Fire in the Water, Earth in the Air: Legends
of West Texas Music
by Christopher Oglesby
Published by the University
of Texas Press:
"As a whole, the interviews create
a portrait not only of Lubbock's musicians and artists, but also
of the musical community that has sustained them, including venues
such as the legendary Cotton Club and the original Stubb's Barbecue.
This kaleidoscopic portrait of the West Texas music scene gets
to the heart of what it takes to create art in an isolated, often
inhospitable environment. As Oglesby says, "Necessity is
the mother of creation. Lubbock needed beauty, poetry, humor,
and it needed to get up and shake its communal ass a bit or go
mad from loneliness and boredom; so Lubbock created the amazing
likes of Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Butch Hancock, Terry Allen, and
Joe Ely."
"Indeed, Oglesby's introduction of more
than two dozen musicians who called Lubbock home should be required
reading not only for music fans, but for Lubbock residents and
anyone thinking about moving here. On these pages, music becomes
a part of Lubbock's living history."
- William Kerns, Lubbock Avalanche Journal
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Subject:
Terrific Site
Date: 4/26/2005 4:10 PM Central Daylight Time
From: mhhill
Attachment: Poetry.rtf
Chris,
Just wanted to drop by and tell you how much I've enjoyed your
website. I'm an expatriated West Texan presently living in Georgia,
courtesy of my recently abandoned career. I was introduced to
your site by my sister, who was kind enough to forward a link
to your interview with Bruce
Jaggers. I graduated from Abernathy High School in 1978,
and Tech in 1983, and spent countless afternoons and nights at
the Dawg, not to mention the numerous other watering holes in
Lubbock at that time. Memories came flooding back as I read the
interview, causing me to look west for a couple of days afterward,
pining for all things Lubbock.
Strangely enough, I had to move clear across the country before
having the opportunity to live in the same neighborhood with
a fellow Tech alum. Imagine the odds. She attended Tech about
the same time I did, so we naturally drift back to Lubbock whenever
we get together, talking about old days and the vibrant nightlife/music
scene that existed in the Hub City. Recently, over the course
of several martinis, I gave her my personal assessment of some
of the more popular/colorful establishments from that era and
thought I would share them with you:
1. Fat Dawg's
- Best place to get drunk cheaply (10 cent draws on Wednesday
afternoon). Bohemian clientele and great live music Not necessarily
the place to be if you were looking to get laid, but if you were
into meeting some really strange, weird, and wonderful human
beings, score decent drugs, and dig the music vibe.....Fat Dawg's
was the only place to be. (I was actually at the Los Lobos show
mentioned in the interview, amazing performance, barely able
to make room for the band among all the different instruments).
I always thought the graffiti in Fat Dawg's should have been
salvaged or preserved in some manner. My favorite piece of work
was actually the effort of two individuals. Above one of the
urinals someone had scrawled....."I f*cked your Mother!"
Beneath this rather inane effort, someone else cleverly responded....."Go
home Dad, you're drunk." Always made me giggle when I took
a whiz.
2. Coldwater - Above average
chance to get laid but you would likely have to fight a shit-kicker
in the process. When Joe Ely played, there was not a better place
to be in the whole world....honestly. Crash & Burn, Two for
Tuesdays, every night there was a drinking special. Apart from
Joe Ely, the best show I ever saw there was Ray Price...no kidding.
Also, I picked up three college coeds (not at the same time,
mind you) who were ready and willing, but alas, were also very
intoxicated and threw up in my car. This never happened to me
anywhere other than Coldwater Cattle Company, must have been
something in the water. Needless to say....that kind of thing
will kill a mood.
3. Rox-Z - Carlo Campanelli's
place. Carlo worked hard to sustain a live music scene in Lubbock
and we became denizens of this venue. Our favorite band of the
time was Impeccable, fronted by Donnie Allison, with Darron Welch
on guitar. They played nothing but hard rock music, covers of
Montrose, Moxy, Zeppelin, mixed in with their original work.
These were my hair-farming days (or my Jesus period as my sister
likes to say). It remains to this day, the only bar I ever smoked
weed in....Carlo would come by and tell us to cool it, but I
never felt he was earnest. We drank like fish and he needed the
business. Imagine having 200 Wayne's and Garth's at one place.
A lot of hair, hard rock, and sweat. Witnessed a great show there
one night by that ol' Texas band, Point Blank, right before they
fell off the face of the earth.
4. Villa Club - Without a
doubt, the place to be if you were looking for love...numerous
divorcees just looking for a little attention.
5. J Pat's - Cool and funky,
we'd always stop in on game-day and fill up with juice as we'd
typically leg it to Jones Stadium from a friend's house on 19th
and X. J Pat's was the designated halfway point. You have to
keep hydrated in the desert.
6. The Cow Palace - A sad,
desolate place...just like all those lonely honky-tonks made
famous in all those sad country songs. Could get laid, but you'd
wake up not feeling very good about it.
7. Town Draw or Main Street Saloon (take
your pick) - Best opportunity to get implicated in
a FBI undercover investigation.
8. Saddle Bronc - Best place
to get your ass kicked, bar none.
As mentioned, I've recently resigned from my job, typical mid-life
crisis stuff, or perhaps mid-life clarity? In an effort to maintain
my sanity, I've taken up the pen to ward off the "doubt-demons"
until I figure out what I'd like to do with the rest of my life.
In the pursuit of this endeavor, your website has provided much
needed inspiration. I thought you should know. Keep up the good
work!
Sincerely,
M.H.Hill
P.S. I've attached a collection of my work that I'm attempting
to build on...hope you enjoy.
Lines
A collection
of poetry by M.H.Hill, 2005
©
M.H. Hill, all rights reserved
Forward
I grew up in a small farming community in the South Plains of
the Texas Panhandle. The landscape of my home is sparse, characterized
by wide open spaces and miles of cultivated cotton fields that
over the course of time supplanted native grasslands once home
to buffalo, antelope, cattle, and not much else. The South Plains
are located on an enormous mesa that encompasses over 37,000
square miles, about 250 miles north to south and 150 miles east
to west. Atop this mesa, 3200 feet above sea level, the terrain
is tabletop flat and treeless. The mesa is bounded to the west
by the Pecos Valley of New Mexico, to the north by the Canadian
river basin, and to the east by red-dirt Permian plains. Along
the eastern edge, the headwaters of the Red, Brazos, and Colorado
rivers, in harmony with wind and time, have carved beautiful
and rugged canyons that cut into the mesa like a knife into flesh.
For the locals, the intersection of plains with canyon and river
break is commonly referred to as the "Caprock", a term
that loosely defines the point of demarcation between the Llano
Estacado and the outside world.
The Llano Estacado (usually translated as "Staked Plains",
albeit incorrectly) was given its name by the Spanish explorer
Francisco Coronado in 1541 as he traversed this land with his
conquistadors in search of the mythical "Seven Cities of
Gold". Once, the Llano Estacado was the territory of the
Kiowa and Comanche who freely roamed the land hunting buffalo
to sustain the lives of their people. Although evidence of human
existence dates back over 10,000 years, man did not dare to live
permanently atop the mesa as the region is semi-arid, with less
than 18 inches of annual rainfall. Natural depressions in the
plains would temporarily contain runoff water, known as "playa"
lakes, but these waters were susceptible to rapid evaporation
and made sustaining life a perilous endeavor. This harsh environment
held Western settlement in abeyance until the 1870's when buffalo
hunters began to establish camps in the area. Native peoples
still roamed the land at this time and did so until the last
great battle of the Red River War was fought and won by the U.S.
Calvary in 1874 at what is now known as Palo Duro Canyon. The
Kiowa and Comanche were then relegated to the reservations in
southwestern Oklahoma thus making possible the golden age of
ranching and the ensuing "Cowboy" era.
Over time, as new technology enabled the drilling of wells
to tap the Ogallala Aquifer, ranching capitulated to the cultivation
of row crops and to some degree, the discovery of oil and natural
gas resources. With these developments came civilization. Today,
the Llano is predominantly a farming region and the world's dominant
cotton producing area. The influences of the Spanish, Native
American, Cowboy, and Wildcatter are still evident although the
area is decidedly "Western" in both look and feel.
For the uninitiated, the most common thing that comes to mind
when they see the Plains for the first time is how anyone in
their right mind could have picked this particular spot of the
world to live. Once described as a "treeless, waste of uninhabited
solitude", the region remains an acquired taste. Robert
Earl Keen suggests that "a wagon must of lost a wheel or
they lacked ambition one" as potential reasons for anyone
ending up there. Although I enjoy Keen's music, I beg to differ.
I reason that people would have needed incredible ambition, not
to mention faith and tenacity, to believe they could actually
create sustenance from such a place.
The two constants of life on the South Plains are the wind
and the sheer enormity of the sky. For me, it will always be
a magical, mystical place where the vast expanse of land collides
with natural forces to create a world in which it is possible
to feel simultaneously large and small I've coined this phenomenon
"conspicuous isolation". This landscape has left an
indelible imprint on my psyche and to this day, I feel claustrophobic
when surrounded by cities, mountains, trees, or anything else
that hinders my view of the horizon. I greatly miss the warm
days, cool desert breezes at night, awe-inspiring sunsets, and
endless views that seemingly beckon to all adventurers, prophets,
artists, and poets, calling them forth to plunge into the depths
of their consciousness with abandon and fervor. I'm steadfast
in my opinion this immense nothingness manifests itself in a
supernatural way, setting free those who are blessed with willing
minds and imagination to create without obstruction, just like
the view in every direction.
M.H.Hill
A Slanted
View
Only an optimist would
plant a tree here
waters flow deep
but well beneath the earth
wind is their deity
a constant force that
levitates the desert and
exchanges new earth for old
the grit it bears covers
the tracks of history while
altering the landscape
of our consciousness
everything submits to its will
especially the trees
as they bend in permanent homage
but rarely break
Ode to Jack
Kerouac would have loved it here
miles of open road
straight and smooth
he always knew
roads were meant to be driven
Lines
In my world
everything was straight
razor-edged
and endless
flat plains
horizon, then sky
rows of cotton
farm roads framed by power lines
and you could see
forever
Looking
for Horny-Toads
Did you ever wonder
what became of the part
of us that existed before our
awareness came home to roost?
Veiled by time and our willingness
to revise our view of decisions or
rationalize actions that
brought us to this point
We search for that time and place
where our minds were free
and our days were sunny and bright
while looking for horny-toads
Terra Firma
the land swallows
everything
simultaneously large
and small we feel
alone yet conspicuous
to someone or something
the past speaks quietly
beneath our feet
wondering what we've learned
of value
in our time
other than dinosaur bones
Tumbleweed
As were we
it too was connected
to its mother at one time
nurtured by soil and water
like milk from the breast
the mere fact it existed at all
was a testimony to will
a miracle of nature
when all things necessary
convene at the same place
and time
despite all odds, it flourished
rejecting mortality and all attempts
to lessen breadth and depth
straight and tall it grew
further and further from the womb
roots weakened with
the passing of time
until one day freed
by the wind
to begin a journey
down the path unknown
Old Sol
Concealed to most
he works as an artist
stirring in the morning
to wash canyon wall
with a palette
of red, purple, and ochre
a primary color
moving across a canvass
of cobalt blue
illuminating his work
with texture and depth
carrying within
the covenant of life
as he brings us to repose
with his crowning act
a burst of color
heretofore imagined
only in the mind
of God
She Walks
with Angels
-for Steph
Tresses the color of summer wheat sprinkled with sunshine
she came to me first as a vision, or perhaps a wish
azure pools led to a place where ancient souls resided
bearing wisdom of the ages and the sum of all virtue
deeper yet, a dwelling built with love and grace offered
redemption to a weary traveler burdened by sins of the past
taking respite in this place were the many she had touched
gleefully swimming in the essence of her being
drawn closer each day to the incandescence within
each hoping to possess, if only for one brief moment
the precious treasure borne in heart and freely given
by one who walks with angels
Old Farmhouse
at Blackwater Draw
A reminder of the dynamic of being
though seasons passed had long washed away
the footprints of children at play
voices silenced by the methodical cadence of time
and the never ending cycle of life
a circle unbroken, yet bent along its edge
this is where they ate, slept, loved, lived
and died, until finally, all that remained
of their epoch, their place in the moment
was rotting wood and old cars, rusting
in the shade of an aged cottonwood tree
planted when faith and hope were more than words
through the front yard, unkempt and overgrown
I walked past decaying remnants of their existence
an old refrigerator, broken chair, and a sofa
stained by rain, or was it sweat and tears?
to the front porch, where old boards and broken glass
joined in a haunting symphony beneath my feet
Looking through a window, I caught a glimpse
of shadows dancing in a lifeless room once home
to beating hearts held fast by life's struggle
I felt their presence, witnessed their dreams
and in the corner of my eye, saw my reflection and
heard the distant, rhythmic ticking of a clock
Nine Minutes
Early in the morning, my ritual begins
in my tidy bed, our tidy home
masquerading as friend, with deceitful intent
the snooze button promises nine more minutes
of blissful sleep, exactingly calculated
by evil engineers with slide rules and
graphs, and white-coated psychologists, as
almost enough time to drift back, but not quite
a primal scream that rattles my brain and
rips muscle from bone, every nine minutes
chipping away at my rust-covered soul like
a pick into rock, blasting shards of faith,
hope, fear, and redemption, in every direction
as I rise and wipe the crust from my eyes
in deference to the gods of precision
every nine minutes, in my tidy town
our tidy world
Riding with
Wilson
Inside my internal combustion demon, I belong
to the road, like Steinbeck and Kerouac except
my companion isn't Charlie, or Dean Moriarty
instead, I ride with Wilson, raw, rough,
sweaty, southern heat radiates from deep within
it melts the asphalt, grips my tires, and hugs
me close to the black velvet ribbon as I
press my foot deeper into the beast and revel
in the unholy growl of twelve-cylinders while
shifting thru five gears of pure Alabama soul
first gear, Memphis, In The Midnight Hour, that's
when love comes tumbling down and baby, I feel
it all as the tachometer hits the mark and signals
the exact point where rpm, torque and acceleration
mix in an orgasmic blender that slingshots me
down the freeway, I grasp the stick-shift, gently
caress it into second and notice that it fits my
hand as perfectly as the small of a woman's back
I'm a streak of black lightning, striking Muscle Shoals
circa 1966, the Land of 1000 Dances, and Mustang Sally
I find third, then fourth, the rush of speed
makes me smile, forces my back against the seat as
I light a cigarette, and find solace on the open road
just me and Wilson, grooving to horns inspired by
the angels inside Solomon Burke and perfected in
the soul of my companion, and I know they're right
Everybody Needs Somebody to Love, sugar to kiss
sweetheart to miss, and I need the highway in my
headlights, miles of lonesome concrete with nothing
but time on it's hands, and me with gas to burn
Independence
Day, 1982
A soft breeze wafts through the bedroom window
making the curtains dance, gently waking me
on a sun-drenched, summer morning in July
turning toward you, I feel the warmth of your
body and drape my arm around your waist to
pull you closer as the zephyr washes the room
with honeysuckle fragrance, the sun rises
above the pear trees in our back yard,
filling our room with beams of newborn light,
chasing away the darkness and heralding
the birth of a new day, a new promise
with groggy, sleep-filled eyes, I notice the
tiny, wispy, blonde hairs on the inside of your
thigh, luminous against the golden brown backdrop
of your skin, cool and smooth to the touch, I
slowly close my eyes, drifting back to sleep,
transported by early morning imagery to a
faraway time and place, Independence Day, 1982
and a final gathering of friends
oh, we were free then, unfettered by all of
those rigid words like responsibility, duty,
and obligation, words that seemingly suffocate
idealism like a boa constrictor, tightening
its grip every time you exhale, leaving no
room for anything other than staid, practical
thoughts and well-laid plans earnestly submitted
by those with your best interests at heart, just
like the children on all those bicycles, draped
with red, white, and blue crepe paper, like
little strands of hope and expectation, layered
on by well-meaning parents, rising early in the
morning, too excited, it seems, about the prospect
of leading a small-town parade of fire trucks,
antique cars, marching bands, and simple homemade
floats laden with Boy Scouts, veterans, church
choirs, Masons, city officials, and all those
other people seemingly confident about their
place in the world, with answers to all questions
and there we were, as if we knew this was our
curtain call, our last chance to touch before
life's choices, good and bad, became a wedge,
scattering us like grains of sand in the wind,
what did we know of life, or death for that matter?
not much it seems, after all these years
but, ah, I do remember how if felt that day,
that summer, when we all returned home before
our final year of college, like salmon, drawn
by some mysterious and compelling force to our
place of origin, to confront the passing of our
youth, we easily settled into routine, tracing
the steps of our past and revisiting old haunts to
spend a few more precious moments in the shadow
of sweet memories, gifted by chance or fate,
on Independence Day, 1982, we watched the
parade, then walked the city square, visiting
with parents, teachers, businessmen, all eager
to gauge our plans, our prospects and timelines
but all we really wanted was a plate full of
barbeque, then we'd be off to the swimming pool
to lazily bask in the sun, drink beer, and
listen to music until early evening, followed
by our holy exodus to the country where we
would park our cars in a circle, drink more beer,
and partake of herbal sacrament in the company
of our muses for the day, staying for hours to
catch the sunset, always waiting for the sunset,
before heading back to the street dance and
fireworks display that signaled the end of all
worth celebrating that day, we danced and danced
as the band played lonesome, sad, honky-tonk songs
and mean, Texas roadhouse blues, moving in
counterclockwise circles as if we could rewind
the hands of time, our last fandango, a sweet,
innocent, joyful dance of youth, evidence of
God's existence in the perfection of one night
under a big Texas sky, and a million stars
After the dance, we drove into the country
again where we partied through the night,
telling stories told and heard a thousand times
before, but never tired of telling, or hearing,
we built a fire and turned on the radio, and
spent the night in each others company, one last
time, before we went our separate ways on Monday,
making the usual promises, how we'd stay in touch
no matter what, as the morning sun began to peek
over the horizon, we drank warm beer and listened
to Pink Floyd, I sat on the hood of my car, her
arms and legs wrapped around my waist, barefoot
and bronze, blond Texas baby, more friend than
lover, and I noticed those same tiny, wispy,
blond hairs on her knee, as newborn beams of
light chased the darkness, heralding the birth
of a new day, a new promise, and the flames
from our dying fire danced in a soft breeze,
on a sun-drenched summer morning in July
Lest We
Forget
-in loving memory of Mark
I still see these streets
as they were, not as today
images endure with closing of eyes
gin-dust sky of battleship gray
faded memories, lost then regained
unlike old friends in that particular way
all
poems on this page © M.H. Hill, all rights reserved
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