Twenty thousand roads I went down, down, down
And they all lead me straight back home to you.
Gram Parsons

Last week at Tom’s Tabooley we were talking about Gram Parsons. It started because 1st-timer Allison Fischer told me that she was a big fan of his. I’m a big fan, too. In 1971 my first husband initiated courtship by sending me a Flying Burrito Brothers Album. It was a masterful romantic move. Ultimately the marriage was not as well-conceived as the gift, but four decades later, I’m still devoted to Gram Parsons. With good reason, I think.

My high school – Aldine -- sat in the middle of a cow pasture right next to Interstate 45 on what was then the outskirts of Houston. You could choose between counting cows or cars if you found yourself staring out the window in the middle of an incomprehensible Chemistry class. I doubt anyone at Memorial High School – down in the heart of the best neighborhood in the most urban part of Houston -- ever thought about us at all, but for some reason out there at Aldine we were a little (or a lot) worried that the kids in cooler schools thought of us as rednecks. Sometimes we would try to embrace it. I remember a pep rally in which the cheerleaders led us to chant “Go Goatropers Go” although our mascot was a Mustang. When we weren't mustering every bit of reverse snobbery we could, we were wishing that we could be perceived as surfers (like the kids at Memorial). Not as goatropers. We made up for our insecurity by taking as many drugs as the surfers and embracing rock ‘n roll with our whole hearts. We would hang out down at Allen’s Landing at Love Street Light Circus where the 13th Floor Elevators or Shiva’s Headband were playing and girls in white go-go boots were dancing in cages beside the stage. Same place the kids from Memorial were hanging out I’m sure. We listened to Hendrix and Steppenwolf. Led Zepplin. Janis Joplin. We had the White Album committed to memory. 

But, for me at least, it wasn’t all that simple. I’m not saying there was anything contrived about my love of the Beatles or Bob Dylan or Crosby, Stills, and Nash. There wasn’t. They shaped me. But I existed before I knew about them and the music that shaped my parents had a bigger part in making me than I wanted to admit. Part of the strategy for dodging the goatroper label was demonstrating a disdain for country western music. We were supposed to be rebelling against our parents and all Okies from Muskogee. But you couldn’t escape country music in Texas, and I couldn’t help loving it. Though I tried hard not to. I remember the first time I heard Tammy Wynette sing "Stand by your Man." It came on the radio as I was pulling into the driveway after dark, alone in my mother’s car. Undoubtedly coming home from an evening that involved rock ‘n roll in some way. I was powerless to change the channel or turn off the radio. Even before I heard any words, the hard core twanging guitar lead hit me like heroin. Still, after a lifetime of feminism that flies in the face of those lyrics, I can’t resist that song. I sat there in the driveway with the motor running listening till the very end. I would have played it again if I could have. I didn’t know what to do with that. The love I felt for country music. I couldn’t give it up even though I was committed to rock ‘n roll. At the same time I didn’t want to be a goatroper; I wanted to be a surfer. 

That’s why Gram Parsons’ music captivated me. And my first husband. We both felt a kinship with Gram Parsons. It was clear he loved both kinds of music as much as we did. On top of that, he saw past the black and white, left and right dualistic thinking that had my high school by the throat. He realized that our relationship with music isn’t monogamous or even tribal. It transcends boundaries like genre and region. Other people were doing that at the same time, but honestly I don’t think any single individual pioneered that frontier, crossing borders and coming back again to introduce would be enemies to each other and turn them into friends as well as Gram Parsons did. There’s no doubt in my mind that Austin has been the homeplace of an important 20th century artistic movement and that songwriters like Willie Nelson and Townes Van Zandt sowed the seeds of that movement. But, Gram Parsons plowed the field. 

Last week at Tom’s Tabooley in response to the conversation about Gram Parsons, Stuart Michael Burns reminded us of how sad Parson's early death was by singing Emmy Lou Harris’s beautiful song about her grief – "Boulder to Birmingham." Stuart is a masterful songwriter himself. We’re honored to claim him, Adrian Nye, Carlos Rumbaut, Charles Clark, and Fred Spence all of whom were with us last week, as regulars. We had some fantastic newcomers joining us, too. First-timer Bryan Bodkin, who’s from Shelby, Ohio, started us off with an outstanding performance. Newcomers Andrew Castro and Xochitl of Sacramento closed the show with great sets. In between we had outstanding performances by newcomer Joseph Henry of Lafayette, LA. And by Allison Fischer. Allison was making her open mic debut on our stage, and it was a dynamite first-time performance. One of the things we hope for Tom’s Tabooley is that it will give emerging songwriters a stage to try out their art and let their lights shine. You couldn’t ask for a better debut performance than Allison’s. Gram Parsons would be proud. To top it all off we had two new songs debuted on our stage: “Bed of Coals” by Adrian Nye and “Tennessee Whiskey” by Fred Spence. 

This week, we’ll start at 7 just like always and go until 10. Sign up starts at 6:30. I have good reason to believe that Ordinary Elephant is going to be with us, and I'm really looking forward to welcoming them to our stage. I think this week I’m going to try a cover of a Flying Burrito Brothers' song