A Songwriter's Story

The first time I remember really getting excited about music was on February 9, 1964. I was 8-years-old, and we were sitting around the living room at my aunt and uncle's house to watch The Ed Sullivan Show. The electricity in that living room was exhilarating; I didn't really know what was happening, but I knew SOMETHING was happening.

I'm still a Beetles fan, but the first time time I remember being truly connected to music was with the release of Elton John's Tumbleweed Connection six years later when I was 14. I vividly remember banging on the piano, which I had no idea how to play, and singing at the top of my lungs to "Burn Down the Mission." There were a hundred albums and a thousand songs before that that were inspirational to me, but I think that song and that album more than any others, made me want to be a singer songwriter.

But it was also cosmic cowboy time in Texas, and I was certainly awakened by Jerry Jeff Walker, Michael Murphy, Townes Van Zandt, B.W. Stephenson, Ray Wiley Hubbard, Rusty Weir, Willy and Waylon, and perhaps most importantly, Willis Alan Ramsey.

Nevertheless, I didn't really start writing songs until I started traveling around the country with a pipeline corrosion crew sometime around 1974. A co-worker's brother worked for a disco in Houston, and in 1977, he was the host of their "gong show." He convinced me to play my guitar and sing my songs in front of maybe 500 patrons of Uncle Sam's disco. He promised not to gong me, but he was pretty much forced to by the reaction from the crowd.

That was the beginning of my "career."

I didn't perform again until around 1980, when I would play for tips at a wonderful place called Cheatham Street Warehouse in San Marcos, but frankly, I wasn't very good and always had problems getting over being nervous.

I moved to Austin in 1982, and somewhere around that time I called up one of the few folk clubs back then, Emmajoe's. I think I went in person and asked for an audition -- they set a date three months down the road for my audition. Then, after my audition, they said they'd call me back. Three months later, they called to let me know that I would be opening for Butch Hancock -- three months later. I seem to recall that the gig was a bit of a success, but Emmajoe's closed its doors two weeks after I played there.

I gave up my music career.

Seven years later, in 1989, I submitted a tape to the Kerrville Folk Festival's Newfolk Competition, which has helped launch a number of songwriter careers. I was one of 40 "acts" picked from the 500 or so entrants. That year, I think for the first time, they moved the competition to the big stage, and I was a wreck before my time slot. Prior to the event, they lined up 20 of the performers in a circle to be oriented by Peter Yarrow. Peter looked around the circle and walked over to me. He put his hand on my chest and said, "BREATHE."
My guitar wouldn't stay in tune and I couldn't remember the words. It was bad.

I gave up my music career.

I took one more stab at it. I went to a couple of Austin Songwriter Group seminars; you give them $300 and they give you a badge that says, "songwriter," and then you are allowed to present your songs to a few A&R folks. I remember two stories from those events. The way it worked then, the A&R guy would sent in front of the room and play about 10 seconds from each cassette tape; usually the label rep said nothing or very little and went on to the next one. One guy listened to 30 songs in a row, about 3 seconds per song, until he got to mine. He listened to my whole song, and then he said these words, "sometimes you hear a song that you can hear played in a thousand different languages all over the world," followed by a long, very pregnant pause. Then he said, "this isn't one of them."

The other review I remember was an A&R guy from LA, who said, "I really like this. This sounds like something I would listen to, but I have no idea what to do with it."

I gave up my music career.

I kept writing, and every once in a while a did an open mike night, but I'd pretty much decided that a music career was not the thing for me. Then, after my second divorce in 1999, I really started writing. The songs I wrote were terribly morose, but I wrote so much, that eventually, I think, I "got good." At some point I started playing my songs every Friday at some friends' house (Jill and Frank Carroum), and one day a drummer, David Highfill, was in the crowd. He pulled me aside after my performance and said, "you need a band."

So David and I and a couple of other folks formed a band, and a decade after my last public performance we played at a biker bar benefit for about 300 people. People clapped and they danced, and I wasn't nervous anymore.

That led to the formation of three other bands (The Regulars, The Fyre Flys, and the George Palmer Macias Band), and regular performances in the Austin area. On a whim I quit my day job as the CEO of an advertising firm in January, 2008. My first CD, Firefly, was released in April, 2009. So far, I've managed to spend most of my retirement money at the age of 53. I earn about $200 in a good week. But my songs are on 23 radio stations around the country, and the list is growing. And my CD is number 124 on the Americana Music charts as of this writing. I have no idea if that means I'll actually make money at some point. But it doesn't matter; I know I'm not quitting this time.

Sometimes, you've got to burn down the mission, just to stay alive. It's my only chance of really living. And at least I've earned the right to wear the badge, "songwriter."