Serendipity- and Bob Livingston Returns

If you hung out around Navasota a few years ago, you will remember a little place called Serendipity’s. Later Phil Heibeler, the owner sold the business and then got it back, and re-invented it and renamed it The Corner Café. Phil’s new vision was a café with Live music, and he featured about two years of excellent Friday evening mini-concerts he called a singer-songwriter series. I actually began this blog to try to help him promote the music scene here in Navasota, the “Blues Capital of Texas.” Every Friday night I was there at the Corner Café photographing and staying up very late writing the blogs while they were fresh on my mind.

In the process some of the musicians enjoyed my comments and used them on their websites. My photos went all over the Internet, and Phil had me blow some up and put them on his café walls. They looked good there, and I felt real cool coming in the place and feeling the art and the fun and the live music even when it was not there. Then Phil went out of business again, and left for greener pastures. He sold me the big enlarged photos I had made for his cafe, and suddenly I had these huge cumbersome things all over my studio. I’m talking 30” x 40” canvases of George Ensle, David Lutes, Susan Herndon, Bob Livingston and Brian Ashley Jones.

These folks are not exactly huge stars, but they are in my universe. Still, I was not sure what needed to happen to them, I just did not want them to leave Navasota, like the rest of our music history.

Anyway, all that to say that one of the big plans was to have each of the artists back some day and they could sign their canvases. You know, with one of those big gold pens. Of course other than one of them, that never happened. Now fast-forward a couple of years.

Sunday I was keeping the store at Blues Alley, something I rarely do any more, and had an average day and was about to close when two dudes strolled in. They arrived all smiles and commenting what a great town Navasota seemed to be… one of the prettiest towns in “East Texas” one of them offered. This identified them as Austinites. Everyone around here knows we are in CENTRAL TEXAS.  OK, we are on the edge... of three distinct geographical regions... Still, I had to agree that Navasota is one of the prettiest towns around... I bragged a little and tried to sell them a cheap guitar...

One of them asked about the Corner Café.  I shared the tragic loss of the wonderful little music venue we enjoyed for several years. And then one of them said, almost under his breath that he had performed there. I pondered that, for I had seen most of the shows. 

Bob Livingston

The only one of the performers he could have been was Bob Livingston, but Bob is taller, younger and clean shaven.

Bob Livingston is sort of a living piece of Texas music history, a Texas songwriter, once a member of the Lost Gonzo Band and running the roads with Michael Martin Murphy, Gary P. Nunn and other Texas Music Legends. This guy was no Bob Livingston. “You say you played at the Corner Café? What is your name?”

“Bob Livingston.”

Well you can imagine that, after insulting him mercilessly, I adapted quickly and invited Bob Livingston up to my studio to see my collection of Texas musicians… and he graciously offered to sign my canvas of his former countenance. It was a great mini-moment… One of the long Lost Gonzos had been found, right in my studio! Felt kinda like Neil Armstrong when he first stepped on the Moon. He even posed for a picture.

Songwriter and world traveler Bob Livingston poses with his obsolete portrait. I urged him to keep the beard. I was hoping he would give me the hat. I'm pretty sure he is thinking... "What a moron!"

And I had not been scheduled to keep the store like that, in YEARS. So Phil, that’s two down… three to go. Thanks to... your serendipity. 

This might take a while, but I‘m thinkin’ we gotta GO FOR IT!

Part II: A collision of cultures... inside Christiandom

Last Friday I had the honor of sitting in on a unique and educational luncheon hosted by music promoter Jeff Moreland, which focused on the Cowboy Culture and the recent development of “cowboy” churches. Almost two dozen artists, entertainers and cowboy pastors were gathered in one room to share and vision together. Below are some observations and nuggets I gleaned from the conversations…

But first this plea… I’ve done my best to capture what was said. If anybody remembers it differently, please, in charity and good faith, lay it down like you remember it… I sure don’t want to misquote or misrepresent.

Pastor Stacey Nobles of Llano spoke first, and encouraged everyone that “God always takes care of those He sends.” We should not be worried about opening this new mission field. But he added that any authentic ministry had to be built on TRUST. Cowboy churches must earn the trust of their flocks, and remember that they are depending on their pastors to offer authentic programming. He added that he is bothered quite a bit by so-called “Christian” musicians looking for a gig, and he had no way to find out their religious orientation or authenticity, and that we all needed some kind of way to rate and recommend the various artists to one another. He made it clear, he did not hire musicians that appeared to be in it just for the money.

Barry Chinn, a pastor from Manchaca, testified that God had provided confirmation after confirmation that God was calling him to lead a cowboy church in Manchaca. He has seen how important FELLOWSHIP and support are critical elements to these cowboy gatherings. .. Some kind of cowboy church info network would be advantageous.

The question at hand was still, “Why are we here today?” At this point, Michael Martin Murphy, country music recording star, in a moment of comic relief, walked over to the Republic of Texas map hanging in the restaurant and, tongue in cheek, interjected, “This is why we are here… to take back all of this!” as he pointed to areas in New Mexico, Colorado and Wyoming once a part of Texas. There was a howl and a round of applause. And suddenly we all understood, seriously, that our vision could grow beyond our imaginations and outside our comfort zones… as we asked God to expand our territories. Michael sat down.

Pastor Jason Taylor of Tatum spoke soon after, and rested any doubts about what the cowboy churches are about, and helped zero- in our purpose as he put the “chips” on the table. First he addressed the whole question about song leaders and musicians. “Do not call… you do not apply at our church,” he proclaimed, as he explained they had great musicians in house, and even some that went on the road. Musician credentials were not his concern on this day. He began to explain that at Bar None Cowboy Church, the word “cowboy” was equated with OUTREACH. His was an active, engaging assembly, where he flatly rejected the concept that they ever had “church.”

“We don’t have church!” Taylor declared, and he did not want to ever be accused of looking or acting or feeling like a conventional church. “We’re a bunch of rednecks!” he confessed, asserting that the mainline church would never do for his flock. They offered a variety of attractions to attract people. “At my church, we are not concerned [like others] with how to get people into our church… we are concerned with how we can be involved in people’s lives.” For Bar None that means rodeos and equestrian events that people around the area will come to. Taylor explained that they might host a PRCA rodeo, just to get a 7 minute commercial in the middle and preach a bit of the WORD to the audience. He was almost restless at this point, explaining that he was not really very at home in a nice pleasant suburban restaurant chatting with a bunch of pastors… “I need to be where the shit’s at,” he laughed sheepishly. It was obvious his ideas and choice of words were a collision with standard church work, even a veritable clash of cultures.. .

Jeff Moreland made the point here that this is why we were here… to collide… our ideas and visions. Maybe there was a long needed dialogue between mainstream religion and this amazing cowboy movement. If Michael Murphy broke the ice, then Jason Taylor had poured it down our backs...

Greg Hunt, pastor of Magnolia Cowboy Church backed him up immediately, “Folks want it real” he reasoned, saying that many of their flock were tired of the conventional, somewhat pretentious mainline church crowd. A rodeo arena keeps it real for his fellowship. It was agreed around the room that many people who come to this kind of ministry would probably never darken the door of a conventional church. So important is the rodeo atmosphere, some cowboy churches have built their event arena BEFORE their worship center. The strategy was plain and simple… and Biblical.

Hunt agreed with Barry Chinn, who had just admitted that the cowboy churches were … for men. They were going after FATHERS, developing men-friendly churches; Places where men would be attracted and feel at home. They aim at fathers, and as Hunt explained “… if you get them, the rest will follow.”

No one in the room had to be reminded that Jesus was born in a manger, a manly place, a crude outbuilding associated with animal shelters, with humble, unclean livestock herders (shepherds) as witnesses to his birth, and when he began to build his church, he gathered a bunch of redneck men, and deliberately associated himself with outcasts and working class people, mostly men, who were Gallileans (considered heathens), fishermen and such, and often used their outdoor lifestyle to draw analogies. The cowboy church is a good modern parallel. But a church aimed at men?

As far as is recorded, probably all of the writers of Holy Scripture were men. The Scriptures record precious few female prophets. All twelve of the Disciples were male. Jesus met them often in their male-dominated world, and rode in their boats and even cooked them up a catch on the beach one morning. THEY were his focus, at his last supper, and his last appearances. Churches today are often run by women, which is not bad, but the absence of men is alarming. Women were there during the First Century church for sure, but tagging along behind the men as that culture allowed. It was to the men, the Apostles and founders of the church as we know it whom Jesus commissioned the greatest Faith movement of our present culture. And not surprisingly, a predominance of the early church leaders were men. For centuries. Fishers of MEN? You bet. But still I’m thinking… this is sure to rile the Women’s Rights groups…

But I’ll tell you, these guys don’t give a cow chip.

More next time…

The Taming of a Texan... Part III

With every adventure in live music, there is always the crazy stuff that happens that you talk about first. “Yeah, the show was great but…” These past months in Navasota with all the deluge of live music has been a barrel of monkeys. That’s right, brass monkeys. I’m about to do a photographic end-of-the-year retrospective of all the fun, so you won’t forget, and perhaps in your next lifetime you will choose to get out and enjoy art like you should.

My trek to see Michael Martin Murphy was no exception. I was given the privilege to accompany his escort to pick him up at the hotel where he stayed in Houston. True to authentic cowboy fashion, we hauled him in a dirty, messy pick-up truck. When he came out, he was wearing a camo jacket, but he was still Michael Murphy. I was thrilled to meet him again. Perhaps this time it would not be so rushed.

I was wearing a leather frill coat with beadwork. I felt like Hans and Franz in their phony muscles when Schwartznegger came out on SNL and grabbed them by their necks… Like a teen ager, I jumped in the junky back seat, as there was no place else for a person, unless I wanted to ride in the bed. Michael Martin Murphy soon turned up the radio, when he heard the music of one of his protégés. “That’s Lester Flatt,” he smiled. He and the driver talked bluegrass as we pulled up alongside a car at the red light. The lady in the car next to us stared real hard, knowing that the guy over in the next lane could be somebody… I could almost read her mind as she told herself, probably not… and then she looked straight ahead.

When we got to HBU, I sat in a stupor, wondering how in the hell can a person tell somebody else how much their art had meant to them for thirty five years. There was no time, and besides, I was looking at the back of his head. I just blew it off. Where do you start, he’s got a lot on his mind, besides, he has heard all that stuff before. I thought of my daughter, an accomplished musician, who never was much for conversation right before a performance. He probably was somewhere else anyway. Once she forgot her guitar as we drove her to a little gig in Hempstead. Had to go back and get it… And I know all performers are running a thousand things through their minds right before they go on.

Anyway, just as I thought I had my shortened speech ready, we were there. Perhaps I could at least shake his hand and wish him well….The truck stopped, Michael Martin Murphy jumped out, pretty spry for an old guy. And closed the door. I’m behind him in one of those cabs that the back folds out, only if the front passenger door is open. I can’t even get out. Murph hops away, and I sit there considering my options. I called for help, and the driver soon reopened my side, and we chuckled about it.

Hey, there was no offense intended, and none taken. Cowboys have done much worse to each other. Like the time my boss on a ranch let me drink tap water from his hose for two weeks before he told me there was a dead possum in the well. Now THAT would make you mad.

Anyway I got to see Murph again as it turned out, and go through the Bible museum at HBU, and share some of my heritage. I showed him and others my mural of the Battle of Galveston inside the Museum of Southern History, in the same building. He seemed to enjoy the museums, and his associates were so well informed about the Bible and the exhibits that they could have been docents. Everyone was amazed at the spiritual and intellectual level of these men. Murphy, like all successful people, has surrounded himself with very able men. That may have been the highlight of the evening, which sure ran long, as these entertainers stopped and considered the various ancient translations of the WORD. I think the museums made as much of an impression on them as their performance had on us.

When we finally got to my mural, everyone was dragging, but Murph hung in there, so graciously, and I was almost embarrassed to take up his time. I stood in shock, because I had ever seen the mural without a huge cannon that used to set in front of it. In fact the missing cannon was carefully placed so that it appeared as if it had just sent a projectile that was exploding in the painting. It was gone… My 30 foot mural, much to my dismay, was a smoking gun with no gun. So I told them about the Texans like my great, great grandfather, who took back Galveston Island with cunning and subterfuge, inflicting minimum of casualties, yet handing the Union Navy the single most humiliating defeat in American Naval history. And then I gave him a line that ought to be in a song; When the Rebs got back their strategic port, they claimed they would never lose it again in battle, because they “would fight until hell froze over… and then fight on the ice!”

That’s the kind of people that built this Country. They believed in something. Our challenge is to be careful what we embrace, but realize that some things are worth sacrificing and even dying for. Michael Martin Murphy seems to have discovered those things, and is touring the state to get his message out. And doing it in a beautiful way. Hopefully he has found that a lot of people, including me, agree with him, his style and his substance, and see him as a Godsend to this Country.

I’ll gladly take a back seat to a man like that any day.

The Taming of a Texan Part II

I have seen some wonderful, memorable performances in my life. Sunday evening’s Cowboy Christmas with Michael Martin Murphy ranks right up there. Usually, it’s not the music that makes it memorable… The music, which you have heard before, is supposed to be good. It’s a human connection that might be made with the artist, which made the performance stand out. You go expecting to see some famous person do their thing, and you are just a pebble on the beach admiring the ship that comes in. But then they take the time to sign autographs, or sing you an extra song upon request, or shake your hand while riding around the arena full of thousands. And suddenly it becomes a lifelong memory. An idol becomes a person, another regular person doing extraordinary things…

But this time, it was the performance. And it was still enhanced by a striking level of personal connection. Michael Martin Murphy came out and energized his audience so thoroughly, that for a moment in time, every person there seemed like they were in spiritual unity with the performers, enthusiastically embarking on a mass teleportation to Anson, Texas, where Murphy illustrated what has been lost in our bloated, compassless culture. The theater at Houston Baptist University was beautiful and new and blessed with excellent acoustics. But more importantly, Murphy was in his element, because he brought it with him, and the theater was effectively transformed into his chosen heartland, and the crowd sensed they were experiencing something great. Great music you bet, as large projected images on the stage accompanied each number, and our eyes followed snow covered cattle in the high country, cowboys facing the elements, and Murphy’s family hauling hay. Murphy and his band enjoyed three standing ovations, as the Texas Baptists in Houston displayed a comfortable familiarity with the man and his message, and the trip he took them on.

You have to see his Cowboy Christmas for yourself, but one number during his concert really tells everything about Michael Martin Murphy’s gift for storytelling, and soulful communication, through music. He stood before his audience alone, almost in the dark, and he had no microphone, and even the spotlight seemed dim for a deeper, serene atmosphere in the room. Murphy remarked that even Carnegie hall had nothing on the acoustics in HBU's Dunham Theater. This simple, humble presentation was proof of it. He told a story of a Jesuit Missionary in the 1600’s who had been living with a tribe of Hurons in Canada. Father Jean de Brebeuf had written a Christmas carol in their own tongue, and set it to music, to teach them the Christmas story. There was dead silence as Murphy told the audience that the priest had been killed, along with most of the tribe by the non- Christianized Alonquians.

But the carol had survived, and he believed it to be the oldest known Christmas carol from North America. I felt my throat tighten, and a tear pop into my eye, as he told how some Hurons had escaped, and told the other missionaries what had happened, and they wrote it down, as remembered by the Huron refugees. They had the song buried in their hearts, and Murphy buried it in ours. He sang it with Faith and cowboy dignity. The multiple ironies filled my mind. This modern day songwriter cum cowboy, once the dissident poet of Geronimo’s Cadillac, lifting up a 350 year old hymn, embraced by a nearly forgotten people, telling of and praising the birth of Jesus!

Halleluiah! Praise God!

It may have been the bravest and most heartfelt communication I have ever witnessed. True, Murphy is a showman, and a good one, and yet this was the message of his evening with us. Christ is born, no matter what language you speak. Then he advised everyone to roll with the punches as the secular world tried to kill the word Christmas from our national celebration. He grinned as he reminded everyone the original pronunciation of their supposed alternative, “holidays.”
It was originally Holy days. That’s more Cowboy logic, and something tells me after this performance, more than a few Baptists are going to be digging out their old dusty cowboy hats.

Welcome home Michael, and God Bless you in your mission. Did you know your namesake was an Archangel? That means he was the highest ranking messenger of God. That’s a pretty tough act to follow, but I’m pretty sure if God was to look for somebody on this earth to serve in that capacity, he would get somebody like a cowboy to do it.