Tonight it’s two-stepping time and where else to do it if not at the Broken Spoke, the number one spot on country music lovers’ first visit to Austin, Texas. Wednesday through Saturday it’s packed with tourists and beginners who want to get an understanding of how to do things around here. But don’t let this fool you. At 9pm, when the band hits the stand, you’ll find plenty of regulars and serious dancers swirling around 3000 square feet of this warped and skewed dance floor.

We arrive early to get us some steaks, and make our way to booth B1—in the corner by the jukebox, to paraphrase James Hand. Tonight there will be dancing to Dale Watson, and as far as dance music goes, he’s a safe bet. We’re hoping to hear some of his good ones tonight like “Whiskey or God,” “Tequila and Teardrops” or maybe even “Heaven’s Gonna Have A Honky-Tonk.”

It seems to me that most Texans know how to dance—at least the ones who visit this kind of establishment. But asking somebody you fancy to dance could end up in a farce and you risk losing face. Two-stepping ain’t as easy as it looks. I’ve tried it many times and never really managed to satisfy my partners expectations. And the fact that these dances are organized to go in one direction to ensure there’s room for everybody makes it even harder. I still practice occasionally and hope that one day I’ll be on that floor spinning my darling around. Until then, I can’t do much but watch her dance while I, stunted, sit and sip.

Dinner is being served and we’ve both ordered chicken-fried steak with home fries, biscuits and gravy, all cooked to my heart’s desire—down-home style. This place has a full bar so we toast the meal down with some Bellowsbourbon on the side and order another pitcher of Lone Star. There’s a line forming all the way through the restaurant, from the front door to the back door leading to the dance hall. They’re all here for dance lessons before the real party begins. It warms my heart to see this culture thrive and I’m glad to be a part of it.

The jukebox is playing selections of its own, preparing the crowd for what to expect. It ranges from oldies like Johnny Horton and Jerry Reed to new releases from LeAnn Rimes. This kind of music has been calling me to the dance floor for almost two decades now. My legs are asking me to move, my heart is asking me to be true, but my head is on top of it all, telling me not to make a fool of myself. “On step at a time,” I think to myself, “one step at a time.”

It’s a quarter past eight and the dance disciples have squeezed themselves into the dance hall, leaving the restaurant to me and my darling, a few pool players and the jukebox. There’s still another hour until Dale hits the stage and we allow ourselves another shot. We hear soft music coming from the back room, but the announcer’s voice is strong. To my ears, it sounds a little bit like they’re line dancing in there. Let’s hope not!

The Broken Spoke is not as old as some of the other places we frequent, but it sure has its place in the history of honky-tonks. Owners James and Annetta White built it themselves in 1964 when 3201 South Lamar Boulevard was on the outskirts of town. It soon became the Austin landmark for country music. Acts like Bob Wills, Roy Acuff, Ernest Tubb and Hank Thompson made people travel from all around to visit. By far the most famous act to hit the big-time from his regular performances at the Broken Spoke is George Strait. In fact, the entire ladies’ room in the restaurant is adorned with magazine cut-outs of Strait shellacked to the wall—even the paper towel holder.

The Spoke is where you go to hear country music in all its raw truth. It could be your dead end if you try to make it here with a fake attitude. The music coming from this stage is true country talent. The audience at the Spoke would never forgive you if you didn’t play it like you lived it. There are a few who experienced that, but I’m not here to make a fool of anybody but me, which happens occasionally.

I’ve had moments here at the Spoke without music. The daytime atmosphere is calm and relaxed and it’s hard to fathom you’re a few short miles from the Texas State Capitol, in a city that’s home to almost a million people. It’s the perfect spot to be left alone for a couple of hours.

A cold beer, accompanied by the sounds coming from the kitchen and the bar, provides me the respite I need to get back on my feet and give this world another round. Modern life doesn’t have much room for thoughts of yesterday but with places like this, we can all empty the vacuum of urban life and fill it with the substantial feeling of belonging to the history we all derive from. The old honky-tonks and beer joints are there for us, to serve as cornerstones in a community of people with a taste for what we summarize as country.

The music has unnoticeably changed to something we recognize as Dale Watson and we understand it’s time to move into the back. If you want to experience the performance dancing, you have to pay a charge of seven dollars. Otherwise, it works fine to hang around the bar that’s located in between the two large rooms. We decide to wait a couple of minutes and brace ourselves with another shot of the Spoke’s well bourbon.

The dancers are in full swing and the sound of boots scraping the wooden floor is almost as loud as the music coming from the band. The bands playing at the Spoke serves up three sets a night giving the audience plenty of opportunity to make their way to the bar. Bud Light is the most common choice here, but I see a lot of whiskey going down, too. And water. It won’t be long until this room is steaming.

The first set is all covers. I’m thinking Dale is saving up for when the crowd gets a little warmer. The newest disciples easily embrace the unofficial Spoke policy to keep the two-stepping rotating counterclockwise. A task not to easy to perform while trying to take two steps in front of the next, which is one step—all to the rhythm of the music. The best advice I heard about this clumsy-at-first “3 step” is “Don’t think about it, just do it.” And sure enough, even on a two-beat or 4/4 song, it seems to work—if you actually get out and try it. The circle of dancers pass in front of me, smooth as a game of shuffleboard.

The band plays on and the music seems to come from a never-ending source and there’s little talk between songs. It’s still all covers and it seems to me this is the night where the crowd gets their fill. People are here to dance, and without any trace of hesitation, Dale delivers. My darling is out there on the dance floor being spun around happily. If there’s anything I’ve learned here in Texas, it’s that dance halls are not the place to cruise. Dancing is serious fun, and everybody knows their dance partner likely has somebody following their steps from somewhere in the dimly lit recesses of the dance hall.

It’s getting late and the dance floor is a little less crowded. I now realize that the only light that’s been on here tonight is from neon signs advertising different kinds of beer. I think about the neon out on South Lamar. They’re all part of the same commercial ideal, but the signs in here seem to speak with a softer voice, convincing me that there’s another side of the story. A story I feel a stronger connection to. The band’s been playing for three hours and they now announce the last song—a slow waltz. Everybody here has paid tribute to the band and I see satisfied faces all around me. Drinking might be the easiest and most common way to explore the honky-tonks, but two-stepping is the true path to embrace this culture.

The bar is open yet another hour and the couples and the lonely gather around to have the last drinks for this time. Together, we share the aftermath of a great night. My darling is happy and has rose-colored cheeks. She asks me if I’ve felt lonely. It ain’t possible to feel lonely at a dance hall like this. I’m just as happy and satisfied as her, I tell her, and promise her, as I promise my self, that this is the last time I don’t dance.

Footnote:
The Broken Spoke holds Valentine’s Day dances every year. The pictures in this article is from such an event.

We gassed, braked and steered our way through the backroads of Milam County. With Olle reading the map and Chris keeping the pick-up steady 65 at the wheel, we soon found ourselves in Downtown Texas, Texas. We’re on the hunt for a little-known honky-tonk that we’ve heard tell of for a long time. We don’t even know its name, so we call it the “Dream Place” because it sounds to us like the ultimate honky-tonk.

Now that we’re finally here, there’s not even the rubble of an old beer-joint. Not a sign of anything close to honky-tonk life: no beer bottles, no grated vinyl stools, and no worn down wooden floors. I guess it will remain nothing but a good story and a dream. A destination too common to be cherished. Chris parks by an old iron bridge spanning across the San Gabriel River and we step out to have a couple of cold longnecks we’ve brought along for the ride. Another loss, another toast. We let the winter sun warm us and after a quick deliberation, cram ourselves back into the truck and head down to Thorndale.

We come upon Steve’s Place, located on the outskirts of the business blocks on an unpaved road named West Salty Street. The street name alone conjures up all kinds of country. On the other side of the dirt road is an old pool hall closed for renovation—indefinitely by the look of it. The building next door, abandoned and carved out, is barely standing. This is a town in decay, but there seems to be at least a couple of local stores still open for business. A few signs of hope while passing Main Street. We park the truck on the side of the bar, right by a stack of barbecue wood.

As we enter, George Jones and Tammy Wynette are singing “We’re Gonna Hold On” from the TV-set standing all dusty and worn on the top of the refrigerator. The old gang of regulars sits at the table close to the wood-fired cast iron heater. They lift their heads to look at the three silhouettes entering through the creaky door.

Daylight is fading, and the inside is poorly lit. Dust from the bar swirls in the last rays of light coming through the windows close to the ceiling. Kim comes to our rescue. Lone Star for Chris and Pearl for me and Olle. Different joints call for different beers. This is our Pearl spot. But just in case, we happen to have a bottle of the crazy crow tucked away in Chris’ pick-up.

Steve’s Place used to be a mechanic shop back in the 30s or 40s, before its destiny as a bar began. There are two ample rooms which hold the bar’s necessities. In the back room, there’s a path cutting through a pile of junk, leading to two separate washroom facilities, both erratically adorned with torn out nudie magazine pics and old posters that might keep one happy for a while. The main room in the front holds domino tables, slot machines, the bar, and in the corner by the entrance, a fanless griddle for frying $3 Saturday burgers. There’s no jukebox, so the old TV-set serves double duty as a radio, receiving signals through a satellite dish.

The sun brought us a beautiful winter’s day but with the winds now coming from the north, the temperature has dropped from 55°F to 35°F within an hour. We all sit huddled close to the heater. I walk out to get the bourbon for some extra heat and take the time to check out this old neighborhood. Right across the street from the bar, next to the pool hall, I find a ’64 Cadillac with flat tires sitting deserted in the dust. A painted sign on the wall behind it advertise for hay, grain and feed from Thorndale Merc. Co. This is farm land indeed. Right by the rail road tracks stands 6 shiny silos in the late afternoon sun, waiting.

A train horn blows and I see a passenger train slowly roll into Thorndale. Amtrak’s Texas Eagle still goes through here on its way from Chicago to El Paso. If you feel the need to head west and jump onboard, you’d better do that in Taylor, 15 miles down the road. There’s no passenger train stopping here. The sound of the brakes and the steel wheels against the tracks is loud and cuts through the air like a shrill cry for mercy. I’m all gone by the time the last car has passed, and back in the comfort by the fire I hear the train honk it’s horn a last time before leaving this tiny town.

Kim at the bar is fast to bring me a set-up with ice and Dr. Pepper. Not my standard set-up, but it’s what I had the last time I was here, so that’s what I’m getting now. I thank her and send back the soda unopened and fill a cup with enough spirit to go around for the three of us. My friends are in full conversation about old cars and trucks and I notice that one of the regulars is following Chris’ expositions with silent nods. Maybe Chris’ hard earned knowledge about the subject earn some respect around here. The TV-set sound is low and husky and it’s hard to make out some of the tunes. But this one I clearly hear as we pour down the bourbon: Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys telling us melodically to Get With It.

The place look like it hasn’t been fixed up in at least three decades. I stick my finger in a bullet-sized hole in the wall and old, dried-out cement falls into flakes of sand. The beer signs are covered with so much dust I don’t think the owner dares to light them up. The only neon sign on is a Lone Star Light sign, toggled up in some kind of fly snapper cowboy voodoo altar. As far as I know, there are no ghosts hanging around this joint, except maybe one or two local drunks who’ve survived their own measured time.

Kim comes over with another round of beers. She tells us they’re gonna serve chili next Saturday and invites us back. She warns us that Saturdays start early, so get here quick before the food is gone. We tell her we’re usually not up too early in the mornings, but promise to drop by later. She also tells us that some Saturdays they serve barbecue and sometimes the owner comes to flip burgers. We might get lucky!

We actually did go back the following Saturday. Behold, there stood a tubby man in the prime of his years, flipping some of the best burgers we ever had. Juicy, rare burgers with plenty of jalapeños. They went down really smooth with a can of cold Pearl. But today we’ll head on home for some cooking of our own. Once again, we walk through the creaky doors, this time towards the dark outside where we leave transient footprints in the dirt of West Salty Street.

Footnote:
Downtown Texas, Texas is a community established by proclamation in 2009, located about 6 miles northeast of Thorndale, Texas. The area is also known as Apache Pass.

It’s really quiet and the wind is totally still when I arrive. I’ve decided to spend the day under the roof of Leon’s Store and I brought a bottle of Old Crow to make sure I’m not too dry on this hot day. Carol, Tom and Gary are all there when I walk in. It’s Carol’s shift at Leon’s and she runs both the store and the bar. But at 3 pm, there’s plenty of time for some “Ship, Captain and Crew” and all I have left after the game is the bourbon I brought with me. I pour myself a drink and offer the others some. “Nah,” they say. They stick to beer for now.

Herman Goertz, owner of Leon’s, walks into the bar and tucks a cold can of Miller Lite snugly into his prized koozie. He greets everyone with a silent nod and heads to the store side of Leon’s. Herman practically grew up at Leon’s and has been walking these floors since the age of 8 or 9. He doesn’t really remember, because it’s not really important.

Herman’s father Leon took over the store and honky-tonk in 1969 and ran the business until 1983. When the time came for Leon to quit, he offered the job to Herman, telling him he could “get a real job” —or take over Leon’s. Easy choice. Herman shucked the thought of a real job for Leon’s and hasn’t regretted it a single day. He knows this place and his customers like the back of his hand. When I asked him about running Leon’s, all the answer he gave me was a short “This place takes care of itself pretty good.” I get the feeling growing up in a joint like this kinda makes it your home.

The owner, Betty, takes care of our drinking needs and serves us some barbeque of the day. We take a seat close to the wall next to the heater. An oversized fan of industrial proportions is hanging above our heads and reminds us about the unforgiving heat during summertime. On the day of our first visit, though, the temperature is low and the heater brings a welcoming warmth.

The interior may not meet up to your expectations of a standard honky-tonk, and maybe this isn’t exactly a place you would call a honky-tonk, but you can get yourself a beer, there’s a couple of tables and chairs scattered around the place and it smells of firewood, bbq and cigarette smoke. In my book it’s a honky-tonk alright, missing the jukebox though.

Betty’s son, Craig, drops in with some sausages he picked up in Elgin,  “Go ahead boys and help yourself to some of Elgin’s claim to fame,” he says and disappears out the door.  He’ll be back in a bit, Betty explains.

Craig runs his own business setting up grave stones and together with his brother Jimmy he helps Betty with the “Q” and to run this little family business. Betty seems a bit tired of it and admits that she might want to sell it. She tells me that she’s had it for 39 years and it’s hard making money from it, especially during the slower period of the year. Spring sees better business with people coming here to fish on the lake.

We’re told that where the lake is there used to be a community called Friendship but all that is at the bottom now. Everybody laughs and I can’t decide if they’re pulling my leg or not. It doesn’t really matter anyway, it’s all part of hanging out at the old country store. As we drink and listen to the locals tell their stories, the conversation changes to muscle cars. The guy leading the conversation seems to have had his share of old classics, racing, working and of course crashing a few. Today, he continues, with the price of gas, you’d have to be a millionaire to be able to use them as your everyday car. I guess this ain’t the typical hang out for millionaires.

The store part of the place is quite messy. The joint part is in the back and the beer cooler is just by the counter. After a few longnecks I feel at home and I accidentally help myself to the next beer. Betty laughs and adds it to my tab. Jimmy, who has now joined us, is laughing as well. He is  almost the opposite of his brother Craig, tall and broad shouldered, with a calmness about him that really makes you feel at ease. Craig on the other hand is more energetic, running around fixing this and that and constantly talking to someone and anyone. This is Texas friendliness at it’s finest. And I appreciate it even more as Craig comes back and turns up the mood a couple of notches by putting on some music. Modern technology can come in handy sometimes. He hooks up some kind of modern player to a couple of old dusty speakers hanging on the wall and asks, “What y’all wanna hear?”

The town of Circleville was settled in 1853 and in its early days had a general store, a gristmill, a gin, a molasses press, tin and pewter shops, a blacksmith shop, a carding factory, a school, a church and from 1857 to 1911, a post office. The Kansas, Texas and Missouri Railroad ran through town in the 1880′s and several train wrecks occurred here because of an ill-designed curve near the San Gabriel River. Today you see no activity like that and it’s just a slumbering place moving at its own pace, but around the table in the back of the store it’s really picking up and I have trouble following the conversations. We’ve really worked up a sweat, the beer flows and  spirits are high. At an old place like this that celebrated its 100^th birthday a couple of years back, time flies and we’re getting ready to hit the road again.

I leave the store in a haze with my head full of stories, impressions and beer. Outside in the chilly night I hear wolves howling at the full Texas moon, maybe it’s coyotes or dogs. Does it matter? I’m happy with wolves, it fits my mind and adds to the impression of the place. I’m thankful for having our good friend and designated driver Chris with us this time as the three of us cram into his ’62 Willy’s pickup, and I have to ride bitch again. With no car stereo my imagination plays music in my head. The song Beer, Bait and Ammo with Kevin Fowler is haunting my mind. Luckily, the Circleville Store has nothing in common with the place Kevin describes in his Redneck anthem. This place ain’t no song, it’s real and it’s here for anyone to enjoy.

We’re a bit early for opening so there’s time to check out the exterior of the white painted little cottage, no more than maybe 16 feet wide and 30 feet long. In the back of the building there’s a tilted wooden shack that looks like it’s about to crumble at anytime, the lavatories, one for the Ladies, one for the Gents. It’s more like a four walled place to lay down your burden in a hole in the ground and I check for spiders and snakes as I enter the dim shed. If you have to go, you have to go.

On the side of the joint there’s a concrete slab with a smoker and a couple of trees giving much needed shade from the scorching sun, that and a couple of longnecks on ice is all you need to make an outdoor venue. On warm summer nights it’s a perfect place for scraping your boots to some local honky-tonk or polka band.  With the salty wind down from the coast sweeping up the rolling hills, you can sit back and enjoy the company of the regular Johns. This is yet another friendly place.

On the inside, the joint feels even smaller. The green walls are modestly decorated with a solitary hunting trophy and a few beer signs. Kind of rare compared to other places we’ve been were you can hardly see the walls behind all the things they put up. The only thing I miss is a good ‘ol jukebox. But where there’s lack of music there’s more opportunity for conversation. Soon I’m in the middle of a conversation with the bartender about beer. Out here in this Czech community they take great pride in the making of their brew, a brew that has its roots in a long tradition of beer making from the Old World. He’s very interested in what kind of beer the Europeans are drinking these days and I tell him that many of them would feel real at home sipping anything from the Shiner brewery.

There’s five or six domino tables inside the small bar and I can tell there’s lot of activity going on at the one in the far back. This is serious stuff and the players here are not fooling around. Deeply immersed, the participants of the game still take time to greet anyone entering the place. Besides me and the photographer they’re all regulars and you better greet old friends.

This area was initially settled by Czech and German immigrants as early as the 1870′s and most of the people here in Ammansville originate from Bohemia. A lot of people around here still speak the language of the Old World and cultural heritage such as sausage making and choice of beer is part of who you are. Many of the nearby villages still bear those ancient German names from the Old World, still, this is Texas.

The community of Ammansville is situated on the Coastal Plains south of La Grange. Besides St. John’s and the beer-joint, there’s hardly anything out here. This is farm land and as far as you can see there’s just fields. I look out the open door and see the winding road lay deserted and baking in the blazing sun. While I’m slowly sipping my beer a truck pulls up to the front of the building. Keeping the engine running, an elderly man, dressed in work clothes that suggest that he probably works at a filling station or maybe at a garage, walks up to the bar and order a six pack to go. The bartender asks no questions about what kind of beer the man wants, only about his day and how his family’s doing. Everybody knows everyone, that’s the way it goes out here. The bar seems to double as a drive thru beer barn, I like it!

Time flies when you’re enjoying yourself and we’re fixing to make it to one more place today. The sun is already hiding beneath the horizon and just a small bundle of rays are hitting the now clouded Texas sky. We ask for directions to a nearby place called the Post Oak Inn. It’s supposed to be a more regular honky-tonk with occasional live music and a jukebox. We get many suggestions on how to get there but there is one particular route that seems to be the shortest. It involves cutting through pitch black back roads looking for easy to miss local road signs. There is also a non confirmed rumor about a honky-tonk serving mainly a black crowd being out there somewhere. A speak easy on our way to the Post Oak? Sounds very intriguing.

I guess our newfound friends don’t want us to get lost in the middle of the night and I really appreciate the extent they’re going to in an effort to explain which way to go, but, to be honest it’s all pretty confusing. Finally one of the domino players  takes matters into his own hands and brings out a piece of chalk and simply draws a map on one of the domino tables, brilliant! Out in the darkness among the fields I really wish we had brought the domino table with us in the car, but, somehow we finally manage to find our way to the other bar.

So, what about the Speak Easy? And The Post Oak Inn?

Well, the latter is there alright. Jukebox, bandstand, pool tables and all. The regulars are there as well. With their bring-your-own in brown paper bags and Styrofoam cups. This place is supposedly haunted by the ghost of Hank Williams and you can almost feel it. The Speak Easy on the other hand was nowhere to be found. just as Speak Easy’s should be. As I stand outside the Post Oak, pissing on the cactus under the big black Texas sky, the thought of it all brings a smile to my face.

What’s important to guys like us (Eleven Hundred Springs) about it is that it’s a real place for you to go and, okey, I go and play music but it’s not a live music venue. It’s a beer joint, a honky-tonk, it’s some place where you gonna walk of the stage and into the bar. It’s not even a stage or if there is a stage it’s six inches high, you know! It’s a platform, that’s not a a stage, there’s no sound system. It’s a place where you go without any kind of pretention.

Y’all the same! Any body that walks through the door is the same. Nobody get’s treated with any special kind of treatment. We’ll, I guess I get some because I play the songs or what ever, but it’s the same kind of treatment that any body would get if you’re a cool guy walking into a cool place trying to hang out with your friends. They’re happy to see you and they hope to see you again and when you do, you pick up where you left off. That’s it!

We still play at these kind of places, I mean, that’s one thing I like about the fact we’re where we’s at. When we’re about to go and do a show it’s just really at a bar and a honky-tonk. We’re able to do that and now a days, more then ever, it seems like the human experience and talking to people is really where it’s at.

I mean, that’s what people wants. It’s not that they want to buy a cd, nobody cares about buying a cd anymore. They don’t care about that! Nobody buys a cd! They can get it for free if they really want to and they have a computer. If they buy a cd it’s because they wanna talk to you, and they wanna have an experience and they wanna take something away from a bigger experience than just watching some body play music that they enjoy. So it’s not really about the product or the cd. It’s about shaking hands and having a good time.

We played places like Billy Bobs, live music venues. And they call Billy Bobs the biggest honky-tonk in the world, and it is, because the people that work there are like family to us. We try to treat a place like that the same way that we would treat a place like the Happy Cow Bar here in Hunter. It’s really just about hanging out with family and friends. The expierence is diffrent, just a little bit, you know. Sometimes when there’s a bigger venue it’s a diffrent vibe but generally we’re going to interact with people the same way any where we go.

Ernest Tubb, you can talk to all kinds of different people, there’s a thousand stories about how he would do a show and he wouldn’t leave until everybody had left. He would shake everybody’s hand and talk to everybody until they where all gone. Shaking hands and talking to people, meeting folks and country music is the thing.

It’s a long, long chain of events that, if you been in it long enough and you start to peel back the layers and learn a little bit more about what they call Texas music, or country music, you start to realize exactly how involved you really are. And how close to the people that you looked up to when you’re growing up, guy’s like Willie Nelson or Waylon Jennings or Jerry Jeff Walker you are. If you stay at it long enough you can really start to play degrees of seperation with all these folks. And there aren’t as many as you think that there would be because it’s a family affair.

There’s a lot of good music that comes from all around the world but Texas music is a whole different bowl of wax because this was a place where so many cultures came too to make this melting pot of what goes on so then, when it comes across, it’s a whole different flavour.”

Today we’re slowly rolling down FM 3353 towards Kingsbury and at a crossroads stand a couple of small wooden houses. Inside the one house that says Dean’s on the front lays a good ol’ honky-tonk waiting for you to enter. The rooster on the front porch parades in the sunlight, looking a bit down on his luck. Maybe he’s looking for a little action. Me, I’m happy sitting at the bar in the dim light with a cold Lonestar in front of me.

Ruth Vaden, today’s bartender, seems to be in a good mood too while we talk a bit about the upcoming Super Bowl. She tells us we’re more than welcome to scoot over for a serious barbeque and an all-night party this coming Sunday. I have never been here before but I immediately get the feeling of being in the company of old friends. I put another dollar in the jukebox, play another country song, and order an additional two dollar domestic.

Sometime’s life is good. Today, somewhere between Barbarossa and Kingsbury, life is great. Cheap beer, good music, friendly faces and the smell of wet hay. I will forever be in dept to the stranger who put the X on our map giving me the opportunity to experience this small town beer joint. Jerry Jeff Walker is playing on the jukebox singing about hill country rain, but today the sky is blue over Guadalupe County.

I watch the regulars come and go, listening to one particular regular who’s pouring bourbon into his travel mug with one hand, while waving his hat with the other. He tells me a drunken tale about his hat ornament. Apparently it is the genital bone of a raccoon. A couple at the bar ignores the raccoon slayer, and Ruth asks politely but firmly if he might not have a couple of other stops to make before he gets too drunk.

Patsy Cline is coming up on the jukebox as the raccoon slayer’s old car pulls out of the parking lot. The conversation with Ruth takes another turn as soon as Patsy starts singing. Or should I say as soon as Patsy and Ruth start singing. We clearly see eye to eye on the topic concerning the greatness of Patsy’s singing skills. It’s evident that Ruth is not very impressed with the way country music sounds today. She preferred the way they sang back in the days, when the undisputed king was Bob Willis. These were times when family traditions and values of the old agricultural society were central to the Texan way of life.

Ruth admits to liking some of the newer boys though, like Dale Watson. I agree with her, even though I have to say that as far as modern country music goes, Texans have continued to do it their own way and should never be compared to what’s coming out of this country’s music factories.

People around here like it simple and honest. Songs about something real. Something that one can relate to. They want to feel the same way they felt when they first heard Hank Williams on the Grand ol’ Opry. Or if they’re younger, the way they think they would have felt if they’d heard it. They want a voice that speaks their language, and that sings about their lives.

When I hear one of my favorite songs coming out of that jukebox I want to sing along. If I see someone else in the bar singing along to that same song I feel a connection. I feel we share some kind of understanding. We might have something to talk about. Some times there’s no need to talk at all. A silent nod from across the far side of the bar is all the understanding it takes. I tip my hat to Ruth as we leave and I hear her say,

“Y’all come back boys, you hear!”

Willie, the chef, is preparing tomorrow’s BBQ and he serves us a cold Lone Star each. Longnecks of course. The walls are full of signatures and messages from people who have come and gone over the years and if walls could talk we would get a hefty dose of local history. There’s a fire going in the iron stove and Harry’s son and a cousin are working on fixing the drainage from one of the beer coolers. They still take the time to pause work to sit down and share some stories with us.

Willie tells us a little about his cooking. How the meat should be in the “Smoker” for about eight hours, the need for the meat to rest and other important things you need to know to manage a good barbeque. But it’s the sauce, which in great secrecy and in the tradition of an old family recipe handed down from generation to generation, that makes the crucial difference. The difference between a decent BBQ and a real Texas BBQ!

We continue the conversation and they suggest we come back Saturday night when the BBQ is to be enjoyed and the place will be packed with people.

I know what they are talking about. I’ve experienced it at so many honky-tonks around the state. The sight of a multitude of happy women and men, cowboy hats, dancing boots wearing on rough wooden floors, music and the mixture of beer, sweat and Texas BBQ.

Out here being a cowboy is a lot of hard work. But it is a lifestyle where you get to ride out in the morning and watch the prairie come alive. Watch the animals wake up and start their day. You work with animals. You work with cattle, with horses. Sometimes with dogs depending on how tough the brush is. So it is a romantic way of life but it’s also very, very hard work.

It’s important to me that we preserve the image of the day of the cowboy, the day of the agricultural society because if we don’t preserve it now and talk about it and preserve it in a quality manner, 50 years from now nobody will know we’ve existed. So it’s my goal to do the best job I can possible do with my poetry and my music to preserve that lifestyle in words and music.

There will always be people that want to be cowboys. There will always be people who want to live in the country. But not be able to afford it, but they want to live there. They long for the country side. They long for being outdoors. They long for the skies at night when you see the stars. They live in the cities for a lot of different reasons. There will always be people that live in the city who wants to be out in country. The west was settled by people from the big cities in the east.

So as long as there are those folks I will keep on writing songs and poems for them. And I write a lot about the past but I also write a lot about the present too. Trying to preserve what’s happening today. I like to look back at the past and write about it because it makes me think about how lucky I am today. I like today. So I like to write about what we’re doing today because soon it’ll be the good old days. I hope we can preserve the heritage, the tradition and especially the values of honesty and the integrity, work ethic, dedication to family and the conviction in your belief of the lord. And practise common decency and respect for your fellow man every day.

Think of all the different backgrounds. Texas was made out of, primarily from a Caucasian standpoint, of the Celtic group from back east who were natural herdsmen. And they came west. That’s the Scottish and Irish, Welsh and English. Then we have a large population of German settlers that came into the middle of the state. We have the slaves that came, so we have the gospel sound of the Negro south. We have the influence of our friends below the border. That gave us the Latino musical beats and the felling of the “corridas” which is the Mexican ballads. And you melt that down into a little pot. That’s what we call Texas music.

It’s influenced by the old world ballroom sounds, the old world folk tunes by the Celtic people, the Negro sounds of the gospel south and the Latino sounds of the Mexican peasant. So that’s where our music comes from. It’s influenced by all of that.

The German dance halls in central Texas still are the greatest in the world. Some of them weren’t really that big because there was not a very large population there to begin with. But the dances have always been important.

And the western swing started in west Texas with of course Bob Wills. And Bob’s idea was to have a band as big as the big bands in the east. Instead of those sections of woodwinds and sections of brass he had fiddles and steel guitar.

But it all came from a time when everybody was down. We were in the depression. We were in the dust bowl. Nobody had any money. Lots of people didn’t have anything to eat. So they gathered together with dances. And they forgot about their problems for a while. They associated with each other and they danced and had a good time. They all brought what they could to eat. Sometimes they stayed for four, five days. They’d go to a ranch house out in west Texas and they would move all the furniture out in the front yard and they’d dance in the living room. And the only music they might have would be one fiddle or maybe one guitar or the lady of the house played piano. It was a very simple kind of life.

So there are lots of things we’re proud of. But it’s that feeling of belonging to something that’s special. We’re proud of being Texans. I guarantee you that if you meet someone from Texas they’ll tell you that they’re from Texas.”

Driving on the old highway it’s easy to miss the turn in between the old faded wooden building that was once the post office and the rusty tin barn that nowadays shelter old cars waiting to get fixed up. Behind the barn, facing the old highway, sits a few classic rides for sale. The grass is growing tall and wild around them. The sky is stacked with grey clouds and the temperature is close to freezing. The once so lively main street is totally deserted and the few remaining buildings are in various degree of decay. This ain’t a place you just stumble upon even if the sign above the entrance to the honky-tonk clearly declares: Club 21.

A small crooked wooden house lies behind the old tin barn and the yard is filled with miscellaneous debris like rusty old tractors, engines, tires and hunting trophies. Everything’s scattered around and exposed to rain and shine, slowly withering away. To some people a romantic setting to other a livelihood. The damp cold makes it self present and literally penetrates the bones so I take refuge inside the honky-tonk. The large bar that extends along the long side of this windowless dark room is completely empty of guests. I order a beer and take a seat in the corner next to the heater with an attempt to get my circulation going. The owner is busy preparing for the evening, refilling with fresh full beer barrels, bottles and snacks. We talk a bit and he doesn’t hesitate to open the doors to the dance hall and asks me to feel at home and to please take a spin to check out the premises.

Behind a pair of wooden doors on creaking hinges and with peeling paint, I find the dance floor and the stage. The air is still and raw and my breath hovers around the room like an unblessed spirit. The wooden beams are laid bare stretching towards the sky and the ceiling height increases by fifteen or sixteen feet up towards the cam. On top of it all sits three fans in open air. In addition to the well-worn dance floor are a number of booths whose upper floors serve as a VIP shelf according to 1930 standards. The dimly lit rooms are a difficult forced maze of small spaces and nooks. Here you’ll find all the vital ingredients for a thriving honky-tonk such as jukebox, pool tables and a stage for the orchestra.

The bar has, with the right number of bartenders, the capacity to hold a big thirsty crowd of country music heads busy. However, I ‘m more doubtful that the minimal kitchen, located in a corner by the bar, can provide burgers or other dishes in any greater scale. But people don’t come here mainly for the food. They come here to dance and listen to music, meet like-minded people and have a talk over a few beers. I notice the walls are so thin I can hear the lowing of the cows in the pasture behind the honky-tonk and I decide to take another look at the exteriors.

Out front I’m again met by a drizzle and a compact grey sky. There’s a dense haze over the tree tops and it’s still chilly. I walk off along the old main street down towards the rushing stream, Plum Creek.

On August 4, 1840, hundreds of Comanche Indians poured down from the Hill Country in a raid that later was to take them all the way down to the Gulf Coast. They crossed Plum Creek right where I’m standing now. The raid was an act of revenge for the despicable attack the texan militia had carried out against a peace mission down in San Antonio the year before. The Indians suffered a disastrous defeat here at Plum Creek. Today it’s difficult to imagine any activity on a larger scale here. It’s a sleepy little place, dead quiet and still. I look toward the ruminant livestock in the sprinkle and start thinking about the living situation for the farmers around here. It can’t be easy fighting the big producers or fight against cheap meat from countries such as Argentina. Life as a farmer ain’t never been easy. Crop failure, drought, disease, and Indian raids have required tough men and women to survive out here. One can easily understand why places like Club 21 has been, and still is, important to people living in this part of the world.

I stroll back towards the crossroads passing the front porch of the honky-tonk and continue up to the former post office. The building is now being used as storage for old neon signs. I take a peep through a dusty window and get a glimpse of real works of art made by solid craftsmanship. Beautiful signs telling the stories of old motels, bowling alleys and burger restaurants. With their futuristic designs, bearing a witness of the incredible confidence in the 50′s, the signs are solidly packed into the spacious room. Some of the artwork’s to big to fit in the room so they’re stacked outside against the building’s long side. Around the corner stands a sign shaped like a giant sombrero begging me to remember Don Rodrigo’s Tex-Mex restaurant.

The entire crossroads gives you the feeling of being at a place where time stopped a long time ago. But time never really did stop here. It was the world outside that just kept rushing on in a furious tempo, as a long way from the memories and traditions of the hard old times it ever could.