Now, the fog lifts and I remember Austin in other hard times, when clubs were closing at the turn of the 1980s, and how bleak it felt when a building that was your friend - as Mike Henry said so eloquently of the Electric Lounge - goes away, shuttered into memory. Artz Rib House, now temporarily closed, has been dealt another blow as Zenobia Sutton (who puts the Z in Artz) is in the intensive care unit of an area hospital with undisclosed health issues. Some of the Artz gang are opening the venue's doors tonight in an impromptu fundraiser for her. Headed up by the State Musician of Texas, Shelley King, and whoever else she can wrangle in, it's bound to be an emotional, songwriter-heavy gathering starting at 6pm. Artz is one of the last bastions of old school Austin songwriter clubs, a keeper of that flame along with Threadgill's and the Cactus and in the spirit of the Alamo Lounge and Chicago House. Those who can't make the last-minute effort can donate by check to: Art Blondin C/O Rene Britt PO Box 91092 Austin, TX 78709 Times have been tough for the scene before but it's important to keep the club fires burning because they are the heart of the music community, the spiritual homes to bands and their fans.

Will Taylor wrote me an email last week, complaining about the absence of categories for strings and horns in the Music Poll. We had a couple of exchanges and let it be, but the cyber-conversation sticks with me. Here’s the gist of what I said to him. I love the Music Poll ridiculously, but not because I believe that it imparts anything Earth-shatteringly important. What I believe the poll does do is let the fans acknowledge the work and effort artists put into their music on an annual basis in Austin. Considering the poor pay most musicians receive, being acknowledged is a nice bonus. It's really up to bands and performers to generate votes. This wasn't always the case; back in the early days the Chron was primarily an arts publication with little political sensibility but a lot of presence in the clubs, and people voted very freely. By “freely,” I mean that sometime in the early 1990s the voting changed from choosing favorite performers of the year to voting centered around who had a release out. That dynamic really changed the way people voted and, not coincidentally, coincided with 107.1 KGSR coming on the scene.

When last we checked in with Al Di Meola - in conjunction with May 2008's two-night Return to Forever reunion tour kick-off at Austin's Paramount Theatre - the Jersey pick axe emailed us from deep inside Siberia. "[Touring] towns you couldn't even begin to pronounce," he followed up last night during the second number of his second performance at the One World Theatre. A new, as-yet-unrecorded musical keepsake of the experience crept with bouncing mischief, the perennially Lothario-looking guitarist's fingers blurring over his acoustic's nylon strings. As the tune drifted into isolation, major chords summoning melting ice, Di Meola's international quintet, World Synfonia, thawed quickly, his Italian accordionist raising an arctic wind. In truth, Di Meola didn't need a percussionist, rhythm guitarist, or even a bassist - just a drummer and squeezebox - but then his jazzman's heart comes wrapped in a rockist approach. When the group exploded into a full, belly-of-the-boat cohesion, accordionist rearing back to howl wordless vocals calling the bulls home, Return to Forever seemed tame. "Those other guys," is how Di Meola jokingly referred to Chick Corea and company. Most tantalizing was Di Meola prefacing his "Paramour's Lullaby" with the first three notes of Cream's "Sunshine of Your Love," a tease repeated in the first of four encore numbers when he played the opening to "Race With Devil on Spanish Highway" from his commercial breakthrough, 1977's Elegant Gypsy. Fortunately the tune it prefaced was that album's centerpiece, "Mediterranean Sundance," which hasn't dimmed after more than three decades. Seventy-five minutes with Al Di Meola at the One World Theatre was just such a tango.

Only in Austin could there be a funeral service for booze. Sparks, the much-maligned yet shamelessly consumed bright orange caffeinated alcoholic beverage, has finally kicked the bucket. What? I thought that throat-burning sensation was natural! The newly renovated Red 7 is holding a wake tomorrow night, with ex-Sound Exchange employees spinning tunes (including the Chronicle's own Mark Fagan, who will be publicly mourning the death of Sparkleberries), plus sets from Black Panda, Comanche Abortion, the No No No Hopes, Camp X-Ray, and many more. Come pour some out. Or all of it.

Around this time last year, Germany's Slowboat Films holed up in the recently closed Oaks near Manor to capture Possessed by Paul James, stompin’ and hollerin’ at the witching hour. The scene is one of many in the Mark Littler-produced The Folksinger: A Tale of God, Love & Redemption, which follows Konrad Wert, the mortal coil for Paul James, as he struggles to make ends meet out on the open road. “This isn’t about being a tragic hero,” Wert told OTR that evening. “This film asked a lot of hard questions. Does this lifestyle really have value? Where’s the practicality to it? If it’s just benefiting you, that’s a luxury you can’t afford when you’re going to be a father or you love someone and want to be in a relationship.” The Folksinger makes its American debut tonight at Emo’s, presented by Hillgrass Bluebilly Entertainment, and followed by performances from Possessed by Paul James and Reverend Deadeye. Check out the trailer below.

Lil Wayne, The Leak 6 He’s baaaaaaaaaaack, and he still doesn’t give a shit what he records or releases. It’s Planet Weezy from the get-go as the New Orleans megastar promises to “beat it like Johnny Cochran” through auto-tuned alien depiction “Can’t Miss” before launching into the saxophone-primed “So Fly.” Stick your hand in the pot and see what you pull out: the “A Milli” reminding “Breaktime,” the reggaeton stylings he shares with Sizzla on “Ten Years,” or the “Lollipop” drenched “Hot Revolver.” Leak 6 lacks the punch of Wayne’s mixtapes of old, before his own market became supersaturated. There’s nothing calling to mind the focus of “Did It Before” from Tha Carter III sessions or the straight up domination of a song like “Dough Is What I Got.” All that’s here is a collection any selective MC would have left on the cutting room floor.

Not Bruce, Cohen. Veteran Austin bassist Roscoe Beck, musical director for the live juggernaut of one of popular music’s true ‘poets,’ dropped us an email this week to announce that, “the Leonard Cohen 2009 U.S. tour begins in Austin, Texas, April 2 at the Long Center!” This will be Cohen’s first local landing since an appearance at the Backyard in 1993. Given that the 74-year-old word mystic hasn’t toured since then and is only doing so now because his former manager siphoned his entire savings, it’s easy to assume this might also be the last opportunity to witness a singer-songwriter that makes Dylan look like a reactionary and Waits sound like a busker. I won the lottery in seeing Cohen kick off his tour last June in his native city during the Montreal Jazz Festival. Suffice it to say, I still haven’t recovered. Now, every time his name comes up, I can think only one thing: “Hallelujah.”

At least one thing went terribly wrong on Tuesday, Jan. 20 – Inauguration Day: David “Fathead” Newman died of pancreatic cancer. He was 75. Like fellow Dallas/Fort Worth Lone Star jazz immortals Ornette Coleman and Dewey Redman (1931-2006), the Coriscana-born saxophonist sharpened his musical chops in the gritty R&B circuit of Cow Town. Ray Charles knew soul when he heard it and employed Newman for a decade beginning in the mid-1950s, sponsoring his sax star’s solo debut on home label Atlantic, 1959’s Fathead/Ray Charles Presents David Newman. Pianoman smashes “I’ve Got a Woman,” “Hallelujah I Love Her So,” and “What’d I Say” – to name but three – all feature Newman on either alto or tenor sax. Church remained home for the horn blower – at least in Austin. November 16 fell on the Sabbath last year; eight years earlier – to the day – I first saw a visiting Newman during another Jazz at St. James weekend program, which featured a Friday night concert, Saturday workshop, and Sunday service. In 2000, I sat amongst St. James’ pews and let Newman’s buttery tone loose my imagination as to what it might have been like witnessing Ray Charles’ band with this brass man at the head. Two months ago, Newman and trombonist Curtis Fuller punctuated the Word with the Music, leading local pianist James Polk and a rhythm section through airborne servitude as golden as the fall sun light through the Episcopal house of worship’s new windows. When it was done, I got in line with all the others to shake Newman’s hand and tell him thank you. Thanks Fathead. Hallelujah, I loved it so.