The Thursday night opener at Spicewood in Alpine was The Swifts, a local group with an electric folky sound, a banging cajon, and two sweet chick singers who sang about spilling wine, lost lovers, and bloody teeth. Viva Big Bend Music Festival kicks in like a quake, people out there dance, they like to jump, twirl, scoot, slide, and sway. I'm more of a neck nodder, a lone skeleton shaker. Robotic movements wrapped around chaotic smooth popping, so I've been told. Both my favorite daughters are tastefully excellent dancers, but it was too early for them to hit the floor, they were scoping out the scenery, they were watching the sun go down on the patio, they were magnetic.
Then it was off to Railroad Blues down the road for the West Texas Exiles 9 o'clock show. This rough rocking, telecaster driving, old hat wearing group was my personal Viva '23 favorite, stomping stompers. They seemed like the real deal, a weary musical band of woe and wild nights, of vans and swag tables, of bottles and pipes, of depression and resurrection. Before one tune, the lead singer claimed he'd been at the lowest point in his life two weeks prior and if not for his band mates he'd be dead. Their drummer kicked, their bassist bumped, their keys rained drops, they had a dynamite mandolin player. The whole place rocked, it was packed, the band played and played, for 3 hours straight, they were exhausted by the end, we were exhausted by the end.
I got the shirt, I got the sticker, I got the koozie, price was no consideration, whatever the cost. Bravo, bravo. We come around for the landscape, we wander around for the art, we hang around til midnight for the telecaster. After the show, I asked the lead singer if he was really at the lowest point in his life just two weeks prior. He was surrounded by people and on his way somewhere, but he stopped, looked me in the eyes, paused, and said, "The Exiles saved my life."
Then it was off to Railroad Blues down the road for the West Texas Exiles 9 o'clock show. This rough rocking, telecaster driving, old hat wearing group was my personal Viva '23 favorite, stomping stompers. They seemed like the real deal, a weary musical band of woe and wild nights, of vans and swag tables, of bottles and pipes, of depression and resurrection. Before one tune, the lead singer claimed he'd been at the lowest point in his life two weeks prior and if not for his band mates he'd be dead. Their drummer kicked, their bassist bumped, their keys rained drops, they had a dynamite mandolin player. The whole place rocked, it was packed, the band played and played, for 3 hours straight, they were exhausted by the end, we were exhausted by the end.
I got the shirt, I got the sticker, I got the koozie, price was no consideration, whatever the cost. Bravo, bravo. We come around for the landscape, we wander around for the art, we hang around til midnight for the telecaster. After the show, I asked the lead singer if he was really at the lowest point in his life just two weeks prior. He was surrounded by people and on his way somewhere, but he stopped, looked me in the eyes, paused, and said, "The Exiles saved my life."