Wonder Writer

"Bastrop county PD, you are in pursuit of us, we are not evading arrest....you can arrest us when we stop."  This was the voice of the horse care crew 200 yards out from the stopping point. The equine vet was waiting. At that point, police sirens surrendered. Water burst upon arrival. Horse care crew faces told the story of hurry. The crew, speeding faster than the limit, had emergent reasons for not surrendering their journey. Though the foal was delivered safely, it wasn't before she struggled blue. The colors of sirens blasted behind as well. It sounded like a terrifying evening.  When I arrived, the next morning, adrenaline was still hanging in the air like beads in the doors of a house from the sixties.  Walking past the delivery room, which was a huge concrete room with hay on the ground, it looked like a war zone.  There were blood puddles all over the floor. There was a bloody pool in the hallway too. The concrete held the story's shivers from just a few hours

It has the smell of an old library catalogue. Red velvet interior case with push button metal clasps, the accordion case is held together with one inch straps of duct tape along the side. Like large stitches, the taped straps have given a second and third life to the accordion case skin. The box still stands confident despite the blows. Like a boxer still standing in the ring, the bruises are more like tattooed trinkets. My friend, 76 or so, says to my sons "I am making room. This was my father's accordion, take it, play with it, keep or bring it back." He lugs out this heavy box from the inside of his very small closet full of music and costume wigs. I think about how this thing was carried with anticipation from gig to gig. The box, with its smells and grit, reminds me of many great stories untold.  And secrets, stage grit, success and failure. And, I can't help but to think about the character carrying the box. I wonder what he was like. Seeing this

Matt the Electrician sings at the Wyldwood The first word that comes to mind is community. Watching Matt the Electrician perform for the first time was a genuine feeling of Austin community. He's not top-40. Matt Sever's work is not stenciled. His lyrics remind me of the family moments decorating a Christmas tree. There's this pause with individual handmade ornaments - -every piece is original and every story is something that can't be tossed. He's literally singing his story. The Wyldwood is an easy place to hear that story. The family-owned space serves free hotdogs with outdoor air conditioned spa-like bathrooms and plenty of room to sprawl out with snacks and your own favorite beverage. Echoes of kids playing behind the music court serenaded the family feel. Kids weaved in and out of the grassy audience seats racing through with glowing sticks. Wild flowers and ivy clutched the trees. And, along the wooden stage, spotlights were clinging in silver

The 307th show of Walt Wilkins & the Mystiqueros had the Saxon pub packed. I heard the house was always packed for Walt- -especially if Johnny Nicholas was around too. Walt Wilkins sings at the Saxon  Right away, I got the message. I was about to hear a legend or two, this evening. Inside the set, I heard a little bit of country, a little bit of soul, a little bit of rebel rock and a little bit of God in every beat. The messages in the songs unwrapped deeper meaning with twists of hard knock and safety and the rugged journey of the in-between. It was the mess that made the story worth telling. There was  The Trains I Missed song (written by Walt, Gilles Godard and Nicole Witt) a hefty song that got me in the doors, but then every other song wouldn't let me leave my seat. Johnny Nicholas and Walt Wilkins Walt sang, "And I pushed on every chance. I searched far and wide trying to crawl out of God's hands. There were stones I didn't throw and heart

Tomar Williams Tomar and the FCs were nothing short of fabulous Saturday night at Threadgill's World Headquarters. Tomar, opening up the gig dressed to the nines, was all-in. Dancing like a rocket across the floor, he tore up the 90 degree Austin evening stage- -moving as if the floor was on fire. Midway, he ditched his dazzling duds and glasses and showed some muscle.  Leading the pack with grooving moves, Tomar was as animated as Mick Jagger and as soulful as Otis- -The King of Soul himself. The FCs grooved with the grip and grit of a Southern church choir. It was the kind of music that sticks with the soul- -nourishing and pow-fully surprising.  The lyrics were rich, and the music was laced with James Brown get-on-up-ness. Between whirlwind moves, and the band's pow, Tomar connected with hand shakes and messages of hope. He said, "We all have those days . .  .  at work, with the boss . . ." He had audiences nodding and amen-ing. As he reached for us, w

About five minutes into Hayes Carll's show, Bruce Robison, walked onto the Saxon Pub stage. Robison was Hayes' guest. And, his entrance was more than memorable. Laughing about his "Mister Rogers' entrance," Robison's cowboy hat, with just a few inches of door headroom left, it looked more like a cowboy saloon entrance. In striking contrast to his heroic entrance, Robison's humble and down-to-earth demeanor didn't give away that he'd roped in hit songs for the Dixie Chicks, George Strait, and Tim McGraw, to name a few. Bruce Robison When Robison talked about his love for songwriting and getting great songs to the right people, it sounded like woodworking for hours and then finding a way to get the unique creation to the perfect parent. Robison said he originally didn't intend on singing his songs; it was a way to get the songs out. Though, when he sang, it was much more than presenting a song. Every word was dripping with emotio