Unless you’ve been living under the proverbial rock, you’ve no doubt noticed that things in our nation have been a little chaotic of late. Confrontation, confusion, accusations and counter-accusations: all have played a role in roiling the civic waters. As one of my dear Southern friends likes to say, “I’m plumb wore out.” Continue reading
In a world filled with questions about the creative process, professional photographer and Creative Live founder Chase Jarvis has a few answers. In an intriguing blog entry titled “There are No Excuses,” Jarvis reveals his sensitivity to creative angst:
I’ve heard you say that there’s nothing to take a picture of. I’ve heard you say you don’t know what to make, when to make it, how to make it, what to do.
I’ve heard you say that you don’t know how to get your work “out there.” I’ve heard you say that you don’t know what to put on your blog. I’ve heard. I’ve heard. I’ve heard. And I promise you, I, too, have said all these things.
Then, he reminds his readers that such questions are rooted in an earlier time: a time when artists required permission from others for their work to be seen. Permission came in the form of being hired to shoot a news story, to write a magazine feature, or produce a graphic layout for a business.
Church bells. School bells. Sleigh bells. Cow bells. Dinner bells and bicycle bells.
Poe captured their variety and vibrancy perfectly: that tintinnabulation that rang and clanged through a different, non-digital world. Generations were introduced to onomatopoeia through his rollicking, unforgettable verse:
Hear the sledges with the bells,
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Certain things in life seem to require “developing a taste.” I never developed a taste for Argyle sweaters, good Scotch, foie gras, or post-modernist art, and I nearly missed out on Leonard Cohen.
I first heard Cohen live at Rockefeller’s in Houston, and thought of him at the time as the Bob Dylan of the beret-and-brandy set. His talents as poet and lyricist are obvious. His melodies are haunting and recognizable, and much of his work has enduring appeal.
But that voice! There are times when you have to take your Dylan straight (“Subterranean Homesick Blues” comes to mind) and the same is true for Cohen. His performance of “Suzanne” is worth hearing, but the exquisite renditions produced by Judy Collins and Francoise Hardy brought me to the music and gave me a song for life. Continue reading
Whether you’re hoping for cold beer, down-home music, or a sense of being part of a hallowed tradition, Luckenbach, Texas can fix you right up.
Rooted in the earliest German migration to Texas, Luckenbach takes its name from Jacob Luckenbach, who sailed from Bremen with his brother August and other family members on board the Johann Dethardt. Landing at Indianola near the end of December, 1845, the family arrived a month or so later in Fredericksburg: settling on part of the Fisher-Miller land grant obtained by the Adelsverein in 1844.
Luckenbach obtained both a town lot in the new village and a ten-acre lot southwest of town, where he built the family’s first home. After becoming American citizens in 1852, the Luckenbachs sold both Fredericksburg properties and moved twelve miles southeast, to the site that later would bear their name.
The history that followed is filled with disputes and contradictions: so much so that two historical markers have been erected in the town. What isn’t in question is the role played by the Luckenbach and Engel families in its development.
When the first post office opened in 1854 (or 1858) under the name South Grape Creek, William Luckenbach was postmaster, and Mrs. Albert Luckenbach, née Wilhelmina Engel, established a store and saloon. The post office closed for a time, then reopened in 1886 with August Engel as postmaster. Engel renamed the town Luckenbach, then passed on his position as postmaster to William Engel, who opened a larger general store. When William died in 1935, his son Benno carried on the family’s postmaster tradition.
Over the years, the town rose, flourished to a degree, declined, then rose again: but in 1970, its demise seemed certain. By that time, Benno Engle had retired, and he was ready to let go of certain other responsibilities. His newspaper ad read: “Town For Sale — $30,000, including the general store/post office/saloon and about 10 acres.”
By the time I waltzed across Texas for the first time, in 1973, the post office, general store, dancehall, and collection of really fine shade trees that constituted downtown Luckenbach already had sold to a friend of a friend. Houstonians turned up their noses at Hondo Crouch and his business partners, calling them a collection of “eccentrics, oddballs and kooks.” In truth, the description was accurate. Still, out in the country, their eccentricity was a selling point, and Hondo’s town took a turn for the better.
Hondo liked to call himself an “imagineer,” and imagine he did.
[He imagined Luckenbach] was an old west fairy-tale-like principality and gave everybody titles. He… proclaimed himself Mayor. He made Marge [Mueller] the Sheriff and appointed ambassadors to foreign countries.
The trio began to use the nearly-abandoned buildings as a backdrop for anything that smacked of mirth and diversion: “Hug-Ins”, a Luckenbach World’s Fair, a Ladies State Chili Bust, a Mud Dauber Festival — and daily sessions of song-picking, domino playing, and beer drinking beneath the 500-year-old oak trees.
Dominos, beer, and Mud Dauber Festivals might have kept things entertaining enough for the locals, but destiny was calling. Jerry Jeff Walker arrived in town in 1974 with the Lost Gonzo Band in tow, ready to record Viva Terlingua, and the Luckenbach nation was born.
By the time Bobby Emmons and Chips Moman wrote their own Luckenbach classic in 1977, Hondo Crouch had passed away, but Luckenbach was established. Today, Waylon, Willie, and the boys still bring tears to the eyes of expat Luckenbachians everywhere.
One of Luckenbach’s best qualities always has been a willingness to accept even the quirkiest traveler who makes pilgrimage to the spot. As the sign says, everyone is someone in Luckenbach — but it should add that every someone is welcome: no matter how inscrutable or strange.
That kind of attitude made Luckenbach a perfect venue for Kinky Friedman’s political fund-raisers during his quixotic run for Texas governor. I suspect no one living in Texas in the mid-to-late 70s can forget Kinky, his Texas Jewboys band, or the satirical — and hilarious — songs that poked fun at everything that could stand a little poking. The thought of today’s feminists being exposed to Kinky’s “Get Your Biscuits in the Oven and Your Buns in the Bed,” amuses me no end.
But the Kinkster, as he’s affectionately known, is more than a joke. Agree or disagree with his politics and proposals, his various campaigns — for Kerr County Justice of the Peace, for Governor, for State Agriculture Commissioner — were real. His support of the Utopia Animal Rescue Ranch between Kerrville and Medina is equally real; his name, his money and a portion of his family’s land have been dedicated there for years.
Still, irony and biting satire are his stock in trade, along with the careful cultivation of a larger-than-life persona. Given his style of humor, his willingness to skewer pretentiousness in all its forms, and his devotion to animals, I can’t help wondering if he ever encountered the newly-established Journal of Animal Ethics, with its entirely serious proposal for revising language vis-à-vis animals.
Kinky and Willie, all cleaned up
Edited by Professor Andrew Linzey, theologian and director of the Oxford Centre for Animal Ethics, the journal found its first editorial widely reported in the press, condeming as it did the use of such terms as critters, beasts, wildlife, and pets.
Linzey and his co-editor, Professor Priscilla Cohn of Penn State University, also hoped to see the elimination of such phrases as sly as a fox, eat like a pig or drunk as a skunk. Contending such language is unfair to animals, they suggested “we will not be able to think clearly unless we discipline ourselves to use more impartial nouns and adjectives in our exploration of animals and our moral relations with them.”
After I finished pondering whether dumb as a rock still qualified as acceptable language, I did some exploring. Pete Wedderburn, a British veterinarian and newspaper columnist, mounted a defense of the editorial. As he said, “In a journal that explores how society’s attitudes to animals are changing, it makes sense to use the most objective language possible.” He went on to cite the editorial’s contention that “language is the means by which we understand and conceptualise the world around us” and proposed that “our existing language about animals is the language of past thought.”
Perhaps. But as Ludwig Wittgenstein, an earlier philosopher of language, famously said, “The limits of my language are the limits of my world.”
The increasing propensity of academics, bureaucrats, politicians, and promoters of various causes to arbitrarily impose new meaning on words or phrases, or to declare them unacceptable, results in an impoverishment of language, a diminishment of expressive possibility, and a wholly regrettable constriction of the worlds in which we live
Certainly, societies come to occasional consensus about the need for linguistic change — think of once-common ethnic slurs which are in the process of disappearing — but arguments in favor of “more impartial nouns and adjectives” or more “objective language” suggest a refusal of the natural ebb and flow of language; its delightful complexity; and even its own existence as a living entity worthy of respect.
“The English language is nobody’s special property,” says Derek Walcott, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature. “It is the property of the imagination. It is the property of the language itself.”
Those who declare “You can’t say that,” or “You must say this” are seeking control: seeking to limit our worlds even as they constrain free thought. To condemn the banning of books while allowing the dilution and constriction of our language without protest is more than ironic, and it does carry consequences. Lewis Carroll couldn’t have been more prescient when he tucked this exchange into Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland:
“When I use a word,’ Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, ‘it means just what I choose it to mean — neither more nor less.”
“The question is,” said Alice, “whether you can make words mean so many different things.”
“The question is,” said Humpty Dumpty, “which is to be master— that’s all.”
Even in Luckenbach, a place where philosophers tend toward the home-spun and academicians sometimes pass themselves off as bikers, they understand Wittgenstein and Walcott. When Hondo Crouch styled himself the Imagineer and invited others to participate in his imaginings, he signaled to the songwriters, singers, poets, and beer-drinkers under the oaks that, in Luckenbach, their words would be honored: not censored, not shamed, not ridiculed.
In the midst of it all, Willie Nelson – rebel, raconteur, and imagineer extraordinaire — occasionally took to the stage to sing Cole Porter and Robert Fletcher’s gentle, melodic tribute to the freedom-loving of the world. I don’t think Willie, Cole, or Robert would mind my little version, and I suspect that Ludwig would love it.
(Click for the tune that goes with the words)
Oh, give me words, lots of words that are crying to be heard,
Don’t fence me in!
Let me write with the wide-open style that I love,
Don’t fence me in.
Let me hear truth singing in the evening breeze,
Listen to the language of the cottonwood trees.
Never read a sentence, but I ask you, please
Don’t fence me in.
Just turn me loose
with some rhythm and some rhymin’ underneath my Texas skies.
Forget PC —
let me edit and re-edit till a thought takes wing and flies.
I want to write through the night til the dawn commences,
Gathering words as though I’ve lost my senses,
I can’t bear your prissy or pretend offenses –
Don’t fence me in.
Comments always are welcome. Photos, except where otherwise indicated, are mine.
Such a twanging of bells and rapping of knockers; such a scampering of feet in the dark; such droll collisions as boys came racing round corners, or girls ran into one another’s arms as they crept up and down steps on the sly.
Such laughing, whistling, flying about of flowers and friendly feeling—it was almost a pity that May-day did not come oftener.
Merle Haggard. Glenn Frey, of The Eagles. Paul Kantner, co-founder of Jefferson Airplane. Earth, Wind, and Fire’s Maurice White. I knew them all through their music, and now all are gone. Only David Bowie, another musician already lost in 2016, bore no association for me. I knew his Ziggy Stardust persona, and knew the term “glam-rock,” but on the day of his death, I couldn’t have named one of his songs.
Oblivious though I may have been to Bowie’s career, his death reminded me of my similar response to Kurt Cobain’s 1994 suicide. At the time of Cobain’s death, I knew a musical movement called Grunge was emerging in the Pacific Northwest, represented by groups like Pearl Jam, Stone Temple Pilots, and Alice in Chains, but I’d missed the ascendance of Nivana, and certainly didn’t know Cobain was their frontman. Continue reading