The sign reads “Floore Country Store.†Everyone knows it’s “Floore’s†– everyone from around here, that is. Tonight at 9:00 Lyle Lovett takes the stage with a pared-down Large Band. He’s from around here, or near enough; Klein, Texas, where he still lives. Big local boy points for that. I’m from around here, too. In fact, it would be difficult for anyone to be more from around here than I am; according to Google Maps, my childhood home is precisely 3.4 miles down Scenic Loop Road from the parking lot of Floore’s, in an odd semi-suburban community which to this day refuses to pave its caliche streets.I took my yellow three-speed all over those dirt roads, played in the creeks that cut through the limestone hills, sweltered through summers in an old rock house with one giant wall fan to pull tepid air through the rooms. I am from here.
And I got the hell out of here as soon as possible, away from shitkicker girls who fought on the school bus and drunken rednecks who fancied themselves outlaws because they listened to Willie and Waylon and cheated on their wives. Though love and fate deposited me back in San Antonio years ago, though I’m happier in another part of this city than I could ever have expected, I don’t come here. Not to this town, where my drunken redneck father roamed while my mother worked to support us. Not to this dance hall, where he showed me off to his friends before I grew troublesome, while I was still a decorative and compliant child. Not anywhere near these live oaks and the smell of beer and the “Sat Nite Big Name Dance†painted on the wall.
Tonight at 9:00 I’ll see Lyle Lovett at Floore’s.
I can’t tell you much about Lyle Lovett’s music, not knowing much myself about making music. I can tell you that his oeuvre encompasses classic country, gospel, bluegrass, and jazz, but is not limited to any one of these; that he is a consummate musician and songwriter who is astonishingly generous to and admiring of his fellow artists; that every person on stage with him is thrilled to be there, and has usually been there for at least twenty years or so. As a songwriter and performer, he is sly and witty and soft-spoken and biting. He covers other artists’ songs superbly; no one covers his. He is always exquisitely produced. He sounds better live than recorded. I’ve seen him eight or nine times since 1987’s Pontiac was released – in Austin, in Los Angeles, in San Antonio at the Majestic, always at a theater, never in that too familiar honkytonk atmosphere of stale Lone Star and cigarette smoke. He is mine, not theirs. I don’t know about this.
Last night I saw him at Floore’s.
Sam Bush
His latest songs, from 2007′s It’s Not Big, It’s Large, are pretty uniformly darker – he’s fifty, he got broken to bits a few years ago in a farm accident, life educates you after a while – but Lyle Lovett isn’t embracing his mortality, he’s facing it. When the devastating thunder of “I Will Rise Up/No More Cane†is followed in short order by a little tune about infidelity called “Keep It in Your Pantry…†well, that’s Lyle. Lots of songs for a Texas crowd: “San Antonio Girl” (ahem), “Long Tall Texan,†“Give Back My Heart (Chipkicker Redneck Woman).†An extra helping of bluegrass in honor of Sam Bush, who maniacally mandolined his way into the enthusiastic graces of the crowd. Sweetpea Atkinson, cooler than whom no other human being could possibly be. The incomparable Russ Kunkel on drums, the taciturn and hysterically funny John Hagen on cello, Viktor Krauss on bass… on and on, every one a legend in his own right, every one a friend for decades.
Sweetpea Atkinson
I listened, and cheered, and cried at “South Texas Girl†because it reminded me of my daughter, and noticed again how Lyle like every Texan boy I’ve ever known pronounces “through†as “thew,†and sat there in the sweat and haze of a typical August evening in Helotes watching the bugs swarm the Bud Light sign, and the glaringly obvious truth hit me about halfway through “This Old Porch,†right around the part about greasy enchiladas with extra cheese and onions.
I’m from here. So is he. So is his music, and his music is all the good things about this place I ran away from: respect for tradition, intense individuality, unwavering loyalty, hard work, passion, friendship, family. The unspoken testimony of the people who surround him, whether colleagues or fans, is indisputable. More than a musician, Lyle Lovett is the best of Texas.
Russ Kunkel
When the opening notes of “That’s Right (You’re Not from Texas)†finally hit the night air, I jackrabbited out of my seat, did a completely spontaneous double fist pump all the way up and let off a classic Texas girl-shriek. I didn’t plan it, I couldn’t stop it, and at third row center I was pretty much up onstage with it. I hit my seat again, clapped both hands over my mouth…
And Lyle smiled.
It was the best night ever.
“At a dance hall down in Texas
That’s the finest place to be
All the women, they all look beautiful
And their men will buy your beer for free…”
all photos Brian K. Ivins 2008
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I try to see Lyle every chance I get (which isn’t too often way up here in western New York). Your post made me feel like I was seeing him again. Thanks.
Ah, this San Antonio girl is burning with envy.
“And I got the hell out of here as soon as possible, away from shitkicker girls who fought on the school bus and drunken rednecks who fancied themselves outlaws because they listened to Willie and Waylon and cheated on their wives.”
My God! The memories!
Oh, Ann. I read this and I could feel the heavy air and hear the rednecks in the back of the crowd and picture that road that leads out to Helotes (though it probably looks completely different then my memory) and remember all the times I drove north hopeful and came back south a little heartbroken.
And I think, if I could come back to SA and hang out with my Hub and you and your hub, maybe find the Sunshines and the Andersons jobs there so they could hang out, too… that’d be awright.
Gosh, Russ looks so old now. I still remember him in long hair behind his traps, hammering away to, “Mexico,” or, “How Sweet It Is.”
I guess that means I’m getting old, too.
I may not be from around here, but I can still take a saunter down past the Grey Moss anytime I like…on two wheels and a motor that purrs like church mouse at 30 mph and 45 mpg….
The Grey Moss Inn was my school bus stop.