Should run a subtitle: over-thinking country music.
Dateline: Eden, Texas – Look it up on map, Eden is between Brady and San Angelo. Edge of nowhere. In the middle of the plains, west of the hill country. I’ve been blessed with not having to stop there, last time I was through, but I did notice that at least one sign claimed that Eden was the center of Texas, and that makes it the center of my world.
Primary source of income, I’m guessing, the main employer in town looks like it’s a correctional facility. What I missed seeing, and I intended to get an image if I’d seen it, was the usual “Don’t pick up hitchhikers” sign. I’ve always guessed that it’s a local affectation.
West Texas is still in my nostrils, or so it feels. I can still have a rough patch of dry skin, and that was only 48 hours, and by their standards, it was a wet spring. Green, lush, verdant, fresh from some recent rain. Bluebonnets crowding the low spots in the highway’s median, low, wet places in ditches. What I’m doing is establishing Texas highway credit, although, to be honest, under 200 miles really isn’t that much of a drive, not around here.
Yes, I followed Scott’s advice, I spooled up H3, and I let him warble through his first set, sounding like a cross between – work with me here, I’m little weak in my real punk stuff – but Misfits, maybe Dead Kennedys, perhaps a sprinkling of Dead Milkmen. And throw some hardcore DAC along with the rest of the country outlaws, then invoke Hank Williams, Sr. Shaken, not stirred.
It was early in the second CD. I didn’t even think about it because I’m personally affected by the train noise. It’s very personal to me. Unlike many of my neighbors, friends, and cohorts, I’ve actually ridden trains around “East Texas,” Austin to and from Ft. Worth, Dallas, and recently, San Antonio. Add to this, I’ve used the railway right-of-way as a pedestrian highway, sort of my own way to stay off city streets, and I’ve heard that noise, on the second CD, many times.
So the “over-thinking” part results from having spent time around trains. On trains. Travel.
One of the most emotionally painful yet equally cathartic realizations was a slow train back from Dallas. Middle of the summer, air-conditioned comfort, and Lyle Lovett was with me, in spirit, with his forlorn best voice singing Steve Fromholz Texas Trilogy. A train song, for sure, about something that no longer exists. Cross the long trestle over the Brazos River, and there’s the abandoned station and store the songs are about.
I didn’t even consciously think about it, when I first listened to the second of the new H3 CD, with its 42-minute “untitled” cut. Around five minutes in, there’s that train sound, faint, then louder, and anyone who’s stood by the tracks while a long freight’s rolled though knows the sounds.
I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around whatever the concept or overall point is to that long, untitled cut. Couple of songs, lots of ambient noises, perhaps it has no point. Maybe there’s a theme. Maybe not.
But rather than sit and think about it, I just enjoy it, although, I have tendency to roll back over the train noises a time or two, since it evokes something in me.
The satire and parody, one or the other, or perhaps, a more loquacious single-finger salute towards the slick, over-produced music with strings and rhythm sections, that comes blaring out. Amazing stuff.
“And the sound of trains only remains
In the memory of the ones like me.”
(Steve Fromholz, Texas Trilogy: Trainride)
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Whore House — It’s in San Angelo.
Mythologies vary from location to location. In some parts of the world, historical events deal with uprisings and claiming new frontiers for truth and justice. In other places, or along other lines, the old enemies of state and basic run-of-the-mill outlaws are deserving of plaques and romance.
So I found Miss Hatties a bit odd, but then, also in keeping with standard Texas traditions, too, perfectly normal.
San Angelo is either thirty or sixty miles west of the fabled Hill Country, and while San Angelo is located in and amongst some hills, it truly is part of the western portion of Texas, the cowboy image holds true and strong. The noble cowboy, I’d like to suggest. Which I’m not, as I don’t which end of a horse is the operating end, but I understand the spirit.
Meandering back, there’s Flat Rock Creek, Voca, and a sign pointing down a dusty road, “Primitive Baptist Church Spring Valley,” and finally, entering into Austin’s neighborhood, right before the subdivisions begin, there’s always that “home again” happiness.
The Fine Print:
“Not Responsible: Theft, fights or accidents in the parking lot.”
“This parking lot is protect by electric surveillance equipment. You are being monitored.”
Meditations:
“Give yourself a gift: the present moment.
“People out for posthumous fame forget that Generations To Come will be the same annoying people they know now. And just as mortal. What does it matter to you if they say x about you, or think y?”
Marcus Aurelius Book VIII, #44
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