I’m
running from something. But when I get to where I’m going, it’s still there,
panting, leering, and laughing. Like it or not, you can’t outrun yourself or,
as Johnny Cash refers to one’s darker side, “the black dog.” It’s fun trying,
though, and you get to see the sights. So this time, I decided to walk the dog
in Texas.

ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย  Visited with rockabilly legend and
personal hero Ronnie Dawson, who is battling The Big C in The Big D. Ronnie is
fighting the good fight, and as he has always been to countless musicians, he
continues to inspire with his unwavering candor, guts, and true passion for
life.

ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย  Saw Austin, Texas-bluesman (and
occasional Asylum Street Spanker) Guy Forsythe belt the lonesome blues at
Antones from the middle of the room, without a mic or a love to call his own.
Hung out at Egos (a genuine honky tonk in a parking garage) a few nights later
to see the lovely Lacynica, who re-learned me how to two-step without
two-steppin’ on her feet. Also saw Dale Watson, one of the best real country crooners you will ever
hear, shot a little 9-ball, and ingested tons of root beer with a second-hand
smoke chaser.

ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย  Strolled down Sixth Street to see
Chad Thomas and the Crazy Kings prowlin’ and howlin’ at the Chuggin’ Monkey.
Scarfed some amazing Sam’s BBQ topped with jalapenos and raw onions, which
helped me make close, personal friends on the flight back home to the tundra.

ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย  Got to sling Chardonnay and coffee
to one of the grumpiest crowds I’ve ever seen at The Auditorium for The Music Man. It was family values in
full effect (or in full-blown decay): dads downing as much Jack and Coke as
they could during intermission, moms bitching at me, and their ungrateful
broods of teenagers — that starts with “T,” which rhymes with “P,” and that
stands for pool.

ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย  Stopped By Tapas 177 to see the
sensuously exquisite Gypsy jazz of Alla Turca. This trio’s music is tailor-made
for female hips and, consequently, my appreciative, albeit bloodshot, eyeballs.

ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย  Ex-Testament-guitarist-turned-jazzer
Alex Skolnick played the hell out of his sunburst guitar at Montage Grille,
cutting such a sweet groove that the drummer fell off his stool mid-song.

ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย  All kinds of great things are comin’
’round the bend. I’ll have to elaborate later. The dog wants to go out again….

—
Frank De Blase

This article appears in Feb 19-25, 2003.