Tono and Lloyd give us a driving tour of Austin, up and down Congress St.'s music clubs, music literally exploding from adjacent clubs for about 5 blocks on both sides of the street. Too much to see, over stimulation visually, lights, neon, guys and gals dressed in black and what not, laughing, strolling, strutting. Then 6th street, same kind of clubs. The younger crowd hangs in the western end of the 6th street scene, over 30-somethings on the west end. Blues, rock, honky tonk. All of it. And more than I've ever seen in such a small area. Good stuff. K and I look at each other, eyebrows arched, grinning--this'll do!
My uncle Antonio is a criminal trial attorney who works seven days a week when in town and then travels for about 5 or 6 days every 6 weeks or so; so he went to bed. Lloyd took us two down the block to get some smokes and have a couple of beers at the Liberty bar, a smallish bar with a very large open air area out back. Picnic tables, mostly younger white kids drinking and smoking out in the open, warm Texas air. Located in Austin's east side, this area was mostly Mexicano until recently, as gentrification has begun to take over. This means, apparently, less knife fights and so on. The bartender tells Lloyd that his money is no good and gives booze without remuneration. So don't tell me there's no benefits to being a barfly!
We get back to the house around 1:00, chat a bit, then around 2 go to bed, tired. Instead of going right to bed K and I have a spat, I grab my smokes and a beer and head out into the back yard from the small mother in law apt. that we're in (where Lloyd usually stays-he's on the couch in Tono's house these two nights). As I walk out I encounter Lloyd, oil can of Foster's in hand, "You look like you're pissed off," he says. "I am." Without any in depth explanation (don't friggin' get me started, grrrrr), we lauch into a great three hours of smoking, knocking down cervezas, cracking each other up with tales, inquiries, truths, half-truths, and probably a few lies as well. About the time the birds start to make their presence known I head in and get three or four hours sleep to prepare for the next day.
We get up, coffee happens, I make huevos rancheros for the three of us (Tono across the street at his law office). We find, serendipitously enough, that Bob Schnieder, a favorite of K and mine, is playing at Antone's that Saturday night, and we pick up four tickets for a reasonable (or perhaps unreasonable) $15 per, and after a wonderful dinner of braised pork loin pieces in a Thai fish oil based, tomato and kale shell pasta dish (made by my uncles), we head out into the Austin night.
The show is a real kick, Bob playing with Mitch Walker, a UT music prof with unbelievable picking skills. Bob is the showman, working the crowd, talking, singing his crazy, funny, soulful stuff while Mitch is the technician, blowing us and my uncles away with his skill. The crowd is white, mostly younger, it's packed. We knock down beers and vodka tonics, Lloyd getting somewhat rowdy, whistling, occasionally heckling-Tono walks around the corner, embarassed by his older brothers antics. At one point he says to me, "He's fucking crazy. He LIKES to get kicked out of bars. He thinks it's some kind of honor." But it's awfully fun, Karen is dancing and grinning, light pouring out of her eyes, teeth white and flashing through her grin. White twinkle lights and candles light the stage, the two musicos sitting on tall wooden stools, playing exceptionally tight, Bob on rhythm, Mitch kicking serious booty on his strings.
The show ends and we move on to The Ginger Man, which has something just under 100 beers on tap. Yeah, seriously. The bar back is one long (I dunno, twenty plus feet long) copper sheet punctured with beer taps in three rows, interspersed somewhat crazily with each other just to fit. I am paralyzed with both options and the notion that somehow maybe I got into a car wreck and have arrived in my own personal heaven. As I'm waiting for my thirteen virgins to appear (and frankly, looking around, I'm thinking that finding them in this crowd may prove to be damn near impossible), the bar maid arrives and asks me what we want. "Uh....how about that one?" I point and mumble whatever amber I see, we get our beers and talk about wrestling and hockey and other mid-west sports that the two brothers played during their high school years in the Twin Cities area. Having just arrived from thier native Mexico in the late 1950's, they got right into the spirit of things.
Two beers later, fairly tanked, we go back to the house, Tono going to bed. Lloyd, Karen and I walk down the block to Rabbits, where a kick ass honky tonk band is playing in the little bar-maybe ten by thirty inside, the dance floor and band area being compressed into less than half of it. The music is really loud and crazy assed good. The tall dyed white haired, pointy cowboy boot wearing lead singer/guitar player is kicking it out, the slide guitar player is twanging and picking and it's really rich and loud. Karen takes off her outer shirt, she's got on a magenta teddy top, "Take it off, sister," Mike, the singer, says, and we dance, swinging it, sweating. Only one other gal there, and maybe five or four other guys, and it's Dos Equis for us and Lloyd is giving them shit, "Play some real music," he says, but he's a regular, hugging Conejo, the owner, and his son, working the bar, a true neighborhood bar, paint peeling off the outside, bar bones inside, almost bare period, but true Texas music and culture.
The music ends and we hang with the band outside for another hour, smoking and drinking, even after the bar is locked and Conejo and his son leave. After Lloyd attempts but fails to pick up the Austrian bass player gal we walk up the block to a small taco stand, get some tripa (intestines) taquitos, and head into our last spot for the night, Primos.
Now Primos is the knife fighting Chicano biker type cowboy hat lesbian bar. It's not crowded, maybe twenty people total, most of the guys have cowboy button shirts and white cowboy hats. A group of older lesbians in black leather coats, graying hair, stand in the corner. The DJ, a 325 pound, wide chicano male spots Lloyd and beelines for him. As I'm wondering if this is good or bad, he sticks out his hand and hugs Lloyd, grinning, good to see you, bato, welcome back. There's a small parquet dance floor in front of the DJ, maybe 10 by 15 feet, and two or three couples, all mexican, all at least 35-40 years of age, are twirling each other Texas style. Lloyd takes K on the dance floor, I watch, drinking my umpteenth beer, smiling, looking around. After a beer and maybe 30-40 minutes, the place is closing, I guess even in Austin there exists some kind of bar time. The couples file out past us, smiling nicely. No knife fights tonight. It's mellow and we walk back up the block past Rabbits, up the alley to Tono and Lloyds' place, grab another beer and sit in the back yard amongst the bermuda grass and smoke and yak for another hour.
I wake up, make coffee, get my lovely gal up with said coffee and we start our last day in the city of music and lights. We talk with Lloyd and do some email stuff, wash laundry, begin to prepare to leave. Lloyd makes a great Spanish breakfast of potatoes, onions, sausage, eggs, and corn tortillas. Tono comes back, joins us for lunch where we discuss his upcoming trip to Thailand and generally just shoot the shit. Breaking out a beer we talk until about 4:00 when we pack up and back out little black rocket ship out of the garage and head off, sayonara style, into the eastern Texas plains.
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