True to the Roots (8 page)

Another memorable aspect of the afternoon is the performance of a street band that sets up its equipment and plays in front of a subway entrance near Astor Place. The Lost Wandering Blues and Jazz Band consists of four musicians, all representing different styles. One guitarist looks like Bob Dylan at age twenty but sounds more like Harry Connick Jr. and was born in Stockholm. This I discover when he sings "Walking My Baby Back Home" in Swedish.

The second guy, about thirty-five, toots the French horn and looks like he doesn't wash his long hair very often. Another guitarist is probably in his fifties, wears jeans, a crumpled hat and western shirt, and looks like a man who hasn't turned down many drinks in his life. The fourth fellow basically plucks on a string and beats on an upside down wash bucket. He looks a lot like the late comedian Redd Foxx. In fact, he sings a lot like Redd Foxx.

They're cool. I tip them. Most everyone else—and quite a crowd gathers—does too.

I had heard of a place called the Continental where, supposedly, country and rockabilly were played. What I find out, actually, is that the music performed there most of the time is punk. On Sundays the featured fare is country. Had I arrived a day later, I would have seen the Fandanglers, Tweed Schade, and the Lonesome Prairie Dogs. On this day, however, my options are Failsafe Nation, Pretty Alien, Pornshine, Nadsat Fashion, Dead Blonde Girlfriend, Naked Underneath, and the Modeles. I pass.

The people are also quite interesting. I see one woman whose fashion sense catches my eye. She is wearing black cowboy boots, powder blue tights, and a bright blue, frilly skirt. What really draws my attention is her hair, which is pale blonde except at the tips. The bangs in front are electric blue, one side is hot pink, and the other side is fluorescent orange. I also watch a young man—I'm speculating that he is monstrously stoned—conk himself over the head with something that looks like a snowboard. I don't really understand why someone would be playing around, on a warm summer afternoon, with what is essentially a skateboard without the wheels, but that's what he's doing. He tries to stomp on one side, apparently so that when it flies up in the air, he can catch it. Instead, it hits him rather hard on the noggin. I stifle my laugh because I don't particularly want to draw his attention.

Thad Cockrell's story is a compelling one. There's a lot more to him than what appears at first glance. He has a lovely, soaring tenor voice that belies the rugged frame of a onetime college wrestler. He is a graduate of Liberty University in Lynchburg, Virginia, and from there he went on to Southeast Baptist Theological Seminary in Wake Forest, North Carolina. Today religion is a vibrant part of his life but not his life's work. He seems to rebel against authority, or at least conformity, in both his religion and his music.

This wouldbe preacher—a graduate of "Jerry Falwell's college," Liberty—loves the stage even more than the pulpit. The honkytonk, as it turns out, is his sanctuary.

"You answer to God," Cockrell tells me shortly after polishing off a plate of ribs at the Rodeo Bar. "If you read the Bible, Jesus was accused of hanging out at tax collectors' houses. Back then, that's why they didn't have bars and stuff. It was more community based, you know, in people's houses.

If Jesus were around today, the Southern Baptists would be really upset because Jesus wouldn't hang out with them as much as they think He would.

"It just never made sense to me, growing up in the church, that most of the people who go to church don't hang out with anybody except the believers. That doesn't make any sense to me. Jesus didn't come for the healthy; He came for the sick. I guess I just find no consistency in that. Besides, it's a hell of a good time.

"We ought to be inclusive in our religion, not exclusive. Yeah. That's the way I feel."

Cockrell's motto, according to his official bio, is "Puttin' the hurt back in country." "There's no 'alt' in my country," he says.

He is the son of a Baptist preacher, born in Tampa, Florida, raised mostly in Oklahoma, and now living in North Carolina. Most of the music is secular, but he wrote a gorgeous gospel tune entitled "He Set Me Free" that is often mistaken for one of the old standards of the Louvin Brothers.

"I was in dc the other night, opening up for the Tarbox Ramblers," Cockrell says, "and I sang that song. This lady bought the
CD
, and she said, 'I said to my friend, what a genius that guy is to take that old gospel song and redo it like that.' She apparently had no idea that I'd written it. That's a compliment, but I got up in the middle of class in seminary and ran to my house, wrote it in fifteen minutes, and ran back for the rest of my class."

One love song, "Pretending," was evoked by family, not romantic, love. It works perfectly well in either context.

"I write about loss. That's about me," Cockrell says. "I grew up in Oklahoma, and my dad had a car lot full of old El Caminos. I went back two summers ago and wrote that song. I wanted to sing it to him. It's about loss, but it's not about a girlfriend. It's about going back and spending time with someone you wish you could see more often."

Cockrell's distaste for what passes as country these days is considerable. He doesn't particularly care to mold his music to what the establishment demands.

"I'm just trying to balance out the stuff that's on the radio," he says. "The thing is, why can't Willie Nelson get on the radio anymore? Tell me you can't sell him.

"'Is my tractor sexy?' Why in the world would a grown man have anything to do with music like what's on the radio right now? It's such a dumb song. It's soulless music. It all sounds like a business proposal to me. What Nashville doesn't realize is this. Johnny Cash was a badass. He was a rebel. He was a renegade. So was Waylon Jennings. So is Merle Haggard. So was Charlie Rich. The people who have made country music what it is today had unbelievable renegade personalities. The music today is too comfortable, at least the part of it that gets widespread airplay."

Then he echoes what Robbie Fulks called "the integrity scare" of the late 1980s.

"I think what happened is that Nashville made a really bad choice. They had some people who were making amazing, viable country music: Dwight Yoakam, Steve Earle, some really great people who were just making their mark, and then you had, like, McBride and the Ride, people like that. Brooks and Dunn. They decided to go with the wrong group.

"You know what? We spend billions of dollars every year for things we can get for free when we turn on the box, you know. People aren't necessarily as dumb as Nashville considers them. The average Joe who buys the country records now isn't any less literate than the ones who bought the country records twenty-five years ago or thirty-five years ago. Is the music of Hank Williams simple? Yes. But it's honest. Beautifully honest. The shows back then were so much better and meant so much more, but the people weren't any different. They were just getting stuff they could feel empathy for."

Just because Cockrell doesn't care much for the establishment doesn't mean he isn't ambitious, though. Perhaps his evangelical fervor comes from the religion.

"Between you and me, you know who's going to bring this back around? This asshole named Thad Cockrell. You should check him out."

If It's Broken, Don't Fix It

Austin, Texas I December 2004

Shortly after I show up, James White shows me why the Broken Spoke is the best honkytonk in Texas or anywhere else. It's not just the leaky roof; it's what he did to fix it.

For years the roof leaked in the room White has filled chock full of memorabilia from all the greats who have played the Spoke since he opened it in 1964. He solved the problem by building a little tin gutter—one that carries the dripping water right out onto the earth out front. White erected himself a little second roof, one not so different from what a rancher might use to fix his barn. And it works.

Country music isn't supposed to be slick. It's not supposed to be conjured up from the results of marketing surveys. It's not supposed to be played by musicians who slap six strings on a banjo to make people think they can play one, and it's not supposed to be played by cowboys who hang guitars around their necks and use them as little more than props. It's supposed to be about life's imperfections and the outrageous, illconceived ways that flawed human beings remedy the obstacles that the wind blows into their paths.

As White says, "Don't do it the easy way; do it the cowboy way."

White is a son of Austin. He grew up on West Mary Street, only a mile away from the simple honkytonk that enabled him to realize his dreams. It's all original, from the ramshackle roof to the bumper sticker that says, "I'd rather be a fencepost in Texas than the king of Tennessee."

"They're all heroes," White says, pointing to all the photos and memorabilia of forty years of honkytonk nights. "They're all on the top shelf and at the top of the ladder. I've loved country music all my life. I get to live my dream being right here at the Broken Spoke, and people let me do it. When I got out of the army back in 1964, I started thinking, you know, I've been in honkytonks. I've always had a good time, so why not, when I get out, open up a place of my own.

"I came out under the big old tree out front, right here on South Lamar, and I visualized a place like no other. When I got it built, I named the place the Broken Spoke. People ask me how I thought of that name. I was kind of thinking about something western, something original, something country, something Texas, and, anyway, I was thinking about wagon wheels in my brain, and all of a sudden I thought about this old movie,
Broken Arrow
, and it just kind of clicked in. Kind of like the lightbulb went on, and I thought, well, I'll just call it the Broken Spoke. I'll just buy me a couple of wagon wheels, and I'll knock a spoke out and I'll put them out front where people are walking in. I kind of figured that was all there was to going into business, but I found out over the years there was a lot more to it, but at least I got a good start.

"I love the true country music, like Don Walser said, 'When you cut out the roots of country music, you just cut out the soul, and you're cutting out the country music altogether.' I like the sound of a steel guitar. I love the fiddle. The guitar and everything just blends right in together. Country music tells a story, a lot of them soulwrenching and about the hardships of life or about drinking beer in a honkytonk. When you get up and you sing those songs, it brings back memories. I've had so many good times, and there are a lot of upbeat old country songs too. It's what I grew up on: Ernest Tubb, Bob Wills, Hank Williams, George Jones, country in its purest form. If Roy Acuff were still alive, he wouldn't be allowing a lot of this stuff you see on TV nowadays. Nashville today, if he was still there, along with people like Ernest Tubb and Hank Snow, they'd frown on some of the stuff that's popular now."

Go to the Spoke any night of the week except Monday, and there will be something compelling to see, whether it's Debra Peters with her accordion or Jerry Jeff Walker celebrating his birthday. White even mounts the stage on most Tuesday nights, along with Alvin Crow, for the weekly "Hard Core Country Music on Tuesday Nights."

"We do a lot of the old songs. Alvin does a lot of the old Jimmie Rogers songs, and I'll jump in there with some songs that I like," White says. "I've been here forty years, and I figure I can pretty much tell it like it is, and people seem to like to hear it. I don't have to change nothing. I ain't getting no hanging fern baskets on the ceiling. No Grey Poupon—we got the real mustard here. But we do have cold beer, good whiskey, and good looking girls to dance with, so what else do you need?"

It doesn't take many questions to conduct an interview with James White. Just turn on the tape recorder and let the good times roll.

"It was always good to see Ernest Tubb and the Texas Troubadours come here," recalls White. "He'd flip that guitar over and say thanks."

Tubb, you see, lettered
Thanks
upside down on the back of his guitar.

"Ernest would sit up there on the bandstand, sign everybody's autograph and everybody's picture," says White. "Through his whole break, he'd be up there mingling with the people. The guy was a true Texas troubadour. He traveled all across the country, and he must have done three hundred dates a year or close to it. He loved it, and he always promoted it."

The Broken Spoke is a country music mecca. Bigname acts, even the ones that fill football stadiums, still play there every now and then, but White has a soft spot for what country music used to be. He has his standards. They aren't the same as the ones used by the record companies and the Clear Channel stations, but they're just as restrictive.

"They'll repeat the same words over and over again," he says. "It doesn't have enough soul in it anymore, as far as I'm concerned. It's just, with the bands that play here, I don't really have any what I call 'copy bands' anymore at the Broken Spoke. A lot of them play original music, and even if they do some famous man's songs, they'll do their versions. You don't hear no top forty on the radio, and I think it's a shame that the radio stations have got to the point where people can't hear the music they say they like. Now it's: 'This is your playlist. This is what you'll play.' I loved it back in the Loretta Lynn days, when she'd go to a radio station and pitch 'em a song, give them a 45-RPM record, and do a little guest appearance. Those days were just so good.