighborhood for bragging how cheaply she was able to get repairs done — when having a jacuzzi installed in that bathroom, engaged the services of some jackleg handyman who didn’t really know what he was doing. He cut holes in major floor support beams, weakening them to the point the second floor might have collapsed, had the jacuzzi ever been used.
Which, fortunately, it had not. But for the discovery during the installation of that shower plumbing, the Mrs. might have started her first bath after we moved in on the second floor and ended up on the first. Those beams are now steel reinforced, a cost unforeseen when we started the renovation.
It wasn’t the only one.
Anyway, we’ve lived here several years now, and, well, it’s always something.
Sure, there’s the routine, periodic stuff. Like painting the exterior, which Jason Skaggs and his excellent crew are now doing. And punch list kind of minor tweaks to make living here more to our liking.
But today is far from atypical.
At one point or another, there were three painters, a carpenter repairing a rotted baluster so it can be painted, a couple of masonry guys giving us a tuck pointing estimate on a brick walk and some steps, and a couple of guys from the plate glass company, removing my shower door.
The latter of which exercise is necessary, so that the tile guys can come next week to remove my shower tiles. Which will then allow the plumbers to come and fix the leak in my shower floor that is dripping through the subflooring into the basement.
After which repair, the tile guys will return to retile the shower.
The completion of which will then allow the plate glass guys to return to reinstall the shower door.
Did I mention we just had our outside steps re-concreted because last winter’s application of ice melt was turning them to sand? And that the month old new surface has already started cracking?
No, I guess I didn’t. The guys that did that are coming Thursday to assess the situation.
Nor have I talked about the fact that there’s a small foundation crack in the basement, which is not fatal. But does allow water to get in when there’s more than a drizzle outside. We’re still awaiting recommendations on repair guys for that situation.
Yoo hoo, Epoxy ‘r’ Us, where are ya?
So it goes.
Which is to say the kick I use to get when watching “The Money Pit” is MIA.
The Film Babe and I live in an old house. A great old house, but one that always needs something fixed.
This morning wasn’t bad. Just a couple guys painting the outside.
And a couple plumbers to check on an unpleasant odor that my sweetie senses every once in awhile. We decided to forgo the tests necessary, since it would have required setting off a smoke/ stink bomb. But, of course, while giving the house a thorough once over, they did discover a leak in my shower that had permeated the sub floor.
Like I said, it’s always somethin’.
And now on to the point of the blog, which is peripherally related.
I’m here in my office tracking down rumors to pass along, when I hear my better half and the Blackburn & Davis dudes talking in the dinette. When I enter the room which includes my stereo set up and entire music collection, one of the guys, Mark, says you should hear Conway Twitty and Sam Bush’s version of “Rainy Night In Georgia.”
At which point, I say, “Bush just played Jazzfest, but . . . ”
“Not Sam Bush,” he says, “Same Cooke.” As he points to the autographed 8×10 glossy of Cooke that hangs on my wall. “Check it out on youtube.”
Which I obviously did. After we called our general contractor Jim Phillips and his ace tile removal specialist Eric Stoess, who immediately come over to help the plumbers remove tiles in the shower in hopes of discovering the origin of the leak.
If you’re keeping score at home, the number of Thursday a.m. workmen at the house then totaled 6.
The upshot is gratitude for several things. The professionalism of the plumbers. That Jim Phillips, who did the major renovation of our house, continues three years later to provide amazing service. That the leak might just be a caulking problem easily remedied. (My fingers remain crossed.)
And that I discovered this video.
But wouldn’t you know it, the Sam wasn’t Bush or Cooke, but Sam Moore. He, of Sam & Dave fame.
Great song. Which I now present for your enjoyment.
Of course, I’m reminded of a Conway Twitty story from my youth. (Tell the truth, you’d expect nothing less, right?)
In 1958, at the age of 13, I was a guest deejay for three nights on WKLO. One of the big hits at the time was Twitty’s “It’s Only Make Believe.”
While introducing the song, I mangled his last name. Need I say how? I don’t think so. I was 13.
I loved that song. So, as a bonus, just for you, my loyal readers, here’s Conway lip syncing the 45 version.
Frankly, I’ve been a fan of the former world body building champion since the mid 70s.
I consider body building a somewhat silly endeavor, certainly narcissistic and way too much work. But there was always something about Schwarzenegger that was greater than all that.
The guy was/ is brash and boastful. But he’s also bright, self effacing and funny. Yeah, he smokes cigars bigger than my forearm, but not when I’m in the room, thankfully.
I loved in the documentary “Pumping Iron” and how he psyched out Lou Ferrigno as they were preparing for the Mr. Olympia and Mr. Universe competitions. How he willed himself to victory through hard work and affirmations.
I loved him in the piffle of a movie called “Stay Hungry” which also featured Sally Field, Jeff Bridges, Scatman Crothers, Fannie Flagg and Robert Englund before he went Freddy Krueger.
And I’ve admired how he’s remade himself at several points along the way, always defying odds. He became an actor of considerable Hollywood clout. He married a Kennedy. He was elected governor of the most populous state in the Union.
Like most politicians, he is way imperfect. He doesn’t have nearly all the answers. Unlike most politicians, he appears willing to listen and adapt. He admits he doesn’t have all the answers. He is willing to fail.
He gave a well-received commencement address at Emory University in Atlanta Monday morning. The grads included the Film Babe’s youngest, Samuel.
Ahhnüüld was funny.
“I was also going to give a graduation speech in Arizona this weekend. But with my accent, I was afraid they would try to deport me back to Austria.”
“This is my first law degree. Finally, the Kennedys will think I’m successful. And Maria can finally bring me home to meet her family.”
He mentioned how he’d had his people poll some students to see what they wanted him to talk about.
“17% wanted me to be inspriational. 23% wanted me to give some practical advice. And 30% just wanted their money back from “Jingle All The Way.”
Self effacement is a marvelous character trait.
Schwarznegger went on to advise the grads to “stay hungry,” and “to not only do well, but to do good.”
He was inspiring. It was a darn near perfect commencement address.
There was noticeably more pot smoking at the festival this year than in the last decade at least. Good pot too, if the aroma is any indicator.
Something else I saw for the first time since the 70s was a guy purveying same. The fortysomething dude walked the crowd with a discreet little hand scrawled sign that read “Ganja Candy.” From a distance, he appeared to be selling caramel chews, one would assume created with cannabis sativa as one of the ingredients. Biz was boffo.
No, I didn’t partake. Took my last toke in ’82, and life’s been just fine without.
* * * * *
One other cultural trend gleaned from 11 days in New Orleans and JazzFest is that men’s hats are back in vogue. My father’s generation always wore hats. That all changed when JFK went hatless at his inauguration. It was the 60s. Different folks rebelled in different ways.
Men’s headwear was out of style until ballcaps became all that. (Of course, cheeseheads were always de rigeur in Wisconsin.)
But in the last year of perhaps longer, fedoras and other headgear are back in vogue. At JazzFest, mostly straw. But felt and wool and cotton also work.
* * * * *
Unless you can stand all day, a little sitting device of some sort is imperative at JazzFest. After years of research, I’ve happened upon the ultimate portable stool. Lightweight. Easy to fold up. Carrying strap. Back for lumbar support. It’s called Roll-A-Chair. Available at lots of stores online and perhaps even a local establishment in your town.
You’ll be glad you did.
* * * * *
Lots of Germans in our hotel.
One wiseacre, walking into the dining room for morning coffee, said, “It looks like Kraut for breakfast.”
There were also visitors from many other foreign countries in town for the music, which was obvious from the language and accents.
* * * * *
The World Renown Mr. Okra made a festival appearance. He’s an independent street vendor in the Crescent City who doesn’t have a lot of personality as best I can tell, but does have a great truck loaded with fruits and veggies.
* * * * *
My favorite meals in town this trip, in order of preference: 1) Vizard’s, 2) Galatoire’s, 3) Domenica, 4) Drago’s, 5) American Sector. If I never eat again at Emeril’s Delmonico or Bacco, I’ll be just fine.
* * * * *
Given my anti-corporata nature, I gave short shrift in my blogs from JazzFest to two main sponsors. Shell Oil, which underwrites a big portion of the whole deal. And Acura which sponsors the biggest stage. I now realize, as conflicted as I might be about their businesses, especially big oil which was eroding the wetlands of Louisiana even before the recent oil eruption in the Gulf, I must give them their props for helping perpetuate this marvelous event.
So I have.
* * * * *
My favorite treats at the fair, in order of preference: 1) A J’s chocolate snow balls, 2) Crawfish sausage po boy, 3) Cochon de Lait po boy, 4) Shrimp and grits and 5) Oyster pattie, crawfish sack combo platter.
* * * * *
My favorite acts . . . ah, no, you’re going to have to do some work on this one. Go back and read my previous posts from the last two weeks.
* * * * *
The cost of doing business. In ’00, tickets cost $15 in advance/ $20 at the gate.
This year, advance tickets set you back $45 dollars + service charge. At the gate, it took $60 to get in. 40-50 bands per day on 10 stages. Incredible food. Still the best deal goin’ down.
The largest attendance was in ’01, when 650,000 attended to the 7 day festival, including 160,000 on one day. 350,000 showed up the year after Katrina. 450,000 came last year. I doubt there were more this year because of the weather, but don’t know for sure. Numbers haven’t been announced yet.
With apologies to James Joyce who never went to JazzFest or if he did never wrote about it I must wax on breathlessly and without any impediments like punctuation or paragraphs because the weather report for Sunday in New Orleans said it was going to rain real hard and rain for a long long time so my krewe had to decide if we would go out or enjoy some of New Orleans other attractions indoors and if so when but we’re all stalwarts and properly goretexed against the elements so we made it to the Fairgrounds in time for Sierra Leone’s Refugee All-Stars who are just as the name implies meting at such a camp yet make lovely and sometimes strident music having just cut an album in New Orleans aided by a couple of guys from Bonearama who were introduced with the question you’re probably wondering who these white boys which caused a laugh but underscored how music is cross-pollinated in the Crescent City proven yet againr as maybe a hundred yards away from that Congo Square stage on the Heritage Stage we heard sounds from half a world from Africa provided by Chouval Bwa from Martinique which band’s music is sweet and tropical but then the real fun began with R & B songstress Irma Thomas who was on her considerable game and who the Film Babe says has a voice like puddin’ as she taunted with her famous You Can Have My Husband But Please Don’t Mess With My Man and got folks on their feet at the Acura Stage with Break Away and some Second Line struts which were the order of this day again during the Neville Brothers traditional set to end the festival which was not their best but loose and engaging and indeed their most endearing as all sorts of family members generations apart joined them on stage for such fare as a hip hop version of Hercules which is what maybe a half century old or so plus the time honored finale with brother Aaron singing Amazing Grace as only he can followed by One Love and People Get Ready and those who stayed in the muck and mist left sated but not as wet as expected because the rains held off for the most part except during the extraordinary group of songs between Thomas and the Nevilles by Van Morrison an Irishman of equal genius to Joyce who was feeling the spirit especially during his version of an old New Orleans tune St. James Infirmary and his closer Ballerina and as we reluctantly left JazzFest for another year I thought back on the amazing music I’d heard from the above and Jeff Beck and Henry Butler and The Subdudes and John Mooney and the New Orleans Klezmer All-Stars and the Johnson Extension and Gipsy Kings and Marcia Ball and Dr. John and Voice of the Wetlands All-Stars as well as a bunch of other I can’t even remember at this moment knowing in my heart there’s nothing like a holiday in New Orleans with friends and the only love of my life and the joy and serenity that comes from hearing music from around the globe as well as the epicenter of it all New Orleans and the coup de grace that was Van Morrison in the rain with my sugar baby by my side
For years I came down to JazzFest alone, usually staying with an old college pal, but we mostly went our own way at the festival. Then I’d go home and rave on about what an amazing event this is , kind of lording it over anybody who would listen. Not a very admirable character trait, but I’ve got to own it.
Then I’d come back the next year . . . alone, never inviting any pals to join me.
One year in the early 90s, after Linda Ronstadt had provided exposure to the incredible voice that belongs to Aaron Neville, he sang a set in one of the festival’s smaller tents with just Amasa Miller supporting on piano. Neville’s singing was beauteous beyond belief.
And I had nobody with whom to share the moment. I vowed it wouldn’t happen again. It hasn’t.
Years later, there’s now Da Cultcha Maven’s Krewe, my egoistic reference to the friends that join me every year. Plus Joanie, the Film Babe, who loves JazzFest.
She and I and my pals Dennis & Judy were in the Gospel Tent today for Aaron Neville. It was indeed a spiritual moment. “Stand By Me,” “If I Had A Hammer,” “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” dedicated to the city of New Orleans, “Oh Mary, Don’t You Weep,” “A Change Is Gonna Come,” “When The Saints Go Marching In,” a spiritual long ago trite now back in favor with the Super Bowl W by the home boys, “Amazing Grace,” “I Saw The Light/ Down By The Riverside,” and a couple of others with which I’m less familiar.
When the set was complete, I was sated. Still a day and a half of the festival to go, assuming predicted monsoons don’t totally dampen our resolve, and I knew everything else was gravy. Including Van Morrison tomorrow, right before the entire Neville Brothers Band closes the fest on the big stage per tradition.
What a magical and satisfying set of music in the Gospel Tent. Especially with friends and loved ones to share it with.
* * * * *
The day wasn’t over, but I’d hit the wall.
The Pinstripe Brass Band did a nifty horn-infused version of “Stand By Me.”
Sagbohan Danialou from Benin was mighty sublime at the Jazz & Heritage Stage.
The Johnson Extension proved that four generations of gospel inspiration can be righteously electrifying.
I’d forgotten how incredible Jeff Beck is on the six string. Arguably the best. Standing in front of his Marshall,wearing white boots and a silver bicep bracelet, Beck proved his mettle on such diverse fair as “Rollin’ and Tumbln’,” “People Get Ready,” and “Somewhere Over The Rainbow.” His tones are pitch perfect and resonant. Despite his propensity to shred the surrounding landscape, his playing was impeccable, raucous at times, tender at others and never over indulgent, tasteful.
What a treat. Plus it fit in a new category: Music To Read The New Yorker By. Which is what a lady in front of us was doing while Beck was trying to part the clouds with his playing, and coming closer than you’d ever imagine.
* * * * *
Other than transcending to another plane during Aaron Neville’s set, my favorite moment came during Henry Butler’s piano artistry, our first stop of the day.
Butler shouted, “Can I get an amen?”
To which, Joanie the Film Babe echoed, “Can I get a po boy?”
Some days at JazzFest I find myself chasing after it. I’ll have plotted a general course through the stages, then find that I’m having trouble getting a groove going.
Yesterday was like that. Brother Tyrone who opened on the big stage with his gospel influenced soul failed to fire. P J Morton at Congo Square was a walk through. Nadirah Shakoor at the Gentilly Stage has a beautiful voice, but it wasn’t working.
Of course, it could have been me.
Perhaps a crawfish sausage po boy might help, thought I?
With my belly full, the Jon Batiste Band proved intriguing. Great piano work from the New Orleanian who recently graduated from Julliard, juxtaposed against some atonal horn charts. “St. James Infirmary” rarely fails to stir the juices.
And rare is the time I hear the song that I don’t think of the two most emotive versions I’ve experienced in person. Van Morrison right here at JazzFest on the day I asked Joanie to marry me. And Cosmo (Yes, Louisville’s Tommy Cosdon) at his old bar, The Head Rest, the night before the tornado in the late 70s.
Then the day got going. The subdudes, with their spare soulful sound, seemed just right on the gray, brooding but ultimately dry day. There’s something about cloudy days at that stage that have worked for me through the years. Daniel Lanois. And the seminal moment years ago, pre-Katrina, when homie Randy Newman was playing “I Love L A.” The skies burst open. Baseball sized rain drops. Without missing a beat, Newman moved into the “Dixie” coda of “Louisiana 1927.” I can’t remember a soul running for cover.
My favorite slide guitar slinger John Mooney as always shook ‘em on down in the Blues Tent. Followed by the post-Katrina supergroup, New Orleans Social Club. Leo Nocentelli and George Porter Jr. from the original Meters, Ivan Neville, Raymond Weber on drums and New Orleans best piano player these days, Henry Butler.
Then, looking for something more mellow, we slipped over to the Lagniappe Stage. (That’s Cajun for “a little extra.”) Morikeba Kouyate, a Senegalese kora master, was leading his group through haunting, beautiful, soothing and rhythmic melodies. It was perfect.
We closed the day with the pop flamenco stylings of the Reyes and Baliardo families. The Gipsy Kings, who I’ve wanted to see for a score of years. (Yes, I indicated in the title they’re from Spain, when they actually live in France. But they’re descended from Catalonians who left during the Spanish Civil War.)
It was just happy music, a marvelous way to end another JazzFest day.
Of course, we had to stroll back to Da Cultcha Maven’s Krewe meeting spot. Along the way, catching snippets of The Iguanas, Kirk Franklin and figured we’d finish up with a couple of tunes from the Queen of Soul, Aretha Franklin.
Who, for the second year in row, didn’t show. One of the greatest of the soul singers is a prima donna diva of the highest magnitude. That we didn’t even plan on hearing her is a testament to her mailed in performances I’ve had to endure through the years. But her replacement, Earth, Wind & Fire sounded as zesty as ever.
There’s just something about those Texas singer/ songwriters.
