It’s a rainy night in Texas
(I suppose the lyrics should be changed, but don’t count on that now.)
The rain was coming down in sheets on the way back into San Antonio. A truck veered in front of us, a slight mistake in judgement on the driver’s part, the truck driver, and he bounced the truck over a curb and headed in the correct direction. Next intersection was a mini-van, just sitting idly in the ditch in the median. Then there was the truck stopped in the middle of the road, high water seems to confuse SA drivers. Actually, just the mention of moisture will confuse a native Texas driver.
We were coming into San Antonio Saturday night, late. Go Spurs. We’d just been out to see Charlie Robinson at .
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[/style[I only know of the performer in a peripheral manner. But as I was listening to him sing outside, rocking right along, then, after a hiatus and hasty move inside to continue the show, I realized that there’s a special sound that can only be captured in certain venues. Places like Austin’s Broken Spoke, Sons of Herman Hall in Dallas, or Floores in Helotes (Helotes is on the road towards Bandera from San Antonio.)
Holiday weekend, Spurs game in town, best thing to do? Get out of town. Which we did. Robert Earl Keen’s Live #2 was recorded there, maybe a dozen years back, and this was a chance to check it out. What’s good news is that just about any weekend, any part of the Texas Cowboy Rock group will be playing there.
What was better news was Charlie Robinson’s gig. From VIP: seating, to the onset of the rain, it was just a well-rounded show. Midstream, almost literally, we all had to move inside because of Texas weather, that ever fickle mistress.
From rock to nothing but an acoustic setup, though, the transition took less than half an hour, and the results were rather pleasing, on more than one level. I mean, it’s nice to be in out of the rain, but also, to see a performer in a more private setting, a small dance hall with a minimal stage, just a guitar, electric bass, mandolin, and the drummer – this impressed me the most – he was working with a single snare and a bass drum.
Inside, the band rolled through a few songs, a couple of favorites, then Charlie Robinson got his wife – or some chick – from the audience. Couldn’t quite make out the dialogue. I found it all amusing because the singer was getting rather intoxicated, I guess the Spurs won? And it was late, plus the stage shift didn’t help matters.
He rolled through a few songs, starting in one direction, than slowing rambling to a stop, only to pick up a few minutes latter with more stage banter.
“Some people call me a joker, some call me a gangster of love … I’ll be around your home town.”
I picked a time to leave before what would probably become a series of encore performances, stretching the evening’s show out longer than I needed to be there. But under the South Texas sky, I start wondering about sounds.
It’s that high and lonesome sound that just doesn’t happen in some places. But under the stars, or even in the main room at Floore’s, it’s there. Ambiance. Spoke’s got it. Couple of place, Dos in Odessa, and I’d suggest it’s not in Dallas, but there’s the Son of Herman Hall, and it’s captured that sound.
