Any Saturday Night In Texas
Being pegged as a regional artist isn't really all that bad. You read that you have a cult following and only wish you had a bigger cult. Somewhere between The Grateful Dead and the Rev. Moon, perhaps. But, everyone is regional in some sense, and mine is the region of the Lone Star.
Since I was last heard from in '94, I've felt a bit like those ghost writers of song and story. Doomed to chase some wild mustang of a dream along some endless highway. The course, if run correctly, is only the width of one man's shoulders and if you raise up even once to find an approving eye from a critic or some mass public feeding frenzy at the trough, you will run her in the ditch for sure. In my effort to keep it between the lines (eerily similar to painting yourself in a corner, by the way), I have found fertile ground here in Texas. It's where the ghosts and the stories live. They haunt these old dancehalls and they can be found frolicking on any Saturday night. The trick is to catch a few, like fireflies in a jar, and light up the night. At Gruene we made a few sparks fly, come on in and listen. Chris Wall, October 1996 |
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