Days 11 & 12: Keepin’ It Weird in Austin

(These horses were sticking their heads out the window of their trailer and nodding vigorously to passing cars)

Still in Alabama as I write this. Gabriel has just informed me that we’ve gone 4,183 miles this trip. Oddly enough, we’re not yet sick of each other’s company. Or at least I think we aren’t. Perhaps the last 13 years have been preparation for this tour.

With extreme sadness, we left the merry company of the Lafayette posse and drove to Texas. The further west you drive in Louisiana, the more that swamps and bayous recede into oil fields or, worse, oil refineries. Lake Charles is, casinos notwithstanding, an exceptionally ugly city, and the giant arched stretch of I-10 over the lake itself very thoughtfully provides a bird’s-eye view.
We crossed into Texas around mid-day. One of the things that I never grew up with in Boston, though it’s apparently everywhere else in the country, is the system of labeling exits by mile-marker. Up in Beantown (and New York and New Jersey, for that matter), Exit 2 follows Exit 1 (or vice-versa), leaving you to guess at how far you’ve gone, or how many miles further the next exit might be. Well, down in Texas, traveling west, the first exit you hit is Exit 880. Which pretty much means you have a long way to go, no matter where you’re going.

We rolled into Austin in the late afternoon and met up with Gabriel’s friend Mark, whom Gabe has known since they were second-grade students at Cohen-Hillel Academy. He helped us get our stuff up to his pad, an enormous cathedral-like 5-bedroom affair right off Sixth Street in the heart of the frat strip, that he shares with a few other folks. We discussed dinner and drinks, and figured we’d hit up a bar that he knew was having a free crawfish boil that night.

We wandered down to Red River and into the comfortable, friendly bar, ordered a round of Shiner Bocks (one of the world’s great session beers, dark but refreshing and a true taste of Texas), got a bucket of boiled crawfish and sat down at an outdoor table to chat, people-watch and enjoy the evening. It soon transpired that I was the only one who could (or cared to) make (or eat) head or tail of the crawfish. Oh well. But they were spicy and delicious and fresh as hell, and I, at least, enjoyed them thoroughly.

We met up with Mark’s friend John and rolled off to grab a burger at a local bar famous for them. I wimped out on my belly full of crawfish and ordered a chicken sandwich, but it was excellent, and the burgers looked serious. Next time, methinks. And Gabriel, for the record, ordered something made out of eggplant.

Later, I went out with Mark and John to a Red River nightclub that they had free passes for. It was 80s Night, and I was deeply skeptical, but as we got inside, it was clear that this was an only-in-Austin type of 80s Night. Everyone was dressed outlandishly, punks and Goths and freaks of all colorful stripes, including a bunch of guys all dressed as bridegrooms. I remarked to Mark that it was fun and funny to be the squarest-looking person in the place, bar-none.

We ended up taking a bench and talking about religion as the party whirled around us. I bowed out around 1:30, went back to Mark’s place and crashed.

In the morning, Gabriel and I got up to move the car (it was parked at a meter) and ended up just going for coffee and breakfast at a place on South First called Bouldin Creek that Gabriel remembered from South by Southwest. It was great – good coffee, lovely food and a laid-back place to boot. We sat at an outdoor table in the sunshine and I updated the blog al fresco.









Afterwards, we got the oil changed (we’d already gone over 3,000 miles at that point), poked around a guitar shop and went for awesome tacos (again, Gabriel providing an excellent guide to the city). Then we went back to Mark’s, collected Mark and headed out to the Carousel Lounge for our early show.



(Apparently it's a conspiracy!)

What can I say about the Carousel Lounge? I think the pictures have to speak for themselves regarding the decor. The bartenders and local crowd were super-friendly. They sell only beer and “setups” (glasses, ice and mixers) for liquor that patrons are allowed bring in themselves. When we got in, we ordered beers and played “Pancho and Lefty” on the jukebox. And the bartender said, to no one in particular, “Townes Van Zandt.” I am, I confess, getting to be rather fond of this town.



(Me in the Carousel parking lot)



(Mark in front of the Carousel)

Gabriel and I had been discussing an experiment, trading songs instead of playing two discrete sets, and we decided to try it out at the Carousel. It was an agreeable way to go about things, with the added blessing that neither of us had to open the night, which generally makes us more self-conscious and thus less free in our performances. The only snag for me was having to sit goofily onstage every other song, but as Gabriel was the evening’s designated driver, I addressed myself to our last fifth of Kentucky Gentleman (purchased, you may recall, in Asheville, NC, from the state liquor store for the grand total of 7.95) as I sat, and didn’t mind the breaks a bit.

(Live MP3 - Me doing Townes Van Zandt's "A Song For" - http://econo-graphics.com/superdupersecret/ASongForAustin.mp3 )





After we finished, a band called Blue Squeezebox took the stage, three guys playing guitar, accordion and seven-string bass, doing outlandish but musically brilliant cabaret covers of a wide variety of songs. They did standards like “Autumn Leaves” and “It Ain’t Necessarily So,” as well as a wicked, wicked version of “I Will Survive” and “Election Day” by Blaze Foley, perhaps Austin’s best-loved and least-known songwriter, whose beautiful songs and wild and tragic biography are well worth checking out. The music was incredible and hugely entertaining, but hunger (for all) and alcohol (for me) were beginning to gnaw, so we reluctantly left in search of food.



We ate, parked the car by Mark’s, grabbed a quick beer and went to sleep. Austin, how do I love thee?

The next day we woke up, hit up Bouldin Creek again, tooled around for a bit, ate more spectacular tacos (and seriously, New York is glaringly lacking in this department. Come on, people!) and went to Houston.