January:
It sounds funny to say that the first great show of the year was a funeral but it was.
When Rev. Elmo Franklin, Jr. died, not only did his Eastside friends and family
turn out in huge crowds for the former member of the Mighty Clouds of Joy, but
fellow Cloud Joe Ligon and singer Willie Neal Johnson took to the aisles for
the most glorious, spiritual send-off a human being could ask for. Neither
Quentin Tarantino’s appearance here for the From Dusk Till Dawn premiere, AC/DC’s killer show at the Erwin Center, nor Charlie Sexton being
dropped by MCA could eclipse it.
February: The second great show of the year happened when Garbage came to
Liberty Lunch, playing one of those on-the-brink-of-greatness gigs. Meanwhile,
local indie Sector 2 went under, sending acts like El Flaco, Peglegasus, Dash
Rip Rock, the Beat Farmers, and Mumbleskinny scrambling for new deals. Also,
Mark Farner died. That would be Butthole Surfer Paul Leary’s dog, not the
supremely dumb guitarist for Grand Funk.
March: The month that inspired Austin to call itself the “Live Music Capital
of the World” got off with a bang by having street singer Gerry Van King, “The
King of Sixth Street,” busted. The Austin Music Awards show was laid siege to
by Lou Reed, who played the Austin Music Hall that same night — a night when
most local venues have traditionally kept dark so they too can celebrate. The
Austin American-Statesman joined the fray by having Michael Corcoran
trash the entire show; he left the Awards at 9:30pm to make deadline, though
the show didn’t end until midnight. MTV’s Road Rules cast rolled into
town, on assignment as reporters with KTBC/Fox to cover the Awards show. A
local access crew thought it would be more fun to cover the RR cast
covering the Awards show, but near-fisticuffs ensued at the auditorium when MTV
objected. SXSW highlights included appearances from Joan Osborne, Liz Phair,
Ruby, Fugees, Randy Newman, George Clinton, and Iggy Pop, but I had no
fun. (The Music Awards will be at the Music Hall this year.)
April: I almost choked watching X-Files as a alien reference to “Roky
Crickenson” was made. And if I say that listening to Oasis sing “Morning Glory”
at the Music Hall was absolutely transcendent, you’ll laugh and say I copied
Corky. But I was standing right next to him (having kissed and made up over his
Awards show slagging) and he was 200% right: That song was the perfect arc of
passion, pop, and performance at exactly the right moment. I was in love with
it. My heart was racing, stuck way up my throat. I’ll never forget it.
May: It would be nice to say that the most memorable moments in May were at
the Kerrville Folk Festival, where 25 years of music was celebrated. Instead,
the ValuJet crash took the life of Walter Hyatt, and Austin’s own godfather of
punk, Joseph Gonzales, succumbed to ill health. To make matters sadder, former
Fabulous Thunderbirds’ bassist Preston Hubbard disappeared and was reportedly
dead, an assertion that has since been disputed though no one has actually seen
him.
June: By the time Electric Larryland came out, the Butthole Surfers
were preparing an extensive tour. Unfortunately, their first show in Austin in
several years — at the Music Hall — was a disaster. The album, however, was
great, spawning a huge radio smash in “Pepper,” quickly satirized on 101X as
“Paprika.” Antone’s Records joined forces with Discovery and the Cowboy Junkies
at the Paramount played one of the more perfect concerts I have ever
witnessed.
July: Forget the KISS reunion in San Antonio, all that glitter and flash would
be rightly seen for its shallowness by the time the Flashy Four came to Austin
in November. What was hot in San Antonio were the Butthole Surfers, who
used their disastrous June show as an example of what not to do. They
learned well, delivering a stellar performance to a crowd more excited to see
the Toadies. Did Phil Anselmo of Pantera OD? He says he did and then came back
from the dead. Barrelhouse piano player Roosevelt “Grey Ghost” Williams, sadly
enough, did not.
August: An R.I.P. might be appropriate for Ed Hall, who played their last show
at Liberty Lunch, a great, thundering performance from a trio that deserved
much more than they got. If it was good enough for Kiss, it was good enough for
the Sex Pistols, who played Houston and Dallas on their reunion tour. Thank
heaven, Quentin Tarantino was back in town, showing delightfully rotten films
at the Dobie and carousing.
September: September should have been Back to Cool month as AM15 went
round-the-clock, Eric Johnson released Venus Isle after a six-year wait,
and the One World Music Fest proclaimed its line-up that included James Brown,
Toots & the Maytals, Spearhead, and George Clinton & P-Funk. Falling
way short of the anticipated throngs, no one complained about the quality of
the music or the performers, just the huge debt left over, which Willie Nelson
later helped re-coup with a benefit show. Sadly, another month meant another
death, this one coming when Tom Churchill, bassist for Glitterpuss, Blort, and
Snatch Lizard, was killed in a hit-and-run.
October: I don’t get Beck and I didn’t see his Music Hall show on the 1st but,
like some strange car wreck, there’s something so compelling that I can’t turn
away from him. Moreover, “Where It’s At” got stuck in my head for so long, the
little skink weaseled his way into my Top Ten. Go figure. One band I did get —
in a major way — was Sixteen Deluxe, who got signed to Warner Bros. Meanwhile,
Paul Sessums’ second club, the Split Rail, closed — one week after Tim
Stegall’s cover story on the vibrancy of live music on Red River.
November: The Butthole Surfers returned to Liberty Lunch (just as Dejadisc’s
Steve Wilkison was leaving for Nashville and the White Rabbit was being sold)
for the kind of show they should have played in June but didn’t. This was the
Buttholes as you want them: mercilessly hypnotic, loud, crude, and as awesome
as I’d ever seen them. In a year when I went out less than ever before, the
concerts I saw were outstanding and memorable. And when the Buttholes finished
the year by having hit the mainstream, I couldn’t help wondering if Joseph
Gonzales, who had helped launch the band by giving them his “hardcore Sundays”
at Club Foot 15 years ago, was smiling somewhere. With that in mind, may
blessings be visited upon up ‘n’ comers like The Phantom Creeps, Tallboy,
Monroe Mustang, 10-inch Maria, Missile Command, and Choreboy.
December: It’s December 31, 1996. Townes Van Zandt will die in a few hours,
and he doesn’t know it. Or maybe he does and he’s made his peace with it,
knowing that the cold blue light is not the morning sky but the end of the
road. That he dies on the anniversary of Hank Williams death will not escape
those who loved him; sometimes it seems like a blessing to leave this earth
prematurely. But Van Zandt, like Walter Hyatt, Grey Ghost, Junior Franklin, and
the others who passed on, left that most precious of gifts — a bit of his
gentle self for eternity. Out of kindness, I suppose.
This article appears in January 10 • 1997 and January 10 • 1997 (Cover).