Bad coffee and a cool cat

A few weeks ago, an Englishman musician reached out for me to write a bio. It sounded exciting. I got all worked up and prepped, and then I didn't hear back. 

Annoyed, I had made three attempts for an interview, and I felt ignored. Two of the appointments he had either "worked" or "slept" through. I was starting to feel I was a character on the Catfish television show. 

But, I had left a voicemail, and the Englishman on the voicemail was him. But, the voicemail was full, so that was troubling.  

It was a lot harder to think about being inspired to write someone's bio when you are not feeling like your time matters.

But, what I realized was that I was lumping this experience in with other poor creative experiences. 

I was burned out.

I lost my why.

About a year ago, a musician I adore asked if he "Could just have a file of all of the photos I've taken of him for the last five years." He said, "Don't you just have a file?"

Something about that question stole a part of my soul. 

And, another creative giant asked me to un-send a photo birthday card, and well, at that point, I was done. 

It took just a few words to make me grab my knees and think about ditching photography forever. 

I felt invisible.

Over time, I lost my why.

So, I did what every artist does, pout and run away from crafting.

I got busy. 

Being an artist can feel like a cold clothesline.

I re-enrolled in university classes and dove into studying for a state exam that was a year away. I am not kidding.

Then, I got the text. Bio dude is available now. Of course. 

I waited until I had just a few minutes to make the call. Creatively, I was feeling nothing.

I got the English dude on the phone. Every word he said was funny. And, it took me a while not to think that Hugh Grant was actually on the phone.

And, I then peeked out of my stubborn shell. 

Wallowing in the gulf of artist return and words like decomposing "creative bank accounts" (Julia Cameron), I set up an interview time for the next day. 

I drove across town, and to my surprise, I didn't get lost.

I rang the doorbell. A fat cat was at my ankles. The cat dawdled there. He couldn’t decide whether to go forward or stay put. I could relate. 

I let the cat stay outside next to the wilting plants giving up on the patio bench.

Two dogs greeted me. One dog bolted upstairs- -the other piled on the love like I had peanut butter in my pocket.  I thought isn't that like the world of an artist? You're either loved or forgotten.

I walked through the living room which looked like it was set up for nothing more than constant comfy jam sessions.

The sliding glass door allowed for the friendly black dog to gaze outside. His silhouette glowed in the summer sun. 

The wooden table in the kitchen was a great place for interviewing. I was offered coffee or tea. I figured since he's English, I'd get tea, but I settled for coffee. 

He said, "I found some chunky hemp milk. . . seems to be okay." I thought he doesn't have it all together either. It made me laugh.

He asked, "In case this doesn't go well, are there any last words?"

Art doesn't have to be explained.

True to every interview, thousands in the last twenty years, the questions come intuitively as sweet whispers leading me to what's next. I found that the story, was in fact, writing itself. 

We talked about England. We talked about Austin. We talked about family. And, we talked about friends that become family.

I thought that I'd been serving artists for years, writing their stories, and taking their photos to lift them up. And, sometimes, it gets a bit like I feel taken advantage of. 

I am always there, but then, I am always there. I often put their needs far above my own. I celebrate their adventures. But, then, I end up forgetting mine.

The Englishman said one person's art isn't any more important than another person's art.

"You are an artist too. Your work is equal to mine." 

That was a bit hard to hear, actually. 

I was reminded that artists paid each other in fine ways. It could be words. It could be hearing the words you didn't know you needed to hear. Creative bank accounts come in all sizes and shapes.

And, the dark truth is that artists can also hurt other artists by taking their time and talents for granted.

It took a while to marinate. 

On the way to lunch, I laughed about the irony of the wilting plants next to the open and full bottle of water. Sometimes what we need is not too far away.

We took a moment to water the plants. 

The Englishman opened up about his former thoughts of ending his own life, and he highlighted how his artist friends lifted him out.  

And, beyond that journey, his story unfolded to produce the most honest record he's ever painted.

The vulnerability part was not easy. As an artist, he said, you really have to put yourself on the line. 

And, I thought that line can get really cold and lonely sometimes.  But, the Englishman said it was the only way to go. 

I was not sure I was there yet, but I did take a few of the bricks down from the wall I was building.

I realized I don't have to paint with photos if I need a break. I don't have to give away my work either. 

My validation does not come from another's words or lack of appreciation. 

The interview wrapped up. I knew I would be paid for my writing. 

But, I realized that my creative bank account had just been filled with more than coins could spend.

The Englishman apologized for missing our first two interview appointments. 

And, when he reminded me I wasn't invisible, I believed him.

I drove off hoping the plants would perk up. 

Disco tree.

Sirens and a Star of the Sea

"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 back.

I wanted to be there when the mare gave birth, but I had missed the group text at two am. And, now I realized I was walking past a trauma. I looked for how I could help, and the best I could do was to try to look for the positive and help care for the caregivers.

I arrived as the filly was getting milk through a tube in her nose. She was standing with a little more confidence now though her legs were like sticks that didn't bend. The mare was devouring food; she was covered in mud, blood and grime.

At 2 am, as the filly started to arrive, within ten minutes, my horse leader knew "something wasn't right."

A quick decision had to be made, and the laboring mare was rushed to the vet just 15 miles up the road. When the filly arrived, "her face was blue."

Seeing the aftermath of the long early morning was like seeing soldiers leaving the battlefield or watching someone coming up for air after a long time under water.

It was a huge contrast to the days prior.

Two days before, I got to stand on horse watch. We all took turns, hour by hour, to watch and wait alongside the mare. We were sure the baby was coming. All the signs pointed to "soon."

Glow sticks were tied to her tail and wrapped loosely around her feet. This way we could stand by, not too closely, and watch. We took turns watching her rainbow-lit tail through the night. There was no sign of her slowing down just yet. But, we were hopeful.

We journaled each hour, taking turns sleeping as much as we could. We'd mark on the paper, "One am, mare was at the pond." At 2 am, "mare was at the fence."

The next day, no baby yet. We walked the ranch and fed the horses. We watched as one group of horses ran alongside the golf cart.  Some ate briskly, some ran by for sweet hellos, and some just nodded like they were too cool. It was an interesting round of normal after a long evening of waiting, watching and hoping.

I left anxious and sad that day, knowing the birth of the baby was coming; I just didn't know when. Me, having started horseback riding lessons almost two years ago, I was anxious to learn all I could. I wanted to be there, wanted to know and wanted to just help. I had also found this amazing community of people within my horse ranch friends.  The only way I can sum it up is to say that it's never about what your hair looks like that day. 

When I got the text this morning that birth was near, I saw that I had missed it after all. I was saddened I hadn't kept my phone nearby so that I could hustle over in a flash. 

After hearing the story, I realized maybe the story of the almost no-baby would have hit too hard.  

The story of a speeding trailer trying to save two lives was hard to hear. Yet, the quick thinking of the horses' caregivers was like a modern day cowgirl story. If I didn't know my horse ranch leader was a rockstar, I knew it now.  

I arrived at 8 am, just a few hours past the trauma, and I saw my horse leader, whom I had just stayed with her two days prior. I had been in her home, read her stories and done horse watch on the first day with her. Things were peaceful then. 

And, now, two days later, I hardly recognized her. She looked about ten years older. Her hair was braided back messy. Her nice pink sweater was covered in waves of watercolor marks layered in red. She looked like she was tie-dyed in emergency.

Her friend, another horse leader, also looked the same. They had been through war. 

My horse leader said, "I didn't cry until my mom came."  Her mom was standing by, cookies in hand- - a hug waiting.

I was led to see the young filly. I saw her resting with wobbled legs. Getting up was now possible; it was sitting down that took time. Her squishy feet were jello miracles. Her face was thin and hopeful. She sniffed her mom with very little awareness of the story that just unfolded.

Filly's mom was dressed just like my horse leader. She had waves of crowning red all over her. She had a brave face on, and at the same time, at any moment, she looked like she could crash in an instant.

I looked along at the three horse leaders in the barn near me. One, a brave man, looked like a child about to cry. I knew if I tried to hug him, he'd crumble.  I looked along the base of the bars, and I saw picante sauce and taco remnants. My horse leader was drinking from a jug of water. 

I asked if she was okay. I tried to push self care. She said, "I gotta get back to the ranch. Trail ride."

I asked, "Are you sure?" But, then I realized, for her, getting back into a sense of "normal" was her therapy.

She said, "They already paid... you wanna come?"

I laughed, giddy.  I think, if I didn't have my three boys waiting for me at the church, I'd have come for sure.

I stood there and watched two young girls petting the filly. I saw the joy they brought to the barn. They were not afraid. 

We talked about filly names. One suggested "Polly" since she was unofficially "escorted" quickly by red and blue flashing police lights. I saw a photo of four police officers smiling next to the newborn. I could only imagine their faces when the trailer stopped.

I learned Polly means, "Star of the sea, beloved and exalted."  It seemed quite fitting as I looked up and saw the sea of people already in love with the star filly. 

The filly received shots, more vet care and a lot more hugs. Knowing mama was tired, and baby needed rest too, the crew packed up to leave the barn.

I walked out and asked my horse leader, "Are you okay to leave her?"  She seemed to nod. It was like she was stalling a little and grabbing her knees at the same time.

"Do we leave the cookies for the vet?"

"Vet's on a diet."

"Okay, we will bring them back to the ranch for the trail riders."

I looked up at my temporary tattoo on my left forearm. I waved it to my horse leader. It said "Something good is about to happen."

I pointed and said "something good did happen." 

I gave her a hug and watched her get back into the trailer. 

I walked into church with hay on my shoulders with thoughts of gratitude for our new star of the sea. 

Duct tape tenacity

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 box sitting next to my piano and in my living room, gives me a chance for a short interview.

Like the well-worn accordion box, its owner must have been either poor, stubborn, very sentimental or simply just an optimist. Maybe he didn't care so much about how things looked, but that it was functional. Maybe he liked the color of the tape over time. Maybe it was more about getting to the gig, rather than the way you looked once you arrived there. Maybe, he liked the stripes, just fine.

The box, to me, is the smell of stubborn tenacity personified. And, I just love that.

My friend has his own story of stubborn tenacity. Perhaps that's why he inspires me. He says he will continue to play his own way. He talks about his latest gigs. And, he shows me the one-letter cheat sheet on the back of the guitar, and he says, "there wasn't a dry eye in that place." And, I believe it. 

An hour later, finally home, my youngest son, who my friend calls "Screwdriver," is unwrapping the accordion like it's Christmas day.

Though the instrument was nearly larger than him, he plays for the entire afternoon.

That old box my friend was lugging out of his closet to gain some "space," gained a space in our lives.
I couldn't help but to consider the places the according was lugged. And, the places it was dropped down, the muggy concert halls, and old German town side roads. And, of course, the faces in the audience, and the weight it would have carried and the loads it would have lifted.

And, I consider loads it lifted in my own child's story. My son, a little on the "spectrum," doesn't care about a lot of things. But, to see the light in his eyes with this old bear in his lap, the pages turned were priceless.

Outside of its own closet box, it was living again as a central character- -the story of its previous owner, a tenacious musician with a love of music.

Like a child's tale when the toy truly comes to life, the instrument came to life in my child's arms - -duct tape tenacity and all.

Meeting Matt the Electrician

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 buckets and tiny white holiday lights raced up tree trunks.

Before the show, the Wyldwood owners were gracious hosts, offering up food, bug spray, instructions, a warm our-home-is-your-home welcome and an unforgettable family-friendly joke.

The audience, hundreds deep, only captured a few photos. Instead, most sat in the moment connecting with every word.  And, while it was clear most of the community knew Matt's lyrics well, they chose to let Matt lead the journey.

A few fans even flew in from New York just to see him. Matt let them choose the next song, "Prison Bones," and he told the story of the creation of the song.

Vulnerability seemed to steer the ship. Matt talked about eyesight troubles in his early 40s and HAAM saving the day. And, he talked about losing his memory, sometimes.

My music genius friend Danielle is all-in when it comes to Matt's community too. As Matt was taking it all in, his words slipped his memory, just once. He paused.

Danielle chimed in from the second row, "You were singing ..." Matt said, "Thanks Danielle!"
And, the song was back on track.

It seemed that Matt writes about anything and can make any moment into a song. He pulled in humor. He pulled in life. He pulled in tiny details that we wouldn't have noticed before.

He sang a song he wrote for his wife and talked about "points"- - his wife in the front row. He sang a song he wrote for his son. He talked about the boy who's always hungry like dinner time is every time of day.

I've lived in Austin for six years. I've felt the creative vibe for a while, but never truly understood the feeling of community until Matt brought us all together. He reminded me of the art of just being- -to just be and, let it be.

And, as we were leaving, he stayed to shake hands, to give hugs, and to laugh with us- -most of us not leaving without getting a hello and a smile. He literally stood at the exit--not letting us get out of there without feeling appreciated.

In today's stages where big lights and loud noises and everything seems to have a vvvvroom or a spin, Matt was as come-as-you-are as they come. This guy was the same on stage and off stage.

And, as we piled out of the the green-lawned living room, strangers before, now, we left lighter- -connected.

Danielle's been bragging about Matt for at least a year now. I am so glad she invited me to come. And, local musicians I know and love call him "amazing."

I get it now.

It took me a long time to catch up.

And, I'm so glad I did.

Walt Wilkins and Johnny Nicholas- -the guys everyone's talking about

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 hearts I did not break. And a little hope that I held onto with each silver shining thread of faith."

The rugged lyrics spoke of a spiritual journey and a realization that there was something bigger in control- -that sense of surrender after the fight. Walt sang, "Here's to the things that I believe - -Bigger than me and the moments I find myself right where I wanna be."

The lyrics were a validation of life and love and the pursuit of forgiving and having the courage to shake it off.

The performance was a country rock-n-roll amen.

And, every other song in the set hit me about the same way.

We were lucky last night, another gig wasn't scheduled so Walt just kept playing.

And, the cake for the evening was when Johnny Nicholas shared the stage for a bit.  Johnny was just as cool as everyone had said he was. "We just will never be that cool . . ." Walt said as he serenaded Johnny's exit with an emotional bow.

A few months ago, I had minor surgery. The anesthesiologist talked a lot about music. For him, patient care was about connecting through music. He didn't mention Elvis, or even Willie. He said Walt was his hometown music hero.

I left the Saxon glad that I had seen the show- -somehow reborn.

I saw what the doctor and everyone else had been talking about. I was a little late, but for me, it was right on time.

Walt Wilkins & the Mystiqueros includes Ray Rodriguez, Bill Small, Corby Schaub, Jimmy Daddy, Ron Flynt, Bart de Win and Tina Wilkins (not all pictured here).

Tomar & the FCs Light up the Night

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, we reached right back.

There was something else about his spirit too- -he carried an unbending faith in his song. While he was all-in, we were drawn in too. The music, the message, the groove, all in that moment, we were part of his story as he was a part of our's.

An inspired musician friend of mine described the performance, "He's hitting it!"

He was right. Tomar and the FCs nailed every note.

Tomar & the FCs light up Threadgill's
Tomar Williams-Vocals
David Earl-Organ
Mitch Fischels-Bass
Andy Tenberg-Guitar
Paul Kresowik-Drums

Bruce Robison--a Back Porch conversation

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 emotional relevance. Every detail was carved just right. Nothing was wasted.

His songwriting voice was the kind of feeling where things last because they were made the right way from the get-go.

His voice was a hug from a friend from a long time ago.

Before his set, he wondered out loud about calling his music "country." He discussed the changes in music today. In a world where many musicians were going for over-the-top, he was reaching toward a more simple strum.

Carll said Robison's new "Back Porch Band" album was true to that simple feeling. He said the album was that simple joy of friends coming together to do what they love.

From the few songs Robison shared in the set, I felt immediately connected to that front porch friend gathering.

And, when Robison left the stage, it was the same let-down feeling felt when Mister Rogers' guests leave. I wanted to call out, "Wait! . . . Wait . . . too soon. Don't go yet!"

And, I was really glad Bruce was invited to our neighborhood.

Shawn Pander: Everything good about music

After hearing Shawn Pander on Sun Radio, I felt the tug to hear more. I was curious if seeing him live would be worth the drive. It was.

Pushed is the word that comes to mind. Every word is pow- -lyrically smooth, radiantly emotional.

Shawn wasn't much for stories between songs. But, the stories weaved inside were wildly willing.

His eyes under shade, I got the feeling he was pulling the words from a vault deep inside.

Shawn Pander

Around the middle of his set, he let go a little more. He bowed just slightly. It was more than physical.

Lacing lyrics with emotional serenade, Pander's words pushed details captured mostly in candid filmstrips.

Like the story in a bridal hemline dusted with dirt after the first dance, his lyrics exhaled subtle imprints not soon forgotten.

His reconstruction of a Nine Inch Nails song was a beautiful rich blast. Now, like an "animal," I want that song.

His lyrics were refreshingly relatable. He sang, "Smiling like a kid just out of school (What a Beautiful Life)."

He sang, "You deserve a much smoother ride . . . . .  every single star that it holds shines in the night. . . . every little piece of me, loves every little single thing about you" (Just to Be With You).

In a world where more and more musicians seem packaged, very few ring true. Shawn was not at all like these. He was, in fact, everything good about good music.

Every lyric. Every note. Every strum. I loved "Every little single thing."

Langhorne Slim. The best since Otis Redding.

Langhorne Slim

Langhorne Slim, he's a different kind of artist soul. Charcoal graveled cheeks, crooked hat, dark brooding eyes and tattoo-covered arms, I think he might be the most recklessly brave musician I have ever encountered.

With Slim, it isn't just a performance, it's a diary sung from the gut.

He's the best since Otis Redding. 

I've seen him at Luck and in Austin this week, big crowds or intimate affair, the pulse was the same: Very little breathing room. Audiences anchored in his space. Hearts tangled up wildly inside his lyrical maze.

His lyrics grieved change, spill-over worries and pain. No word left his lips without a hard shake. When he sung, he took off all the layers. Completely vulnerable, he infused lyrics with life. He made rocks orgasmic.

I wondered why he wasn't ragged from leaving it all on stage. But, then, I saw him smile and I understood.

After Austin's show, he said that he may not be a rich man, but in doing what he loves, he "is rich in many ways."

He left us feeling pretty rich too.

The Resentments: unpolished perfection

Miles Zuniga 

Every time I've watched The Resentments, it's the same feeling that reflects from that Saxon Pub wooden plated stage. 

It's a feeling of stepping into the living room space of a long-time friend. It's this feeling that I just have to pull up a chair and hang out for awhile.

And, all around me are audiences packed elbow to elbow, yet there always seems to be room to make more room, and, of course, more room to dance.

And, I believe this group can play anything. They write their own music together and apart. They cover covers with a sense of special blessing twists. But, the thing that captivates me- -floors me actually, is how they weave their talents together.

When The Resentments hit their stride, it's like approaching a sky full of stars and knowing you'll never be able to grab them all at once.

 Bruce Hughes, Scrappy Jud Newcomb, John Chipman, Miles Zuniga & Jeff Plankenhorn

Radiating from the stage, there’s this sort of respectful musical bow. Individually, the musicians are talented. Together, these musicians glide. Bound by their work, they are intertwined by this common cosmic creative force. 

And, this musical magic spills downstage too- -blurring the lines between performer and observer. 

The most obvious observation thrill comes in watching the audience in full-gear tuned-in wrapped up in contagious joy.

Bruce Hughes

And, every time I leave a performance, I remember- -plated in my head- -the strength that comes from doing what you love- -together.  

And, despite my die-hard white-girl-don't-dance inhibitions, I leave knowing, I've lost a few calories dusting up the dirt on those unpolished Saxon Pub concrete floors. 

And, I leave knowing, I'll be back. 

For the Love of Willie

Willie Nelson sings at Luck's Revival stage

Willie's Luck Reunion was a rejuvenating optimistic world- -a delightful time warp of rustic retro fashion with characters that claimed the stage and my heart at the same time.

The messages the musicians told between the lyrics were gripping. Seeing musicians like The Wild Reeds perform blasted me with a take-no-crap kind-of ammunition.

Boot waltzing into Luck's gravel road led me along the courts of The Texas Gentlemen, Langhorne Slim, Paul Thorn & the McCrary Sisters, Aaron Lee Tasjan, Andrew Combs and many more rings of talent.

The Wild Reeds

With a variety of acts to see at Luck Reunion, there seemed to be as much diversity intwined as there was a sense of celebrated soul. At Luck, it was less about the flair and more about the lyrics spilling out on stage.

The most engaging part about Luck Reunion were these stripped down rawly real performances.

Langhorne Slim on the chapel stage was uniquely unscripted. Just a man and his guitar was enough. He sang about his grandfather's legacy. He sang about love.

Slim's words were as inviting as a wooden pier welcoming a sunset's boast.

Langhorne Slim

Of course, there was some dazzle. When Aaron Lee Tasjan's star-stamped suit took the stage, he was a live wire. And audiences appreciated the glare for sure. His daringly daunting confidence weaved through his music with charismatic flair.

But, nothing compared to the moment when Willie Nelson took the stage.

First, Trigger made his entrance. From that point on, the audience's hearts started to thump loudly.

And, when Willie began to sing, audiences reacted in instant glee confetti.

Everyone wanted to be as close to Willie as possible. At one point the lady behind me pushed me in so hard that it felt a little like the WWF.

I reminded myself to keep a sense of humor and remembered she'd lost her wits mostly due to her love for Willie.

Along the row of the Bourbon lounge, there were rivers of authentic and homemade trinkets. Luck was a place not overrun with capital glam. Shirts were made of hand-pressed ink. Rings were hammered out by sweat and smiles. And the food trucks included every kind of local taste imaginable.

The Slab BBQ was so good that I wanted to talk to the sandwich. And, the people behind the counter were equally enchanted with their work.

There were free drinks at Luck, perhaps that may have been a draw, but the free water was a pretty big gift too.

Willie and Trigger

Hiding away on the stairs behind the saloon, I met the water vendor. His pride to serve Willie was obvious. He, like the rest of the service crew, may have been serving long days, but his joy in being on Willie's grounds was untamed.

I thanked him for bringing the water. I told him it had kept me strong as I served too with all of my heart.

He asked if he could share my bench. He was a stranger, but it felt like we were already friends.

I said, "I have to tell you this terribly embarrassing story. I was standing on a staircase in the saloon. And as I tried to step down, my boots stuck to the stairs. I fell down hard.

"An older gentleman caught me and I am pretty sure he thought I had had too much to drink.

He laughed and said, "You're gonna feel that tomorrow!"

I said "Yeah, and I think I came pretty close to feeling more of the stranger than I wanted too . . . you can't unfeel that memory!"

The Texas Gentlemen

After nearly tearful laughs, we left each other's presence rejuvenated.

At the close of the Lucky adventure, I saw that I had walked nine miles in two days. I had taken more than 600 photos. And, it's not that the grounds were large, it's that under every branch, there was something new to discover.

Moving pews from the chapel

This year's Luck adventure felt deeper too because I had the honor to serve as part of the crew. I got to watch talented people weave together every detail.

I learned there were more than 400 people who contributed. And, a central crew of 100 worked all year to put things together piece by piece.

Among those who planned the details were local heroes like EMS, police crew, a variety of creative people, vendors and music enthusiasts.

Luck, Texas

The most poignant realization was that no one ever said, "That's not my job." Volunteers helped direct traffic. Volunteers ran food to the musicians. Volunteers helped to keep the grounds clean.

One of the Lucky residents

Leaving Luck, I realized that the people, the family, the crew, the love behind-the-scenes- - had engulfed me.  I was contagiously happy.

I left rich with bark-filled boots dusted in authentic music memories.

With so much unrest in the world these days, Luck Reunion had reminded me about the power of unity, the healing impact of music, and the exquisite kindness of a horse's smile.

A few Luck memories