I was in the Starlight recently for the “Summer Simmer” as I have come to call it: the Pinche Gringos playing their annual pre-summer hiatus dance. It is a predominantly local event as the temperature is hot and tourists are scarce. Inside, you simmer – doesn’t matter how much cooling is provided, you’re hot, you dance to everything the guys play, you sweat. Even if you don’t dance, you simmer watching everyone else.

Afterwards, driving home, my thoughts turned to a recurring thought that has nagged me for a few years and this is the question I want to put to you:

                                                                                                                Where has the music gone?

When I moved to South County to make my fortune with the Roadhouse, one of the major plans was to provide local music on as regular of basis as I could. From previous visits I knew this resource was available. What I didn’t realize and was thrilled to discover was that the music scene “back then” was as much a part of our community as the tortured landscape and muddy brown river. Music was everywhere, running the scale from the phenomenal, to the awful, to the bizarre. It was in the bars, on the porches, around campfires and liable to strike up anywhere.

Other than the actual performing of it, music is one of the things I do best. A protégé of the ‘60’s music movement, I have a passion for singer/songwriters in particular, folkies in general, and all mediums from which a melody springs. It is my religion, my daily communion if you will. I worship at the altar of the treble clef.

A qualification is required at this point: I am not implying that then was better than now or that other parties did it better or worse. It’s just that the music today feels different and I want to know why, when, and how it changed.

Part of the reason is obvious: the bar and restaurant business is an expensive venture. Sit around a busy establishment and you can see the money coming in. What you never see is that money going out the next day – for new stock, huge utilities, taxes, fees, labor, and upkeep. At some point the owner realizes that he/she has to look at and weigh the return on some of those expenses that can actually be controlled and hard decisions must be made in regard to entertainment expenses.

The other part of the reason remains more nefarious. Some of the musicians moved on, some are still here. In a post satellite, post cell phone, post water system, post plentiful employment South County environment where the new faces outnumber the familiar ones and it is hard to remember everyone’s name, are we just too busy building or living in our finished homes that the sense of community has become more elusive or unnecessary? Do we just not have the energy or feel the need to play as much? Or is it that we don’t have the time to listen as much?

                                                                                                                                        I wish I knew.

Having said that, I’ll tell you what I do know.

Ted does a sweet version of Highway.

If you ever have a chance to hear Laird play the mandolin, do it.

Ask Chris Baker to sing Yippee Ti Yea or do a Kate Wolf.

It’s a treat to hear Chris Muller sing about Terlingua Creek Roaring in and Charlotte on the Viola in accompaniment.

To listen to the original Cowboy Doug and wonder how long it would be before the ash fell off the ever present smoke balanced between verse and lips. And now the new Cowboy Doug.

Just Us Girls – Just Pretty Damn Fabulous.

The sweet rich baritone of Jim Henrichsen.

The wonderful harmonies of Joe and Tree.

Straining to hear the soft voice of Bryn. Danny and The Little Red Rooster.

Trevor lending talent wherever he was.

Damron and McCoy, singer/songwriters with an introverted side you might not have heard – in the former you no longer can, and in the latter, make sure you do and ask about Mother Angel’s song.

Randy M, Sherwood, Doug and all the guest drummers playing the really old stuff.

Tony pigeon-toed at the mic.

Jeff on a Rice Train.

Clem doing something raw and bluesy.

Sharlow taking it down as low as a harp can go.

Pablo bagging cat litter and singing about it.

Randy asking Ladonna for credit in song.

Not to mention all the various combinations and permutations of the above or all the outside talent that came/comes through.

The Pinche Gringos doing a Beatle song to the beat of a cumbia.

                                                                              Simmering.

                                                                                                 Sweaty.

                                                                                                              I have never heard such music.

Billy Pat McKinney sings an original song about “Terlingua Texas, where the water is more precious than gold.” I think he will forgive my artistic trespass if I add “Where the music is essential to the soul.”

To those of you we still hear with comforting regularity, keep on singing, harmonizing, picking, strumming, plucking, tooting, tickling and drumming, know that we appreciate your talent and you remain essential.

Maybe the music hasn’t gone anywhere, perhaps the scene just changed, and you have to listen a little harder.

After 25 years of death & dying in the world of healthcare, Don McDowell couldn’t get to the desert fast enough. Proprietor of theformer Frontier Roadhouse on Highway 118 in Terlingua, Don now cooks extraordinary meals for his friends and then insists they sit and listen – really listen – to great music from his collection. 

Pablo, Grace, and Patricia playing beautiful music at this year’s Desert Chihuahuan Challenge in the Ghost Town. (Marlys Hersey, photo)