development that reaped a bumper crop of skyscrapers and microchip consortiums at the expense of skyrocketing downtown rents that forced a lot of clubs to shut down. The guilt came after the real estate boom went bust and the new buildings stayed empty and the industries they wooed with tax concessions and university endowments skipped out of town. Then someone did a survey and found out that most of the town’s residents felt that—surprise—the Fabulous Thunderbirds, Antone’s, and the Cannibal Club were just as important (if not more important) to Austin as IBM and Motorola. And a majority also felt that Austin had suffered a decline in the quality of life, one of the elements that had been loudly trumpeted in the brochures and portfolios used to lure industry and investment to Austin in the first place. Someone sensed a vicious cycle at work.
So the chamber of commerce was picking up the tab for air time on the local stations. Joe Ely had been scheduled to do a ninety-second spot—eighty seconds of music and ten seconds saying, “Get off the couch tonight. Turn off the TV and go see a band.” But something had come up for Joe and we were going to do it instead.
I felt lucky that I was able to locate all three of my bandmates plus one of the roadies—Nick—and get them to agree to show up at the Channel 36 studio at one o’clock. Then I checked my watch: eight o’clock. It hadn’t been luck; they’d all been in bed, like me. I’d have to call them later and remind them that it wasn’t all a dream.
I had less luck getting in touch with Lasko. I called back and asked for the lab, but no one there would talk to me. I called Brackenridge Hospital. There had been no change in Retha’s condition.
Ray and Leo were late as usual. Ray was consistently twenty minutes late. Leo could run from an hour to an hour and a half late, showing up only five or ten minutes late once in a blue moon just to throw off the average and to make you think that the rest of the time he just couldn’t help it. The technicians were getting nervous, so they helped Nick unload and set up the gear. It wasn’t like setting up a heavy metal band with walls of megawatt amps and double-bass drum kits or racks of synthesizers, tape machines, and flash pots. We were stripped down retro and proud of it. I used a customized Fender Bassman tube head and a cabinet loaded with two heavy-duty fifteen-inch speakers. Billy kept the beat with a kick, floor tom, two racks, hi hat, ride, splash, and, occasionally, a cowbell. To go with his thirteen electric guitars, Leo had about half that many amplifiers, though he never packed along more than two of them. Lately he’d been using a Pro Reverb. Nick had everything plugged in and tested inside of thirty minutes.
Leo straggled in at a quarter of two hauling a triangular guitar case with a pink tag attached to the handle. A new guitar. He set the case down, opened it, and slung a vintage red Gibson Flying V over his shoulder. He grabbed the guitar cord Nick handed him, plugged in, and said, “Hello, Martin. How you like it?”
With its flawless fire engine red finish on the V-shaped body, rosewood neck, and original square headstock, it was a beauty—the prototypical Albert King model. But what got my attention was the white plaster cast on Leo’s right hand.
“Don’t worry, man,” he said, acknowledging my stare, “I can still play.” He held up the cast. His index finger and thumb were still free, and there was a pick between them. “See?” he said, and slashed out the loud three-chord riff to “Mannish Boy.”
BUH BAAH BAH DUM
In the key of E, it was the rudest, machoest musical figure that had ever been bora. Leo slashed it out again.
BUH BAAH BAH DUM
You could almost hear Muddy Waters growl his fearsome testimony of elemental manhood, you could almost feel the sawdust on the floor. Leo Daly’s mojo seemed to be working.
BUH BAAH BAH DUM
The cast was disturbing, but the guitar
So the chamber of commerce was picking up the tab for air time on the local stations. Joe Ely had been scheduled to do a ninety-second spot—eighty seconds of music and ten seconds saying, “Get off the couch tonight. Turn off the TV and go see a band.” But something had come up for Joe and we were going to do it instead.
I felt lucky that I was able to locate all three of my bandmates plus one of the roadies—Nick—and get them to agree to show up at the Channel 36 studio at one o’clock. Then I checked my watch: eight o’clock. It hadn’t been luck; they’d all been in bed, like me. I’d have to call them later and remind them that it wasn’t all a dream.
I had less luck getting in touch with Lasko. I called back and asked for the lab, but no one there would talk to me. I called Brackenridge Hospital. There had been no change in Retha’s condition.
Ray and Leo were late as usual. Ray was consistently twenty minutes late. Leo could run from an hour to an hour and a half late, showing up only five or ten minutes late once in a blue moon just to throw off the average and to make you think that the rest of the time he just couldn’t help it. The technicians were getting nervous, so they helped Nick unload and set up the gear. It wasn’t like setting up a heavy metal band with walls of megawatt amps and double-bass drum kits or racks of synthesizers, tape machines, and flash pots. We were stripped down retro and proud of it. I used a customized Fender Bassman tube head and a cabinet loaded with two heavy-duty fifteen-inch speakers. Billy kept the beat with a kick, floor tom, two racks, hi hat, ride, splash, and, occasionally, a cowbell. To go with his thirteen electric guitars, Leo had about half that many amplifiers, though he never packed along more than two of them. Lately he’d been using a Pro Reverb. Nick had everything plugged in and tested inside of thirty minutes.
Leo straggled in at a quarter of two hauling a triangular guitar case with a pink tag attached to the handle. A new guitar. He set the case down, opened it, and slung a vintage red Gibson Flying V over his shoulder. He grabbed the guitar cord Nick handed him, plugged in, and said, “Hello, Martin. How you like it?”
With its flawless fire engine red finish on the V-shaped body, rosewood neck, and original square headstock, it was a beauty—the prototypical Albert King model. But what got my attention was the white plaster cast on Leo’s right hand.
“Don’t worry, man,” he said, acknowledging my stare, “I can still play.” He held up the cast. His index finger and thumb were still free, and there was a pick between them. “See?” he said, and slashed out the loud three-chord riff to “Mannish Boy.”
BUH BAAH BAH DUM
In the key of E, it was the rudest, machoest musical figure that had ever been bora. Leo slashed it out again.
BUH BAAH BAH DUM
You could almost hear Muddy Waters growl his fearsome testimony of elemental manhood, you could almost feel the sawdust on the floor. Leo Daly’s mojo seemed to be working.
BUH BAAH BAH DUM
The cast was disturbing, but the guitar
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