Standing in front of the Lonesome Rose honky tonk in San Antonio, I am keenly reminded of what it was *not* when I last stood here. When last here it was January. It was not 95 degrees.
I’m starting to sweat. I gravitate to available outdoor seating: a row of what appears to be old movie theater chairs… stuffing coming out through loose cushion stitches appears to be *squint* hair…?
Jason Garner is there. I’ve never actually spoken to him, but with his bare, tattooed arms and cheerful blue mohawk, he’s recognizable to say the least. He’s crouched over taking pictures of a cactus by the stairs. The cactus is smiling.
“We’ve never actually met. We’re LizNDoug (run it together. All one word. Can’t have one without the other… like peanut butter and jelly)… Salim’s friends.”
Sure! He’s seen us at shows. The same way we’ve seen him. He disappears inside to see if a Salim could be located. No, he’s gone off to eat.
I continue wilting. It’s 15 minutes to the announced door time, but there is no one around. Absolutely no one. The key to walking in where you may or may not belong is confidence. Just walk in. So we did.
The difference between the bright sunshine and the low light dazzles my eyes. A benevolent shadow form coalesces and hugs me. My eyes adjust. Olivia Willson-Piper. There she is being happy to see me again – still getting use to that: kind people being happy to see me for no other reason than my basic existence. She’s there with Marty having a bite to eat.
Marty is a vegetarian. He informs us while delicately unwrapping his… wrap (?) that he also doesn’t like peppers. He tweezes them out while we chat.
Olivia and I end up under a light source comparing tattoos. I start naming off the menagerie of animals that dot my arms. And let slip that my favorite chicken – an artistically rendered Lavender Orpington on my left forearm- is called Olivia. She seems delighted.
John Dufhilo appears. I haven’t really ever spoken to him before, but just like Jason Garner, he is immediately recognizable. We are Salim facilitated Facebook friends and not too long ago, I added my voice to those on said social media platform rejoicing as he recovered from a massive heart attack. He surprises and delights me with a hug. It is wonderful seeing him well and hearty.
Joe Reyes is there. We know him a little better than some of these satellites we have met in Salim’s orbit. He has the best smile. Seems genuinely delighted to just be in a room with air. The addition of friends and the opportunity to play music? Even better.
At some point Salim appears. It’s hard to talk amidst the bustle of a bar waking up for its nightly duties. Something upsetting happened to him the day before. I hug him. I got nightmare family news (related to the nightmare of my family… namely it’s toppled, usurped, disgraced patriarch. Daddy issues? I’ll have a lifetime subscription) this very day and have spent a good portion of my afternoon crying.
He’s going to play, “Let Go” from his new album, he tells me. I like it… this is an excellent idea. The *only* thing that would give me peace right now is that very [impossible] action.
Time passes. Positions shift. Marty dons glasses and moves to a different table. He looks like a stern bookkeeper going over accounts. In reality, he’s making a setlist.
More time passes. I don’t mind the wait. To get my fix in the vicinity of musicians, I used to queue up first thing in the morning and spend all day without food or water to be first in, front row for The Flaming Lips. My only reward for that might be a faraway wave from Steven or a chat with Kliph.
Sitting inside the dark and cool, talking to these fascinating people – my friends – this is heaven.
Early on, Doug is recruited to run merch. I’m not surprised. The merch table has become our station. Doug is in his element. Me? I’ll helpfully point at the records. Tell people after the set where the songs they thought were catchy originated. Tell them ‘A Nuclear Winter’ yes, that’s the newest one. But I stand here next to him proudly. Whatever you need. Whatever helps.
Salim and the Treefort Five are first to play tonight (he tells me later their new name is ‘Salim and the Philistines.’)
I am deeply deeply biased at this point… but they sound incredible to me. Seeing Salim backed by a full band… he comes alive in a completely new way as a performer. I’ve been lucky enough to behold this two other times – Sons of Hermann Hall in Dallas in 2019. Then this year (2023) opening for the Old 97s.
I love my friend as an energetic front man.
This time is different and monumental. This time Marty. Marty Willson-Piper formerly of Australian band The Church (this man is the whole reason we were brought in to warm regard of Salim Nourallah – he and Doug share a mutual love of The Church.)
Marty and Olivia came over in 2018 to be enfolded in to the Nourallah musical family. Recording, producing has happened even with a global pandemic to work around.
This is work coming to fruition. Nuclear Winter finally birthed. Marty is finally on stage by Salim’s side. I know this is monumental for him and I love it. I love witnessing this. I love being here. Love that he wants me here. Love that these amazing people jam packed in to this tiny room are our friends now too.
The amassed gents rip through a mix of Salim standards and a heavy dose of things from the new album.
The set end nears. I’ve snapped my pictures. Taken my videos. All in the name of seeing; witnessing; presence.
Olivia is on stage. I know ‘Friends for Life’ is coming. That’s one she started playing on during the shows 6 mos ago. This one makes me sad. I have a dear dear friend who allowed me to turn him on to Salim (there is no greater compliment than to let me show you the music I love… then love it to). This is his favorite. My friend is in Greenland. I haven’t seen him in months.
Friends for life… if I had to sum up my time with Salim it would be with those three words. If you are lucky enough to ever be on the receiving end of Salim’s regard, you have a friend for life. Just shut up and enjoy the ride.
But then it’s time. Time to ‘Let Go’ – another song made more achingly beautiful with the deft application of Olivia’s bow.
I cry. Bitterly. Let go, he tells me, surrender to the things I can’t control. Best advice possible… I’m so far away from that right now, all I can do is feel sorry for myself.
The set is over. Back to husband in the merch nook (we’ve seen many incarnations. This one is nice. Padded booths made into their own cozy corner.)
I feel wrung out. Physically. Emotionally. An older gentleman asks me if I’m ok. Brings me water. Oh good. I look as bad as I feel.
The Deathray Davies are next. I know John Dufilho fronts this configuration, but I’ve never seen them. I also don’t know how many people are in the band. Musicians appear – to tired eyes – to swarm the stage like clowns from a tiny car.
They tear in to their first song and I like them immediately. Their energy is palpable and consuming. Nick Earl appears to be old school Seattle grunge: rakes his hands across an artfully battered Jazzmaster, long hair hanging in his face.
That energy is catching. I spy my first dancer of the evening. This woman gives no fucks and it is a scene to behold. Her shuck and jive is part Ministry of Silly Walks part scraping-gum-off-her-shoe. She gyrates with an oily self aware sensuality. At one point, her untethered breasts seem in danger of escaping. Not so fast. She doesn’t miss a beat: stuffs the offending mammary back down through the armhole of her sundress. Not today, titty.
She. Is. Magnificent.
Salim is with us at this point. I start relaying what I have seen to Doug. Salim wants in to the conversation. I smile thinking about how I will pay tribute to her, “Just getting inspired.”
It’s at this point, the night takes it’s massive, sudden toll. I’ve got a stabbing pain in the back of my head. Great. When I fantasize about death, it’s quick. I don’t want to stroke out. Here I come, it’s The Big One.
… or I’m hungry and tired and dehydrated.
Salim says it’s ok, you don’t have to stay. Marty and Olivia are already gone. The place has cleared out in a hurry. Even those disciplines of rock have to get home at a reasonable hour on a weekday. There’s work in the morning.
I hate to miss Buttercup, but I don’t think Joe will blame me for feeling poorly.
So we sneak off to the healing powers of Whataburger.
I will live to rock another day.
