Billy Joe Shaver – The Pleasurecraft

June 23, 2009

Sometimes it seems like you’re the only person in Austin who hasn’t gotten high with Willie Nelson in the back of his tour bus. Why the dis, Willie? Just because someone comes across a little bit straight edged doesn’t mean they’re not willing to make the bowl glow like a thousand suns … in the right circumstances … and what circumstances could be righter than the back of the Honeysuckle Rose IV, a biodiesel chugging Amsterdam on wheels where ex-football coaches, preachers, and even asshole rednecks check their sanctimony at the door? Hell, even people who have never tried pot are happy to get their ganja cherry popped by the Red Headed Stranger himself. It’s not like shooting heroin with Boy George or snorting meth with Courtney Love. There’s a certain Zen involved – a high tolerance, if you will. Why else would chick-hater Toby Keith get to burn one with His Willieness, even though he claims he’ll never smoke weed with Willie again? Criminal. At least he got the offer … and don’t think for a minute that given a second chance he won’t be sucking on Willie’s spliff like a Detroit crack whore. Why wouldn’t he? It’s no secret that Willie’s weed is some really awesome shit – good enough to justify a second residence in Maui maybe? Who knows? Well, everybody except you apparently, and just because your plumber, your hairdresser, Matthew McConaughey, and that pimply-faced kid who checks your receipt at Guitar Center have all gotten stoned to the bejesus belt with America’s favorite write-in presidential candidate is no reason to be all sulky. Willie ain’t stuck up. More likely it’s just that your timing is off. Don’t worry, Willie has clearly negotiated some sort of Keith Richards deal with the devil (or Jesus?) and will likely be around long after you and your progeny are dead and gone. He also knows the secret of the immortal: If you live long enough, all your friends die, so you damn sure better keep making new ones. Tragically, one of Willie’s oldest and most beloved friends just died back in May, so there’s a huge space left open. Poodie Locke, voted in 1952 the Most Beautiful Baby in Waco, was Willie’s longtime stage manager as well as the owner of Poodie’s Hilltop Bar & Grill in Spicewood. Not only was Poodie a truly nice guy and the very definition of a bon vivant, he was a true ambassador and representative of Williedom for those not quite lucky enough to make the inner circle. Poodie welcomed everyone, consistently paying forward Willie’s good vibe. When he wasn’t on the road, he was at the bar drinking tequila, listening to music, sharing stories, and a bit more clandestinely, Willie’s intoxicant of choice. Not surprisingly, Poodie’s circle of friends was huge and devoted and included a lot of musicians, both famous and not. This Sunday at the Backyard, they’re throwing a concert to celebrate his life. The show, called Poodie’s Picnic, is a nine-hour musical extravaganza that is worth far more than the $20 admission. Included on the bill are Joe Ely, Reckless Kelly, Cross Canadian Ragweed, Cory Morrow, Billy Joe Shaver, Ray Wylie Hubbard, Gary P. Nunn, Bobby Boyd, James Hand, Billy Bob Thornton & the Boxmasters, Carolyn Wonderland, Paula Nelson, Folk Uke, Waylon Payne, Scotty Emerick, and more. Plus there’s always that chance the Honeysuckle Rose IV might roll into the parking lot and make your day.

November 11, 2008

If you’re new to Austin, consider this: You can’t really call yourself an Austinite until you’ve spent some quality time in a South Austin back yard – ideally one decorated with Christmas lights, old beer signs, and a liberal scattering of dogs, mosquitoes, and dirt-smeared children. There should also be an makeshift stage – perhaps a piece of plywood laid on the grass or maybe the corner of a back porch or a rusty old flatbed U-Haul trailer that somehow never made its way back to Grand Blanc, Mich. On the stage should be a man of indeterminate middle age – somewhere between 40 and 70 – whose skin appears to have been slow-cured for decades by a combination of relentless sun and unfiltered cigarettes. He should be wearing an old snap shirt – not vintage, but some faded, half-polyester turquoise and brown job that was purchased at a Montgomery Ward back in 1979. It will have wear holes and a few buttons missing. He may or may not be wearing a sweat-stained, straw cowboy hat too, but if he is, he’ll be wearing sandals instead of boots, or maybe some old Payless running shoes. If he is actually wearing boots, they are older than you – maybe even older than your parents and your parents’ parents. Still, in spite of the fact that he looks like he has raided the Crypt Keeper’s wardrobe, he will be playing a really expensive guitar – probably a Taylor or a Guild or maybe an ancient Martin that was signed by Willie or Waylon or Townes – well, maybe Townes. It’s hard to say, because the signature trails off at the end. In the midst of all the conversational murmur, children’s squeals, dog barks, and airplane/traffic noises, he will unobtrusively be playing a song. If you actually pay attention to it, you might find that it is the most beautiful and true song you’ve ever heard. You might be absolutely shocked you’ve never heard it before. Incredulous, you might turn to the person next to you and ask who wrote it, and they will respond, “He did.” You won’t recognize his name. He’s nobody special, but when you finally hear that song, you’ll be able to call yourself an Austinite. More importantly, you can carry that beautiful memory with you when some pretentious fuckstick doorman jacks you up about not wearing proper attire. This is Austin motherfucker. We are playing a much bigger game here. Like Billy Jeff Clinton used to say, “We are expanding the definition of us and shrinking the definition of them.” That’s what makes this town special. So maybe you haven’t gotten the South Austin Backyard Dirt-Patch Party e-vite. Don’t sweat it. Your time will come. You just have to start mixing it up with the right people. Try Ruta Maya HQ this Friday. Somehow a wormhole opened up somewhere in the space-time continuum and is dropping country songwriting legend Billy Joe Shaver smack dab in the middle of one of Austin’s biggest hippie havens. That’s OK. He could use a little more peace and a little less war these days. If you haven’t seen Billy Joe, you need to put him on your bucket list before he finishes up his. Shaver is one of the finest living American songwriters. See him now at Ruta Maya, so you won’t have to watch the PBS documentary about his life and wish you had.