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31 March 2011

Ivan Koop Kuper : Stacy and Bunni: A Montrose Love Story

Stacy Sutherland tombstone, Center Point, Texas. Image from Mindspring.com.

Stacy and Bunni:
A Montrose love story
If Stacy Sutherland of the 13th Floor Elevators were alive he'd be celebrating his 65th birthday this May.
By Ivan Koop Kuper / The Rag Blog / March 31, 2011

HOUSTON -- On the corner of Pacific and Hopkins streets in the east Montrose section of Houston is a vacant lot with an untended vegetable garden. The lot was the previous site of a Craftsman-era bungalow that was recently demolished due to neglect. In this house lived Stacy Sutherland, lead guitarist of Texas’ legendary psychedelic music pioneers, the 13th Floor Elevators, and if Sutherland were alive, he would be celebrating his 65th birthday this May.

Known as the soft-spoken member of the band, when the introspective Sutherland did choose to express himself, he did so not only with his thick central Texas drawl, but also with his reverb-drenched leads that cut through the band’s wall of sound, and whose sustained notes seemed like they would never end.

His signature guitar style appeared on four 13th Floor Elevator albums and countless live performances from Austin to San Francisco. But Sutherland had another side of his personality he kept hidden deep inside and that was known only to those close to him.

Stacy Sutherland. Image from Emerald Wood Archives / Flickr.


Montrose is a neighborhood still in transition whose early 20th century architecture has all but vanished. Once considered a “hippie neighborhood,” by the late 1970s this inner city community was approaching the eve of gentrification, with each neglected bungalow soon to be torn down and replaced with several modern townhouses per city lot with no particular continuity regarding their style or design.

Long time Montrose resident and small business owner Robert Novotney recalls a Montrose in the 1970s when rents were “cheap” and a party atmosphere prevailed in the neighborhood seven days a week. He also recalls a “repressive” police force that was always on the lookout for “longhairs” to harass and search, as well as a neighborhood where home invasion by the criminal element was a common occurrence.

“I was broken into once and I had friends that were always getting broken into because they had these nice stereos that you could hear from the street because nobody had air-conditioning back then and they always kept their windows open and it invited burglaries,” Novotney said.


Stacy Sutherland’s all too short life journey can be traced back to his early days in central Texas, when he used to skip high school and practice guitar all day on the banks of the Guadalupe River that flowed through his family’s ranch in Kerr County. Sutherland also spent a brief period in Port Aransas one summer performing with the Lingsmen, a band that included future Elevator drummer John Ike Walton, as well as future bassist, Benny Lynn Thurman.

When Sutherland joined the 13th Floor Elevators, his personal journey took him from the live music clubs of Austin in the 1960s, to the Avalon Ballroom and the Fillmore Auditorium of San Francisco and eventually to Houston, where he found himself out of money, out of luck, and on the skids.

The 13th Floor Elevators performed together from 1965 to 1969. The band’s core membership and songwriting collaboration always included Sutherland on lead guitar; Roky Erickson, vocalist and rhythm guitar; and Tommy Hall, electric jug, lyricist, and spiritual advisor.

They were just your average Texas rock band that openly proselytized the use of the psychotropic drug LSD as a vehicle to higher consciousness, and who spread their message through their music and lifestyle. They were also one of the first bands of their era to use the term “psychedelic,” and when the 13th Floor Elevators were guests on “American Bandstand” in 1966 promoting their breakout single, “You’re Gonna Miss Me,” a naive Dick Clark asked Tommy Hall, “Who is the head man here?” Hall then smugly replied, “We’re all heads.”


Sutherland was a survivor. He survived the turmoil of being in a band signed to a record label whose owners engaged in questionable business practices, numerous arrests for drug possession, an addiction to heroin, and seven months of incarceration in the Eastham Unit of the Texas Department of Corrections near Huntsville. In exile from his central Texas home of Kerrville, in 1975 Sutherland decided to find refuge and a change of scenery in Houston.

Houston was very familiar turf to Sutherland. The 13th Floor Elevators recorded in Houston studios, as well as performed countless concerts in Houston nightclubs. The band also lived communally for a time in an old mansion located on Old Galveston Road owned by their record label and known as “Funky Mansions.” However, what really drew Sutherland to Houston after the demise of the Elevators was the fact that it was home to Ann Elizabeth “Bunni” Bunnell.

Ann Elizabeth "Bunni" Bunnell. Photo courtesy of Jim Hord.

“She was brilliant and a member of MENSA,” said longtime friend and former Montrose neighbor, Jim Hord, “but she couldn’t handle the everyday little things in life. Bunni displayed bad judgment in men and had a lot of slimeball friends.”

Bunnell was a New Jersey transplant to Texas whom Sutherland initially met in the late 1960s during the time he lived in Funky Mansions. She was an “exotic dancer” who took the name “Bunni” when she danced at the “Boobie Rock” on Houston’s lower Westheimer Road. Bunnell was now working as a typist supporting herself and her two children from a previous marriage, and studying to be a court reporter at night.

Sutherland and Bunnell rekindled their relationship in the summer of 1976, and settled into east Montrose where rents were affordable, drugs were plentiful, and crime was rampant. The next year, on Sutherland’s 31st birthday, May 28, the couple married, traveled to central Texas to visit family and friends, and then returned to Houston to resume their domestic routine of volatility and substance abuse.

“Stacy had a very bad temper and the alcohol brought out the worst in him,” said Hord who now resides in Waco, “but Stacy and Bunni brought out the worst in each other. The house was always dirty, and it was infested with roaches. Bunni wasn’t the best housekeeper. Every time I went over to visit, the condition of the house used to really bug me. Bunni had some really bad times in her life, but the time spent with Stacy was the worst.”

516 Pacific Street, The Montrose, Houston. Photo courtesy of Paul Drummond.

Hord remembers Sutherland as someone always toying with the idea of putting another band together, but who went to extreme measures to forgo actually playing music during this unproductive time period. As a frustrated Sutherland sat on his front porch, neighbors were known to come up to him and ask for an autograph, which served as a reminder of by-gone days in the spotlight.

“I don’t remember ever hearing Stacy play guitar when I went over to visit. He used to talk about drugs a lot. He had a fascination with drugs, and he would do anything that came his way. Bunni once told me that when she and Stacy used to go out bar hopping in the neighborhood, Stacy would bandage his hand before leaving the house, and when people would buy him drinks and ask him to play guitar with the band, he would have an excuse not to play and sit in with them, choosing to drink all night instead,” Hord said.

By 1978, the Sutherlands were at an all-time low in their on again, off again relationship, and in the early morning hours of August 24, after a full day of drinking and arguing, Bunnell shot Sutherland in the kitchen of their east Montrose bungalow. The bullet severed a major artery causing massive internal bleeding. Later that day, the Houston Chronicle included the following story:
A Montrose resident was shot to death today in his residence at 516 Pacific Street. Police identified the victim as Stacy Keith Sutherland, 33. Shot once in the stomach with a .22 caliber rifle, at 3:30 a.m., Sutherland died at 5:07 a.m. in Ben Taub Hospital.

Officers arrested a 34-year-old woman at the scene. No charges have been filed.
Hord believes that Bunnell’s actions were taken as a measure of defense to protect her teenaged son who was staying with them at the time from an irrational acting and inebriated Sutherland.

“Stacy was making threatening remarks and acting belligerent towards Bunni’s 15-year-old son,” recounts Hord, “and when Stacy lunged at Bunni in an attempt to enter her son’s bedroom, she pulled the trigger to the .22 rife that the couple kept in the house for protection against burglars.”

On April 10, 1981, after seeing evidence and hearing arguments from council, the Honorable Judge Frank Price of the 209th District Court of Harris County issued a motion for dismissal to Ann Elizabeth Sutherland for the murder of Stacy Sutherland.

More than two years had passed from the time Bunnell was indicted for the felony offense by a Houston grand jury, and according to Bunnell’s attorney, Audley H. Heath, “because more than 120 days had passed since the commencement of the action, the defendant was entitled to a dismissal of the indictment filed in the cause in accordance with the ‘Speedy Trial Act of 1974’ of the Texas Code of Criminal Procedure.” This statute was later repealed by the Supreme Court of Texas in 2005.


Sutherland died before experiencing the worldwide recognition and the accolades now paid to him and the 13th Floor Elevators from adoring fans, musicians, and the music press. Their music has found a new audience from an entirely new generation, that discovered the band and the body of work they recorded, from that brief moment in time they performed together.

Sutherland is buried at Center Point Cemetery near his family’s ranch in Kerr County, not far from where he used to practice his guitar on the banks of the Guadalupe River. Bunnell eventually became a court reporter, remarried and continued to live in the house at the corner of Pacific and Hopkins streets in east Montrose where she died of cancer in 1987 at age 43.

[Ivan Koop Kuper is a graduate student at the University of St. Thomas, Houston, Texas, and maintains a healthy diet of music, media, and popular culture. He can be reached at kuperi@stthom.edu. Find more articles by Ivan Koop Kuper on The Rag Blog]

Also see:
The 13th Floor Elevators -- Tommy, Bennie, Rocky and Stacy -- at the New Orleans Club in Austin, 1965. Photo by Bob Simmons / The Rag Blog.

Roky Erickson, Stacy Sutherland, and John Ike Walton perform at La Maison in Houston in May or June, 1966. Image from last.fm.

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28 June 2009

Singin' on Sunday: Austin's Cold Sun

Cold Sun live in the Palmer Auditorium, circa 1971.

Cold Sun: Austin's Lost Psychedelic Visionaries
By Patrick Lundborg

[To hear Cold Sun, click here.]

The story of how Austin, Texas was transformed from a sleepy little college town into a world- renowned mecca for rock and country music has been told many times. It's a neat hippie saga with heroes and martyrs, a few emblematic anecdotes and no loose ends… or so it seems.

But what if there were some loose ends, what if there is a whole tapestry hidden under the Vulcan Gas-into-Armadillo HQ saga as usually told? Maybe the psychedelic era didn't end with the 13th Floor Elevators, and maybe it didn't begin with them either?

One of the earliest recognitions of Austin's new and elevated standing in the music business came with a Chet Flippo article in a 1974 Phonograph Record Magazine. The piece, which is written from an insider perspective, presents an already finalized view of how the preceding 10-year period had played out in Austin and Texas as a whole. By and large, this is the story which has been propagated through subsequent retrospectives. Too large murals of the International Artists label, Vulcan Gas Co, and the few hit or hit-bound artists are painted, while many of the key elements of what constituted a scene - the KAZZ-FM station and the related Sonobeat label, the teen clubs, the legendary Baby Cakes group, the Elevators' rapid fall from grace in the late 1960s - are missing.

Of course, this is just another case of how the victors, in this case the cosmic cowboys, are allowed to remember what they feel like remembering, and then pass it on for the history book writers. But as we're beginning to learn, the victory hymns aren't necessarily the most accurate chronicles, nor the most interesting.

Reaching down into the tapestry of vintage Austin music I found a mysterious strand that seemed to run through a lot of these areas. The thread comes in psychedelic colors, spun into a lizard skin pattern, and forms the previously untold story of COLD SUN.

I

“There was a mythical Austin that is the root of all subsequent myths about it being such a ‘cool place’. That time was so magical and wondrous that the memory of it still fuels the fake scenes there, today.”

Thirty-five years later Cold Sun founder Bill Miller has few fond memories of the era that brought Austin music to national recognition. According to him and others who were there at the beginning, or 2 seconds after the beginning, it was already going downhill in late 1967 when the Vulcan Gas Co opened. Just like its west coast big brother city of San Francisco, the preceding years of 1965 and 1966 were the true golden age of Austin. This assessment can also be found in Stephanie Chernikowski’s charming 13th Floor Elevators reminiscence, first published in Not Fade Away #1 magazine in 1975. According to Chernikowski, the storm clouds were gathering over the Austin freak scene in mid-1966, a full year before the so-called Summer Of Love.

In 1966 Bill Miller and his friends were too young to be part of the UT-based Elevators circle, yet followed what was going on around the band, and other hot local acts such as the Baby Cakes and the Wig, with great interest. Miller was an unusual teenager with unusual interests that included pet lizards – big ones – and the more esoteric sides of American pop culture, interests that live on to this day. Many thought him to be older than he was, and his active networking in what was then just a small town with a tangible music scene, gave him a good grasp of the goings-on. There were the two local radio stations, KNOW and KAZZ-FM, the latter being the hipper as they did not ban “You’re Gonna Miss Me” but in fact made it a hit. The father-son team of Bill Josey Sr & Jr that ran KAZZ-FM also operated Sonobeat, Austin’s only record label at the time. Over at the Austin Statesman paper there was Jim Langdon, a local Ralph Gleason who wrote excitedly about the new “psychedelic rock” of the Elevators. The huge UT campus and related Ghetto scene supplied a bohemian undercurrent to the city, as it had for several years. But Austin was still just a local scene and noone thought of comparing it to the rich, legend-filled musical heritages of Houston and San Antonio.

Too young to have been part of the mid-1960s teen music explosion Bill Miller and his guitarist friend Tom Mcgarrigle formed their first band in 1968. The band was called Cauldron, and apart from Miller and Mcgarrigle featured John Kearney, who had played drums with Roky Erickson in his pre-Elevators band, the Spades. Cauldron soon changed their name to AMETHYST, and played at the local “I.L Club”, which was the first psychedelic underground club in Austin. The small club, named after and run by Ira Littlefield, was located in a rough East Austin (the black part of town) neighborhood and had a sign upfront that read "Famous Beatnik Bands, Nightly". Conqueroo played there several times. Some Amethyst recordings exist from the I L Club; these remain unheard but it appears that even at this early stage the band relied solely on original material such as “See What You Cause”. During this period there was some member shuffling including a succession of lead vocalists who failed to work out right. Drummer John Kearney has commented that Miller’s long, complex songs required plenty of rehearsal, one reason for him to later leave the band.

Already at this stage Bill Miller had found the instrument that he would continue to favor throughout his career, the autoharp. Autoharps were unusual but not unique within rock music at the time; some folk-inspired bands like the Lovin’ Spoonful and the Charlatans used them, or at least posed with them for pictures. But in a development similar to how Tommy Hall had turned the concept of “jug”sounds upside down with the Elevators, Miller decided to take the autoharp into places it had not been before. The instrument was adapted and rebuilt into a fully electrified unit, and Amethyst’s music was arranged to accommodate and make full use of the unearthly sounds of the electric autoharp. Most people have heard Miller’s instrument as used on the famous Roky Erickson & the Aliens recordings from the late 1970s, but 10 years earlier it resounded around local clubs in Texas.

While Amethyst was building up a repertoire and re-shuffling its members, the Austin music scene was changing rapidly around them. Despite releasing their masterpiece “Easter Everywhere” album in November 1967 and playing Vulcan Gas the same month, local heroes the 13th Floor Elevators had been going downhill ever since returning from California in late ‘66. The later line-ups of the band were arguably the best in terms of musicianship, but a lot of people were lamenting the loss of energy and excitement from early 1966. Many other teen club bands from the pre-hippie era that had spawned the Elevators were also gone or disappearing, and almost none managed the transition into the “progressive” times of the post-Sgt Pepper late 1960s. Golden Dawn, who partook in the local LSD revolution as "Elevators protegés", fell apart shortly after their brilliant I A album had been released. Bill Miller recalls that Dawn key figure George Kinney stopped by at a few Amethyst rehearsals. The Baby Cakes merged with the Wig into the heavier Lavender Hill Express and their former bands were soon forgotten. As everywhere else harder drugs entered the picture and rock music itself was splintering off into various directions. From the very beginning Vulcan Gas Co booked new local bands that represented these changing directions, such as the Conqueroo (S F Bay Area acidrock) and Shiva’s Headband (embryonic country-rock). There was also a constant back-n-forth between Texas and San Francisco, as many bands tried their luck in the Bay Area only to discover it jam-packed with starving rock bands.

Bill Miller’s Amethyst weren’t terribly impressed with this new direction and scene, which would ultimately lead to the grand 1970s days of the Armadillo World Headquarters. Amethyst was a young band, but the members had been around in the days of genuine excitement. Rather than picking up steel guitar, or get a speedfreak guitarist that could imitate Johnny Winter, the band continued along their specific vision as represented by its two constant members, Miller and lead guitarist Mcgarrigle. The two had plenty of ideas and ambition, and for a while ran their own rock club at Jubilee Hall down in Houston (maintained by notorious preacher Freddie Gage). After giving up trying to find a lead singer they settled on sharing the vocals between them, and soon Miller handled the majority of them. Apart from the Elevators heritage, which is obvious in the band’s subsequent recordings, Miller kept abreast of developments in other parts of America and added the Doors and Velvet Underground to his list of influences. Velvet Underground would play Austin in 1969 after Vulcan Gas had somewhat reluctanctly booked them; the shows were a success and another indication of something else cooking locally, apart from the country and blues mutations. Miller was there, naturally, and had a conversation with Lou Reed backstage regarding the 13th Floor Elevators.

Houston, 1969


II

“If it ain’t peyote, it ain’t from Texas”

Beyond the college student and redneck clusters there were strange developments in and around Austin at the time, and Amethyst/Cold Sun were connected to many of them. Unusual characters crowd their history, such as the band’s friend and future Roky Erickson exorcist/bodyguard Winston “Wink” Taylor, member of an esoteric Christian splinter church led by Father Robert Williams ­– this congregation later counted Roky’s mom Evelyn among their members and assembled in a church that once served as a rehearsal space for the Elevators. Taylor and his friends used to live in the Serpentarium, an abandoned snake farm outside town. This circle included soon-to-be Cold Sun bass player Mike Waugh, and the enigmatic Johnny Love, a Hollywood-style singer and dope dealer who many locals thought was a government agent. For a while the Snake Farm residents had a band going called Alpha Centauri. On the enemy side there was the notorious Captain Harvey Gann, chief narc officer in Austin, known to always wear a bright red suit when conducting a raid. Gann and his team watched the Elevators and other local rock bands very closely.

The Church of the Elevators


Bill Miller himself still had plenty of space to allow his special interests to grow, and in fact made the local papers when his huge tegu lizard ran away and was put into a dog pound, from which it promptly escaped. Other Miller projects included building a complete Dr Doom (the Marvel comic book villain serenaded by the Elevators) costume, although it did not progress beyond a completed metal glove. One interest that would have direct impact on Cold Sun’s music was ancient Egyptian mythology, as heard on the “RA-MA” track from their Sonobeat tapes, an 11-minute epic that also invoked Lemurian elements. And psychedelic drugs were of course everywhere, as they had been in Austin long before the Elevators started handing out free LSD at local gigs. Miller recalls that “a wider cross section than one would imagine did peyote. The 60s beatnik-peyote scene seemed to know no beginning - it had been among the hip as long as the hip had existed since way before acid was invented. It was legal and could be purchased in cactus shops and plant stores. Things were actually more cool before acid appeared.”

Proof of Dr Hermon's hip lifestyle - Art Kleps gives thumbs up!


An official secret of the town was Dr Hermon, a Viennese immigrant who the straight Austin medical establishment referred to as "Crazy Harry". Hermon had a Federal licence to prescribe and administer LSD, marijuana and mescaline/peyote. The Austrian psychiatrist carried a jet set air about him and was into concepts like hypnotism, nude therapy and psychedelic evolutionary therapy. His eccentric image and non-conformist behavior put him in contact with the Austin music underground, which he supplied with psychedelic drugs for several years. Captain Gann and the narcotics squad were aware of this, but Dr Hermon’s medical licence made him difficult to bust. Hermone’s rapport with the rock musicians was such that he was appointed doctor for Roky Erickson when Roky was staying at Holy Cross Hospital in 1968, recovering from a nervous breakdown. Unsurprisingly, in this case Hermon made sure not to involve the patient with drugs. Gann and his narcs later managed to crack down on Hermon, who was forced to leave Austin in a haste.

John David Bartlett, a local musician who worked with the latter-day Elevators and was signed to International Artists recalls hanging out with the Amethyst members: "We had many late fuzzy evenings at Bill's tiny apartment at the base of Castle Hill. There was an old white wood frame building that rambled up the hill. It had been divided into tiny efficiency apartments for the more adventurous of Austin's scene in those daze and had stairs that went up the outside along the hill. It was like an extention of the old Texas Ghetto, with a younger crowd. My house up on Blanco at the top of Castle Hill tended to attract a lot of jam monkeys. That's where we first met Bill and Tom. Tom was such an intense and great guitarist. Bill's first band didn't attract as much attention among my crowd as Cold Sun. I think I heard them only once. But in 69' we all were cut loose from the mooring and on a fairly consistant high. I remember one night best. Sitting at Billy's apartment and he played a new song. Hard dischordant autoharp as Bill screamed 'we live beneath Spider City' [from "South Texas"]... I've got to underline the way Tom looked in those daze. Dark and beautiful. And Billy all in black."



Fred Mitchim, member of the same young Austin scene, recalls his first encounter with Miller and McGarrigle at the Castle Hill freak complex: "I was listening to my friends talk about how Bill was so relieved to have his own place so he wouldn't have to keep his stash in a jar in the back yard any more. This story was my first impression of Bill moments before I met him for the first time. As we headed up the pathway I heard Cold Sun for the first (and most memorable) time. I was struck by the originality of these psychedelic yet also dark songs. And of course Bill's electric auto harp against Tom's searing single note double picking fuzz box echoplex leads. Really nice. When they finished my friends introduced me and I remember noticing Bill to be the first "dressed all in black" person I had met. Back then 6 foot tall Tom would wear no shirt with a orange tuxedo tails coat, red bell bottoms, blue rubber health food sandals, with 3 feet of black hair."

III

Around the time of the Velvet Underground shows at Vulcan, Bill Miller hooked up with another of his sources of inspiration, former Elevators drummer John Ike Walton, who had returned to Texas after a spell as a session musician in California. The newly recruited Amethyst bass player Mike Waugh introduced John Ike to Miller and the band. It seems Walton was on the verge of becoming a member of Amethyst, replacing Roky Erickson’s old Spades drummer John Kearney in an ironic twist, and while he soon bowed out he would play an important part in the band’s evolvement.

From his Elevators days Walton was familiar with Bill Josey Sr who ran the local Sonobeat label, and he suggested that Josey would check Miller and Amethyst out. After having sold the KAZZ-FM radio station in the Fall 1967 to focus on their record label, Josey Sr and Jr had released a string of interesting 45s with local artists, including the only record that the legendary Conqueroo ever would release, as well as excellent singles by the Sweetarts and non-Austin band the Thingies. The label’s story has been chronicled in some detail in Not Fade Away #2, which oddly contains no mention of Cold Sun. Beyond a fairly impressive release catalog, Sonobeat took special interest in the technical aspects of record production, and in fact claimed to be the first label anywhere to feature a mono compatible “solid state stereo” sound on their early 45s. Around this time – 1969 – Josey was working with local band Mariani, named after and lead by their drummer but noted mainly for teenage wiz kid lead guitarist Eric Johnson, as well as with Johnny Winter whose reputation was already growing beyond Austin’s borders in the wake of a Texas music feature in Rolling Stone magazine.

First, excellent Sonobeat rock 45


Bill Miller remembers the first demo session, as almost everything else connected with the band, very clearly: “John Ike told Josey about me and he asked Mike Waugh to set up a meeting. I think the first time Josey heard me was in the studio. Mike and John Ike had only heard me play solo, through an amp at my house. Josey had me record a long demo - about 15 or 20 songs with me singing into a mic in the drum room and with the harp pickup plugged directly into the board. That first demo was supposedly a song demo. I recorded it in one night. That was when Josey`s studio was still in the basement of his house. During the recording of that first demo, he phoned Vince Mariani and had him come over. I saw him from the booth, staring at me and smirking. I emerged from the booth right after recording ‘Here In The Year’ followed by ‘God Is A Girl’ and met Vince, who said to me first off, ‘Man, you`re really a freak’".

Bill Josey Sr was sufficiently impressed with Miller’s demo recordings to offer the band a development deal, where they would work on their music in order to produce recordings that could be pitched to major labels. Sonobeat made demo LPs of Mariani and Johnny Winter following the same principle, as well as a little known folk-oriented artist named Bill Wilson. When John Ike Walton did not join the band they brought in drummer Hugh Patton instead, and with a complete line-up in place they were ready for the recording studio. One final question that needed to be solved was the band’s name, however – they weren’t really Amethyst anymore, and in lack of a name Josey would refer to them as “The Bill Miller Project” for the time. About halfway into the sessions the band came up with COLD SUN, which would stick for the rest of their career. The band still used the Amethyst moniker for a few live gigs around this time.

As with many things in their history, the name “Cold Sun” is enigmatic. The 1989 retrospective album on the Rockadelic label that first brought the Sonobeat recordings to light didn’t even appear under that name, but as “Dark Shadows” which is the title of a popular 1960s mystery TV series. In the liner notes Miller denied ever having been in a band called Cold Sun, and suggested that they had always been called Dark Shadows. However he had referred to the band’s real name in a 1976 interview, where he mentioned that before playing with Roky Erickson in the Aliens he “spent seven years developing the electric auto-harp with a band called Cold Sun”. The name itself is derived from the legends of MU, made famous by the writings of Col James Churchward and more recently by the great 1970s rock band of the same name, led by Merrel Fankhauser. MU and the Lemurian mythology was popular in Cold Sun circles, although Miller says that he tried to come up with an even better band name later on.

Lemuriana - Ancient knowledge rising to consciousness.


IV

After using a local club for recording, the Sonobeat label had set up their own recording studio in the basement of the Joseys’ house. The early stages of the Cold Sun project were located to this basement studio, but the material actually preserved on tape was made at yet another Sonobeat studio in a building on North Lamar that also housed the KOKE radio station, owned by Austin’s then-mayor Roy Butler (ironically, KOKE was Josey’s old KAZZ-FM restructured and renamed). This is where all known Cold Sun recordings were made. Miller estimates the total time for the project to roughly 6 months, including work tapes, demos and actual recording sessions. All of the material had been written prior to the Sonobeat deal, but went through various changes and upgrades as the sessions progressed. There were also a few songs from the first demo tape that were discarded along the way, among them "God Is A Girl", "Graduation Day" and "Do The Ray" which were all written by Miller – the latter being the band’s “dance tune”, inspired by Roger Corman’s "The Man With The X-Ray Eyes" – and “Mind Aura” and “Shifters” by lead guitarist Tom Mcgarrigle. Vince Mariani and Bill Josey both suggested that Miller do all the lead vocals, which may have been the reason that Mcgarrigle’s tunes weren’t used. Incidentally, Cold Sun bass player Mike Waugh was well familiar with Josey, having been used as an in-house session bassist on many Sonobeat recordings before joining the band.

Despite the creative and seemingly unproblematic nature of the sessions, Miller recalls that “Bill Josey did not understand where we were coming from musically. We couldn`t explain to him what`s happening, so I explained to him that Tom and I are simply, ‘Lou Reed fans’. He didn`t understand that, either.” Josey may have had a greater input on the technical aspects of recording Cold Sun than the actual music, and as Miller remembers him “Josey was indeed a wizard - maybe the closest thing that Texas had to a Joe Meek. Josey invented the Sonotone Black Box - a mysterious device, some sort of compressor. I do remember Eric Johnson recording with the Black Box , but he only used it to a minor degree. Johnson did not understand it. Neither did I. I played through it, too, to try it out, but never recorded with it.” The highly unusual autoharp likely ticked Josey’s interest, as there were no precedents for how to record it. As it turned out the autoharp was fed directly into the board on most songs, as was the bass. The Cold Sun recordings were originally intended to be in quadraphonic sound, one of Josey’s pet interests at the time.

In addition to musical arrangements, a lot of work was put into the lyrics. Miller isn’t very proud of them today, but they still stand head and shoulders above the usual hippie fantasy nonsense from the era. Every song has several lines that stick in memory the way well-written rock lyrics do. The vast majority of them were written by Miller, but input and inspiration also came from Mcgarrigle and band friend Winston Taylor. Another lyric collaborator of Cold Sun was Sonobeat associate Herman Nelson, a square-looking middle-aged man who behind his façade was known as a local mystic and white magician. Miller recalls the source for the tracks like this:
“Whatever ideas other than Colonel Jim/Mu stuff came from me, Tom and Winston. ‘Ra-Ma’, ‘Fall’ and ‘Twisted Flower’ were very much Churchward influenced. ‘South Texas’ and ‘See What You Cause’ were not, really, and ‘South Texas’ was mostly a 100% psychedelic anthem drenched in peyote. ‘For Ever’ and ‘Here In The Year’ were 100% me . Only ‘Fall’ and ‘Ra-Ma’ contained lyrics by the other 3 people.“

A numerological infatuation shared by Josey and the band members influenced the Cold Sun lyric writing and recording, according to Miller:

“Josey was superstitious. He believed that the Johnny Winter album’s exact track length was a lucky number. It was 43 or 45 minutes and - oh, I forget how many seconds. You can check the Johnny Winter length - you will find that it is exactly the same length as the Cold Sun album - exactly, to the second. ‘Ra-Ma’, and ‘Fall’ had to be made longer to fit that time frame and a song that Tom wrote was dropped at Tom`s insistance; he was as superstitious as Josey and prone to suggestion in those areas – fearful of certain numbers. So was I. I was desperate for more lyrics and am afraid those weak lines were not very real, just whatever would rhyme. I wrote the weak lines, myself. It was still a bit short in length, so Josey got the idea to add the wind chimes thing at the end of ‘Ra-Ma’.”

The running order presented on the 1989 Rockadelic issue of the Sonobeat tapes differs markedly from how Miller and Josey had envisioned the album back in 1970. This is their original, intended track order:

1.- "South Texas" (Miller)
2.- "Twisted Flower" (Miller)
3.- "Here In The Year' (Miller)
4.- "For Ever" (Miller)
5.- "See What You Cause" (Miller)
6.- "Fall" (Miller, Taylor)
7.- "Ra Ma" (Miller, Mcgarrigle, Nelson)

While there are pros and cons of both structures, one could opine that “South Texas” would have made for an extremely strong opening, and that the album as a whole would build to an appropriate climax with “Ra-Ma”, as originally planned.

Regarding the musical re-arrangements during the sessions, Miller recalls that:

“Only ‘See What You Cause’ remained the same, even the technique of having Tom play bass and the bass player play lead guitar. Tom had no intention of playing bass, but it worked well on that song to do it that way. He and Mike both were cool about that. ‘Fall’ was the same musical passages as before, but, with new words added and the old lyrics 100% discarded - except the part about Dodge - that lyric was the same as the older version. The harmonica was also new in the ‘Josey’ era. In that photo of Cold Sun, you can see a harmonica holder attached to the top of the autoharp if you look closely. It was a harmonica holder with the neck piece removed, which I`d slide into place through brackets on the side of the harp - I would swivel the harp to ‘center’ and use the harp itself as a holder - while playing it - playing both instruments simultaneously.”

The vocals on the Cold Sun album have confused people as there seem to be two different lead vocalists, sometimes switching parts from one line to the next. The truth is that both vocalists are Miller, who in spite of not being a natural vocalist shows a remarkable versatility on the tracks – he will move from a dark, Jim Morrison-influenced vocal style into a piercing, Roky Erickson-like acid-punk voice seemingly without effort, and without ever revealing what is his “true” style. The vocal harmonies were handled by Mcgarrigle and Waugh, with Waugh given two lines of lead vocals on “Twisted Flower”; a source of amusement during the sessions, according to Miller:

”I really wanted Mike Waugh to sing the whole song and he wanted to, very much. However, he was not as good as me on that song as lead vocalist , except for those 2 lines. Bill Josey said, ‘He sounds like Jerry Lewis, and I don’t mean Jerry LEE Lewis!’. Josey later named the middle section (‘Yes, I receive the calls ...’) the Jerry Lewis bit. In vocal sessions, Josey would say, ‘OK, lets try to improve on the third line of the Jerry Lewis bit.”

The eyes of the Gecko.


V

Here are some other Miller comments on the Cold Sun tracks:

Here In The Year -- “Regarding the end section Josey said: 'That is so beautiful. Surely you aren`t really going to let Tom put NOISE over that?'. Later, I laughingly told Tom. His reply was, 'Well, cry me a river'. That song was not a Peyote song, though. It was a prediction of the Internet – but with links to the Ethernet. The original verse was ‘Here in the year 1969’. Lame, huh? Well, it was 1970, finally, and counting - and doubts increased about Josey cutting the ‘Columbia’ deal - I was motivated to alter the lyric a bit.”

Ra-Ma -- ”All bass you hear in the beginning 'dreamy' segment is my thumb doing bass lines on the autoharp as I play the other strings with my fingers… Does the harmonica RUIN it? Does it help? I think it`s good on Ra-Ma. Josey liked it on that song. He smiled. I got it on the first take. I play lead guitar on the first part with vocals, 'Crocodiles line the banks ...' etc. I wrote that guitar part and did not want Tom to waste time on it – he was too busy with other parts. Later, of course, he learned it for the live performances. Does ‘Ra-Ma’ sound better or worse, now that you know it was about Mu ?”

Fall -- ”Herman Nelson wrote far more for Josey than I realized. I had forgotten that he wrote the melody and lyrics to Mariani`s 'Re-Birthday'. I remembered a couple of lines he wrote for Cold Sun - 'Fall'. 'Willow binds like steel/from your lotus wheel' Actually that was written for a different song - If I had used his words in the song he wrote it for, you would hear, 'You may never see what you cause/You may never see what you cause/Willow binds like steel/from YOUR lotus wheel/from YOUR lotus wheel'. Funny, huh?”

See What You Cause -- ”It was an obvious tribute to Roky, whom I had never met at that time. I was good at ghost writing for Rok even back then. That came in handy as I arranged 'Bloody Hammer', 'Night Of The Vampire', 'Two Headed Dog', and others.”

South Texas -- “Inspired by a weekend in South Texas with 2 girls from Corpus Christi and a big bowl of peyote salsa and a drive-in Mexican restaurant with these great big fried tortillas. There was a motel crawling with these tiny geckos. Geckos have voices. Peyote is more AUDIO oriented than any other drug, as far as I know. Tom Mcgarrigle sounded like a Gecko with his guitar, at times.”

Twisted Flower -- “The ‘Bass’ solo at the beginning is actually the autoharp. The drum clicks start it off and then the autoharp comes in with the heavy booming autoharp bass strings playing the bass solo, then Mike Waugh decends into what is a brief 'Bass duet' before the guitar and harp come in with the higher stuff.”

VI

The basic idea for the Cold Sun studio project was that Josey would pitch the finished recordings to a major label, Columbia being the one most frequently mentioned. The method of pressing vinyl demo discs in a limited run was going out of fashion, as modern tape techniques simplified the demoing process. The Mariani LP from 1969 was the last of the Sonobeat vinyl demos, and as the Cold Sun sessions were wrapped up in the Spring 1970, stereo cassette and quarter track dubs of studio tapes were used for presenting the material. This is the reason no demo LP or acetate exists from the original sessions (note: the infamous Cold Sun acetate dates from a later stage, detailed below). Unfortunately, Sonobeat’s financials were under pressure at this point and Josey may not have been able to put enough weight behind his Cold Sun pitch. The label had scored a substantial PR hit with Johnny Winter, whose “Winter” LP from early 1969 (later re-released as “Progressive Blues Experiment” on UA) was recorded with Sonobeat before Winter signed his huge deal with Columbia, but it appears that little or no profit from it ended up with Josey. In the case of Cold Sun it’s possible that the band’s unique brand of psychedelia did not match what record labels expected from an Austin band at the time. In short, no contract was signed, and Sonobeat itself went into low-profile.

Bill Josey Sr kept working with recordings of various local artists in a new studio outside Austin before becoming ill in 1976 and passing away shortly after. His son Bill Josey Jr who had been involved with the label and the KAZZ-FM station, using the on-air DJ alias of “Rim Kelly”, showed some interest in reviving the label in the 1990s, but nothing has yet come of these activities. Bill Miller remembers Josey Sr fondly. “I lost track of Josey news around the time I began to help Roky develop his songs, a few months before BliebAlien did local shows - must have been circa late 1974. I don`t think Bill Josey did much more before his fatal illness, but have wondered what he did in that period. Things were moving so fast. I regret not visiting Bill Josey again. He was a great man, gave a lot to the Texas scene.” Bill Josey’s and the Sonobeat label’s full story still remains to be told.

The Cold Sun saga was far from over, however. The band kept working on their material and gigging locally now and then. Bill Miller recalls several new tunes from the post-Sonobeat era, such as "D.J.`s Locker", "The Worldwide Voice Of James" and "PayOla". A live recording from the time includes "Out Of Phase", "Where The Shadows Lie”, and "Live Again". Most of these were written by Miller, who was the band’s driving force at this stage. Tom Mcgarrigle actually left the band for a period, but came back shortly after. Bass player Mike Waugh, whose musicianship is still held in high regard by Miller, unfortunately left the band and had to be replaced - a very daunting task according to Miller. After another bass player didn’t work out Waugh was replaced with a Mike Ritchey, and with Mcgarrigle back this was the Cold Sun line-up for the rest of the band’s career. The on-stage photo of the band from the Palmer Auditorium (where Bob Dylan had played a legendary show back in 1965) shows this last line-up.

Fred Mitchim recalls the live Cold Sun like this: "On stage Bill would be slumped over his harp and Tom would be standing real straight like Cipollina. My memory of how they were perceived by the locals is from the 2 or 3 times I saw them play. In the clubs it went right over most people's heads. At this time I'm positive no one had ever been exposed to anything like Bill's wide eyed scary psychedelia. At the high point of each set Bill would turn a fuzz box on his harp and play it with a kitchen knife. As I was saying... Zoom... right over their heads. I don't remember them playing out that much but it seems like they we're always slaving over the album they were recording so if you were not a local musician you might not know much about them and back then almost no one was allowed to hear the recordings."

JohnDavid Bartlett has similar memories: "The 'over the head' reference is true. There weren't that many live Cold Sun shows as I remember. But at the ones I saw, when a song would end the musicians in the audience would howl, while the rest looked like the audience in "The Producers" at the end of "Springtime for Hitler".

Bill Miller considers the prospect of going west.


The band was never a success locally. It appears that their music simply was too far removed from what was happening around Austin, the parallel infatuation with country and blues “roots” music being all the rage, and the city’s growing national exposure giving increased credence to that orientation. Cold Sun built partly upon the 13th Floor Elevators, but the Elevators were dead and buried in 1971 and people wouldn’t even admit having once liked them. Their other musical influences were urban and intellectual, and wholly alien to what was going on. As Miller recalls, “We played shows that were a faithfully reproduced live version of the album - but better. We were not that serious about playing in Texas, but would have played more. When you hear that album, whatever it is that makes you like it, you should understand that the same thing that makes you like it served to make clubs and brats in Austin NOT like it”. They weren’t without supporters, though: “Vince [Mariani] never missed any show we did. We reminded him of some lost element from childhood - carnivals. After one show he said, ‘You guys sound like you just walked out of a space ship’".

VII

The band soldiered on into 1973 with Miller busy learning the ropes of the music industry. Tom Mcgarrigle left the band permanently, and Miller relocated briefly to Memphis and worked on his business network. Cold Sun was on the back burner, but another and equally interesting phase was just around the corner. Some time earlier mutual friend Winston Taylor had introduced Miller to Roky Erickson, who had been released after 3 years in Rusk State Hospital and was back in Austin. Miller recalls an early encounter with Roky: “One day, I entered Roky`s house and he had allowed a pile of wax candles to melt into the center of the shag carpet until the carpet became the wick of the giant candle, burning brightly. Roky was sitting on a large chair smoking a J. A man with long hair, glasses, and white robes was at his feet. Roky was barefoot and the man was washing his feet in some special ceremonial golden platen - presumably filled with Holy Water? The man used a special cloth and every motion seemed like some specialized routine, some ritual.”

Patrick Mcgarrigle - you owe him thanks.


Roky Erickson’s career was essentially back to zero at this point. There were some one-off Elevators reunions, but not much else. Roky had a network of friends who helped him through his Rusk period and after, among them Patrick Mcgarrigle, younger brother of Cold Sun’s lead guitarist. In an effort to revitalize Roky’s rock’n’roll career Patrick Mcgarrigle wanted to put a band together, and as part of this Bill Miller was contacted. Bringing in “the only two musicians in Texas I could trust”, Mike Ritchey and Hugh Patton were selected for the rhythm section, and so BLIEBALIEN was born. As Miller points out, this band was essentially Cold Sun under a new name, with Roky on guitar instead of Tom Mcgarrigle. Roky had written a massive number of songs – perhaps as many as 200 – while in Rusk, and the BliebAlien project aimed mainly at arranging these for a rock setting. Live gigs weren’t a priority, but as a local show at the Ritz unexpectedly was booked, Miller was called in to join the band. This marked the beginning of a phase that later would lead to Roky Erickson & the Aliens being formed, an outfit who should need no introduction. The BliebAlien and Aliens years lie outside the scope of this article, but will hopefully be covered elsewhere. According to Miller, it is “even stranger” than the Cold Sun saga.

This isn’t quite the end, however. Sometime around 1973 Cold Sun bass player Mike Ritchey had taken the Sonobeat master tapes and had an acetate made from them. The main reason was that he wanted to be able to replay the recordings – on which he doesn’t actually play – on regular hifi equipment. As far as can be determined, only 1 single acetate was made, and remained in Ritchey’s possession. At one point he played it for Roky Erickson, who was surprised as he hadn’t heard of neither Cold Sun nor Bill Miller’s songwriting capabilities. As Miller tells it, Roky confronted him after hearing the acetate:

ROKY : "Now, Bill, who is the writer in this band?"
BILL : "You are, Roky. Why would I want Bill Miller for a writer when I could have Roky Erickson? Do you think I`m stupid?"

Soon after this incident the Cold Sun acetate and the band itself disappeared off the face of the earth; the only trace of them anywhere was a brief 1976 interview reference by Miller. As it turned out, it would be 15 years before anyone heard of Cold Sun again.

VIII

“At one time my greatest fear would have been the thought of anyone hearing the old Cold Sun recordings.”

In 1989, Rich Haupt and his partner Mark Migliore of the Dallas-based Rockadelic record label were approached by Michael Ritchey, who knew Migliore since before. Ritchey wanted them to hear something with his “old band”. As Haupt recalls it,

”It was a 3 or 4 song acetate labeled Cold Sun.....needless to say when we listened to it we were blown away. Michael got Mark in touch with Bill Miller and he tried to work out a deal to release the material. After many conversations, Mark gave up and concluded that these songs would never be released as Bill was pretty adamant about NOT releasing them. I asked Mark if I could give it a try and after many hours on the phone I think I convinced Bill that his material was GREAT and that it would be a shame if no one got to hear the LP. Bill finally agreed but there were some details that were difficult to work out. The biggest obstacle was the name of the band. Michael Ritchey, who was responsible for getting the ball rolling (although he was in the band AFTER the recordings) insisted the name of the band was/should be Cold Sun. Bill on the other hand insisted on Dark Shadows, which was something he made up years after the band was defunct. I did my best to compromise and printed both "names" on the cover. The second big issue was the inserts that went in the LP. Bill wanted his extensive notes while Michael wanted a more simplistic, coherent insert. Again I tried my best to compromise and put Bill's notes in 1/2 the LP's and Michael's in the other half. There is no question that this is the best LP we have had the privilege of releasing, and hopefully Bill is glad that it ultimately has worked out the way it has. I could have pressed MANY copies of this both on vinyl and CD over the years but have stuck to my word of only releasing 300 copies.”



It should be pointed out that the acetate was not the source for the Rockadelic reissue, but rather dubs from the original Sonobeat master tapes, which were still in Miller’s possession. The acetate only features about 2/3rds of the material on the Rockadelic record, and is in pretty worn shape -- a fact that didn't keep it from selling for a whopping $10.000 on the record collector market recently. The actual deal reached between Rockadelic Records and Miller was unusual:

“All Rich Haupt paid me for the album was: A giant billboard sized picture of Simone Simon. He said - "If you let me release this, I will pay you. How much money do you require ?" I said, "I would require a giant billboard sized picture of Simone Simon, so I can erect a proper shrine for worship." Rich said , "Who is Simone Simon ?". I told him: Star of "Cat People", the icon star of Jacques Tourneur, who was the David Lynch of the 1940`s. Jacques Tourneur directed "I Walked With A Zombie". So, Rich got me a giant picture of Simone Simon. And I sent him the Josey reel dub from the Josey master.”



The album front cover was designed by Rockadelic, while Miller suggested putting the tegu lizard on the back. Apart from the liner note insert, the package included a color on-stage photograph of the band. The release was an instant success among fans of underground psychedelia, and the 300 numbered copies sold out very quickly. Despite having been bootlegged (in inferior sound and without inserts), it now changes hands for over $100. Even after the album was released Miller was unimpressed with his old recordings, and would not discuss the Cold Sun era. It would be several years and much prodding from fans across the world before he recognized that they may have great value, even if they failed to wow the world back in 1970. As of this writing plans for a CD release of the Sonobeat masters, and hopefully some bonus live material, are in progress. Meanwhile, Miller – who today is known as Billy Angel – has entered a third, or fourth, phase in his career, now as autoharpist with the Blood Drained Cows, a Southwestern rock band that also features members from 1980s legends the Angry Samoans. The Blood Drained Cows are gigging frequently around USA and have a new CD out, titled “13”. On stage the band plays a 13th Floor Elevators cover, thus closing a circle that began in Austin 1966.

© Patrick Lundborg and Lysergia.com, 2003-2008

This article has also appeared in print in MISTY LANE magazine #18, 2003.

REFERENCES

1. “Texas Rock & Roll Spectacular” by Chet Flippo, in Phonograph Record Magazine, March-1974

2. 13th Floor Elevators article by Stephanie Chernikowski, in Not Fade Away magazine #1, 1975.

3. Sonobeat article by Doug Hanners in Not Fade Away magazine #2, 1977. (Online with Bill Josey photo at www.scarletdukes.com/st/tm_aussonobeat.html)

4. Texas rock article by Larry Sepulvado and John Burks in Rolling Stone, issue #23.

5. Brown Paper Sack magazine #1, edited by Andrew Brown, 1997.

6. “13th Floor Elevators – the Complete Reference File”, book by Patrick Lundborg, 2002. lysergia_2.tripod.com/elevRefFileMain.htm

7. “Journey To Tyme”, discography of Texas music by David Shutt, 2nd edition 1981.

8. The Ghetto website, with Austin 1965-69 article by Gerry Storm.

9. Rockadelic Records website, with Cold Sun audio clip

10. Blood Drained Cows site with links to Billy Angel's site.

To discuss and learn more about Texas music from the 1960s and early 1970s, visit the Texas 60s Refuge.

Source / Lysergia

Many thanks to Patrick Lundborg and Thomas McGarrigle / The Rag Blog

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23 June 2009

Roky Erickson to Houston : Return of 'Two-Headed Dog'

Roky Erickson. Photo by Stephanie Chernikowski / The Rag Blog / Shout! Factory Records

Roky Erickson -- nee of the 13th Floor Elevators -- returns to Houston after 25 years
Erickson... is enjoying a fruitful second act that is creatively satisfying rather than a sentimental journey.
By Andrew Dansby

Among significant musicians who have endured monumental breakdowns and/or mental illness, few are more sweet and charming in conversation than Roky Erickson. The Austin-based psychedelic rock legend has had as bumpy a ride as any. He’s been drugged (voluntarily), arrested, incarcerated, institutionalized, shocked, drugged (involuntarily) and abandoned over a duration of time (more than two decades) that should’ve left him dead. But on the other end of a phone these days he’s unfailingly courteous.

Talking to some of rock’s eccentrics and near casualties is usually an exercise in futility. Brian Wilson was friendly enough the first and only time I spoke to him, though his shouty voice and naturally clipped answers gave a gruff impression beyond his control. “Thank you,” he shouted before hanging up. “That was a good interview.” (It wasn’t.) Waller native Daniel Johnston was once a chatterbox during an interview; another time he stared at a kitchen table and smoked cigarettes shaking like an old washing machine.

Interviewing such artists can sometimes feel like a self-serving pursuit. The purpose is the same as talking to non-eccentrics: an attempt to glean some sort of interesting information about their art from which to spin a minor profile. With Erickson, for instance, I learned last week that Little Willie John was a influence on his landmark 13th Floor Elevators song You’re Gonna Miss Me. (In a previous chat, James Brown had been mentioned.)

“I just heard one song of his on the radio,” Erickson said. “‘Better leave my kittie alone.’ We had this one real, tiny radio, and I heard Little Willie John sing that. Then I think I heard James Brown’s Night Train. I listened to mostly rock ’n’ roll … though I liked the blues a lot.”

Certain this personal revelation was hardly a national one, I opted not to Google Erickson and Little Willie. But as one prone to obsessing about music I thought it was plenty logical.

Erickson’s life and times following Miss Me were equally foggy, though they’ve been well documented since. The Elevators were short-lived. He spent years in the Rusk State Hospital to avoid jail time for marijuana possession, and came out damaged. He recorded sporadically through the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s, some of it listenable, much of it not. Broke and on the skids, he was rescued in the ’90s by a younger brother, who fixed his teeth and his finances and his living situation, and facilitated a remarkable comeback. These days Erickson is giving full performances (last year’s Austin City Limits Music Festival appearance was joyous and rocking). He’s also recorded with Austin’s Okkervil River, though there are no release details yet.

Erickson’s recall is sometimes keen, other times not so much. Many of his answers begin with a “let me see …” or “let me think …” Some details from 1966 are clear as a bell, others from years later are not. The Elevators were signed to the Houston-based International Artists label, which purchased Miss Me from the Contact label. He recalls the touchstone names in the region (Huey Meaux, Gold Star studio), but stops short of elaboration. Erickson also doesn’t recall the last time he played Houston, though his manager informs me that it was Aug. 11, 1984, at the Consolidated Arts Warehouse. So nearly a quarter century will have passed when he takes the stage at the Continental Club on Wednesday.

If Erickson’s ACL appearance is any indication, he’ll run through Miss Me along with other favorites like Creature With the Atom Brain and Two-Headed Dog.

Much psychedelic rock hasn’t aged very well over the years. It’s shackled to its era and infused with an earnest pursuit of hippie idealism less widely lovable than, say, jive swing, another bygone genre that fused an antiquated style to its substance.

But Miss Me has proven monumentally resilient, an urgently iconic nugget from 1966 that doesn’t attempt to lure you with slurry guitars and chanting about kaleidoscopic kittens. The soul and blues that Erickson cites infused the song with an urgency not found in the psych rock rooted in the folky jug-band tradition. That rawness gave Miss Me legs beyond some other music of its era.

Its opening guitar riff is a strangler, a war cry for 40-plus years of garage rock. And even something as blatantly hippie-esque as playing a jug is defiantly manipulated as to suggest some sort of wild-eyed mutation of something innocent. In the pointless music journalistic pursuit of the punk rock genesis (Iggy! Velvet Underground! New York Dolls! Elvis! Hank Williams!), the Elevators warrant mention if for nothing other than Erickson’s banshee singing, the result, at least in part, of his mother’s affinity for opera.

Musician Shandon Sahm, son of late Texas music legend Doug (a friend, admirer and collaborator with Erickson), says the production reminded him of Sahm’s landmark She’s About a Mover. “The jug is cool, the screaming rocks,” he says. “It’s hard to pin down exactly what makes it awesome, but as Doug used to say about Mover can apply to Miss Me, it just flat out had a groove to it.”

Erickson’s description of writing the song is somewhat cryptic.

“I was just at my house, and I thought I might write a song,” he says. “Then I found myself at this very strange place, some kind of a poetry place or something. All it had was one room and bar. And that was it.”

Erickson says he spends his days “reading a lot,” watching beloved horror movies that seem to inspire his music (see song titles in previous paragraph), and plinking on a pump organ in his home (“It’s missing a key”) and a new Yamaha keyboard, which has pre-programmed songs that he tweaks, other times he works up original compositions, which he figures number in the hundreds.

In the late-’90s Erickson was well-represented in record store bins, though the rash of new releases all featured old material that had been dredged up. But with the tantalizing tease of new music (his first in more than a decade) and his urgently loud performances, Erickson, like Wilson and Johnston, is enjoying a fruitful second act that is creatively satisfying rather than a sentimental journey.

Copyright 2009 Houston Chronicle

Source / chron.com / Posted June 19, 2009
Roky Erickson in performance
Continental Club, 3700 Main, Houston
Wednesday, June 24, 2009, 10 p.m.
Tickets : $25, continentalclub.com
Also see: Thanks to Connie Clark / The Rag Blog

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13 May 2009

Mesmo's Meanderings : Bud Shrake, Acapulco Gold, Mad Dogs and the Raw Deal

Texas literary legend Bud Shrake, 77, passed away on May 8, 2009, in Austin. Photo from The Texas Observer.
Bud Shrake, 77, a seminal literary figure (“a lion of Texas letters,” according to the Austin American-Statesman) and an Austin underground icon, died Friday, May 8, in Austin, after a long battle with lung cancer.

Funeral services yesterday in Austin drew an overflow crowd of luminaries and amigos; Willie Nelson sang at Bud’s funeral and Jerry Jeff Walker performed at his gravesite. Shrake was buried next to former Texas Gov. Ann Richards, his long time companion.


For Bob Simmons’ Rag Blog article on his friend Bud Shrake’s life and death, go here.

For an enticing set of rowdy and illicit memories, read Gerry Storm’s account, below.

Thorne Dreyer / The Rag Blog / May 13, 2009
'Back in '68 Joe Brown and I were stranded in the Big Apple with several suit cases of Acapulco Gold... Bud not only bought a couple of pounds but connected us with his gang at Elaine's, the posh discothèque where we spent the evenings peddling the load by the pound and drinking.'

By Gerry Storm / The Rag Blog / May 13, 2009

I first met Bud in New York City in the autumn of 1968. He was a sports reporter at the time, one of the rising stars in this field, employed by Sports Illustrated (to which I was a subscriber). I had lived in Dallas in the early '60's and followed his writing in both the Times Herald and Morning News.

I still recall a travelogue he wrote in about 1964 for SI extolling the beauty and virtues of Austin and the Hill Country, not a word about sport but such a work of love for a place that I immediately started thinking about moving there. In 1965 I did so. He was right, it was quite a place. At the time I could not have imagined that I would meet him one day and claim him as a good friend.

But back in '68 Joe Brown and I were stranded in the Big Apple with several suit cases of Acapulco Gold. Our buyer had pulled a cross on us and we were in trouble, far away from home in a strange place, nearly broke, and carrying around a dangerous load. Joe called Bud who invited us to his swank high rise apartment where we stayed for several days as we moved the load. Bud had not only bought a couple of pounds but connected us with his gang at Elaine's, the posh discothèque where we spent the evenings peddling the load by the pound and drinking. One of the lessons I learned was not to get into a drinking contest with pros like Bud and Joe. Needless to say I was very impressed with Bud the man and happy to add he and his lovely wife Doatsy to my list of new friends.

Our next encounters centered on the Mad Dogs, Bud's drinking, doping, and social club in West Lake Hills. This was 1969 and I was playing drums with Shiva's Head Band and renting a house in the super suburb. Members of the club who lived in the vicinity included Gary (Jap) Cartwright, Billy Lee Brammer, and Paula Sarnoff (most often the hostess for the wild parties which brought us together). And there were always visitors at our flings, some of them quite well known in literary circles as well as professional athletes.

During this time there was no public hangout for the likes of us in Austin and our band desperately needed a place to play. Eddie Wilson was the band's manager and he had located the building that would become the Armadillo, but we could not afford to lease the place and convert it into a rock and roll dance hall. I took our plight to Bud, introduced him to Eddie and he wrote us a fat check which enabled us to launch the place. We sealed the deal with a shaker of martinis. Some of you may recall that Bud had a couple of rooms, one with a bar, reserved in the original 'dillo, Bud's private lair, Bubba meets Elaine's.

I turned down an offer to manage the place and moved to Marin County soon afterward. My plans called for me to escape from the rock scene, not manage a club. This adventure lasted there for seven years, mostly in West Marin, one of the best times of my life. While there I met Peter Boyle who had just worked on Bud and Jap's original flick, "Mad Dogs! You're one of the Mad Dogs from Texas? Man, that movie was the most fun I've ever had. Those guys were unbelievable. You don't happen to have any of that Austin weed do you?"

When I returned to Austin in 1976 the rumblings which led to Eddie's ouster from the Armadillo were in place and he was looking to open a restaurant. Sure enough the Raw Deal was born, with Bud's sponsorship and Eddie's drive. Later the place was "sold" to Jim Smitham and Fletcher Boone and Eddie set about creating Threadgill's, a real restaurant but not nearly as much fun.

The Raw Deal evolved into, as might be expected considering the personalities involved, quite a unique place. I especially liked the original little joint down across the creek from the police station. Bud and I spent many a night closing the place and draining whatever bottle(s) he had brought along. I didn't know at the time that he had a degree in philosophy in addition to his English studies. His mind was quite profound. In addition to the obvious, Bud was the funniest man I have ever known.

Ultimately both he and Jap were informed by their physicians that they had to either stop drinking or die. Both of them were in pretty bad shape. You can't have that much fun without paying a price. The ease with which they went onto and stayed on the wagon was remarkable. Give up booze? Nothing to it, only been doing it for 50 years. The quality of their work and their humor seemed to be unaffected. But there was a negative slant to their abstinence as well, as we never saw them around any more and the quality of the parties slid backward. I hadn't seen him for many years although I had read his books and seen his movies.

And so it went. When I heard that he had cancer I thought seriously about driving to Austin to bid him farewell. Unfortunately I too had (have) the disease and was in no shape for such a cruise. Besides, what would we have done? Now that I have had a few days to digest his parting there is no sadness. There goes one of the good ones. I am sure that he handled death the same way he always handled adversity, with a quip and a grin. Although I care next to nothing about golf I am going to read "The Little Red Book" and expect to be entertained royally one more time.

[Gerry Storm, aka Mesmo, is a former Austin musician, activist and union leader who now lives in rural New Mexico where he contributes to The Rag Blog when he feels like it . His interests combine the political with the spiritual. ]

Please see Bud Shrake, 77 : This Texas Tall Tale is a Literary Legend by Bob Simmons, introduction by Thorne Dreyer (with links to other obits) / The Rag Blog / May 11, 2009

Also see
The Rag Blog

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11 May 2009

Bud Shrake, 77 : This Texas Tall Tale is a Literary Legend

Bud Shrake speaks at Texas Book Festival in November, 2008. Photo by Bob Simmons / The Rag Blog.
Edwin "Bud" Shrake died Friday, May 8, of lung cancer, at the age of 77.

A towering figure in Texas literature -- due equally to his lanky frame and his deft literary touch -- Bud Shrake was best known in broader circles as co-author of Harvey Penick’s Little Red Book, the best-selling sports tome of all time, and as the long-time paramour of the equally legendary Ann Richards, the late great governor of Texas.

Shrake, who spent his early days as a sportswriter in Fort Worth and later as an editor at Sports Illustrated, penned 11 highly-acclaimed novels and several screenplays, and, along with “maddog” cohorts Dan Jenkins, Gary Cartwright, Larry L. King and Billy Lee Brammer, forever transformed the Texas literary landscape. He was also a biographer and confederate of Willie Nelson.

A bon vivant and widely alleged ne’er-do-well, a legendary good guy and a mainstay of the famed Austin hipster underground, Bud Shrake will be greatly missed.

The Rag Blog’s Bob Simmons was a friend and a colleague.

Thorne Dreyer /
The Rag Blog / May 11, 2009
'He was an example to me that one could be from Texas and be literate, a man of words and letters, and still be a man, not a dried fusty academic or withdrawn Mr. Peepers too introverted to have a rip-snorting good time.'

By Bob Simmons / The Rag Blog / May 11, 2009

What I remember most about Bud Shrake was the easy grace of the man.

I met Bud 1n 1964 when I was a callow college student and was lucky enough to hang out with some attractive and racy women who were fellow students at the University of Texas. (Oh, out there on West Enfield somewhere.) Bud, being a young journalist who had recently separated from his wife in Dallas, had come to visit Austin (was he living in Dallas or and only visiting Austin on a regular basis? The small point eludes me.) But I do recall how at ease and confident he seemed to be, even in the company of those poised young women who always made me feel so self-consciously inept.

Maybe it came from his being so tall. I always thought that the advantage of not having to look up at anyone might give one a head start in the arena of social competition. If so, Bud was the living proof of that theory. He was also an example to me that one could be from Texas and be literate, a man of words and letters, and still be a man, not a dried fusty academic or withdrawn Mr. Peepers too introverted to have a rip-snorting good time. Bud told great stories. He laughed and smiled frequently. He was democratic in that he didn’t care if you were somebody important, as long as you had something to say that interested him. And he was interested in lots of things. Bud may have been a big guy, but was big in more important ways than just size.

I hadn’t lived in Dallas during his sports column days, so I didn’t know what to expect from knowing him. At first I thought he was going to be a jock wannabe who ran around sniffing lockers looking for a little scandal or hero worship fodder. Hardly. Bud was a real writer, and “sports” was just something that he discovered people would pay him a decent salary to cover. He would have made a great political writer, but I suspect the topic bored him. So, from his days at Paschal High School in Ft.Worth on, Bud took on the job of the human spectacle and tried to make some sense of it, recording and explaining ourselves to our selves. It was his portraits of people that you remember from his work.

Bud loved Austin. I think to him it was the perfect mix of weirdness, sophistication, and connection to a past that was still with us. He never seemed to want to “live” anywhere else, though there was plenty of visiting going on. In his earlier years Bud had traveled often and far, but he couldn't seem to shake that Texas thing, and somehow he decided, or fate decided, that he was going to be a voice that could and would “explain” Texas to the rest of the world. Why not him? Nobody else knew it as well as he did from top to bottom, from inside and out.

Who else had ridden shotgun with H. L. Hunt, or had driven under the triple underpass in Dallas with Bunker Hunt and asked “OK Bunker. Out with it. What happened here?” And to have Bunker throw his hands up off the steering wheel and say. “No,way!” Who else knew the Murchisons, partied with Darrell Royal, played golf with Willie and dated the Governor of the State? There were deeper scholars of Texas history like Robert Caro, J. Frank Dobie, or T.R. Fehrenbach, but no one actually lived inside of so much current Texas history as Edwin Shrake, the man who had gone out with girls from Jack Ruby’s Carousel Club, and had rubbed shoulders with every major Texas athlete and writer from the thirty year span of 1960 to 1990.

Bud seemed to look at everything with a neutral but appraising eye. He was not a man of obvious opinions. Back then I didn't know his politics, though from the friends he chose and who chose him, one would suspect that he would not have felt comfortable at Republican fundraisers or with Dick Nixon apologists. Bud made his prejudices known by how he painted the people he saw and knew. Reading Blessed McGill or But Not For Love would tell you a lot about how he felt about the world.

When he first came to Austin to socialize he ran with the Scholz Garten crowd, radical journalists, academics, satirists, and literati who liked the wilder side of life and the chemicals that went with them. Bud was no druggie, but he seemed to like the people that had that inclination. (Perhaps they provide better literary material?) He was more a cigarettes and alcohol kind of guy, probably part of what led to his early demise. (Is 77 early?) It’s hard not to hate tobacco when you see all the best being taken down by it. But Bud mixed easily with all those folks. They were proud to have him around. Who wouldn't have been? We young would-be bohemians felt just like Wallis Simpson when he came to one of our parties. "He picked us! He came to our party." Who was Wallis Simpson? Oh go look it up.

Bud also had an eye for beautiful women. And they an eye for him. In perhaps 1966 I saw him in New York at our old friend Bill Beckman’s house down in the Lower East Side. He had only recently married a gorgeous woman with the improbable name of Doatsy, a name you could play with if you dared. I think they came down to Bill’s house to soak up some bohemiana. Beckman had a string of semi-famous people strolling though his apartment in those days. Larry L. King, Ed Sanders, Allan Ginsburg, and all kinds of beatnik poets and artists. It was a fun hovel to visit. To say that Bud mixed well uptown and downtown would be an understatement.

It was there that I heard the story of Bud being high on LSD walking around New York one night and being stuck up at gunpoint by two robbers. One of the gunmen demanded of Bud, “Give me all your money.” Bud said that the demand had seemed really comprehensive, and since the guy was so insistent, and he was in a highly sensitive state, he was cooperative. “All my money? All my money? Well, I can’t give you all my money right now. Some of it is at home. Some of it is in the bank. We can go to my house and I have several hundred dollars there, and I can get my checkbook and write you a check for the rest.” He looked at the robbers very earnestly with a wild-eyed acid stare. The gunman reportedly said, “This guy ain’t right.” And they promptly left him standing there with his billfold and the cash he had still on him. Could it be? With Bud, you never knew. And never mind the time he invited the street bum up to the fancy East Side party with him. Easy grace.

His books were great, His magazine pieces and reporting were the best writing one could hope for in a journalism context, and his personal style under pressure was wonderful to behold. I saw him as a walking admonition. I had a long way to go just to deserve to be in the same room. I remember once when he was under deadline for a Sports Illustrated story that he proved you could write a story that would make an editor smile and actually never even attend the event. “I didn’t need to be there. I knew what happened.”

Now I just wish that he would call in from a place far from his funeral, and that he was not actually going to be present. “I’d prefer to not be there,” he might say.

Also see Mesmo's Meanderings : Bud Shrake, Acapulco Gold, Mad Dogs and the Raw Deal by Gerry Storm / The Rag Blog / May 13, 2009

And see Bud Shrake Obituaries:
The Rag Blog

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