This is a timely piece for me. I learned this past week that an old Austin music scene artist of my acquaintance had died in June. We'd fallen out of regular contact, but I always liked knowing she was still around, and active, and whether in Austin or Seattle, was still involved in music. I reviewed her initial self-released cassette for the Chronicle and got a live shot photo published, I thought she deserved as much attention as anyone else at the time. Her initial Austin period was c. 1987-91, then Seattle, then Phoenix, then Austin again for much of the last decade or so, until the pandemic, when she relocated again to Seattle. Many professional and personal road bumps along the way. We were good friends in the earlier times, only erratic and occasional contacts afterward, but I liked to think we'd be those old friends who eventually reunite and share memories as we creak in our rockers and remember those bad old days. She was in part a victim of that obsessive drive to become famous and well known, that hobgoblin of manic minds. I leave her unnamed here out of respect for her family and friends, and their privacy, but I have remembered her and that long-ago community all this week.
I had my own encounter of that genuine, no-hint-of celebrity modesty in 73. I was working out in the hills of eastern oklahoma with my husband and another couple for Leon Russell. We were young, and each of us had new babies; we sorta ran the kitchen, fed the stars at midnight - that sort of thing. One day a big pink caddilac rolled in and it was Bob Dylan with several actors who had just finished the Patt Garrett movie. I had no contact with most of them (thought my husband took Dylan into town for some tires). But that night the four of us spent a very companionalbl, pleasant evening watchin TV and drinking beer with of all people, Harry Dean Stanton. He was modest and genuine, he asked about our lives and our babies and what we did in rural Oklahoma for fun. It was an evening that stood out from months of working for the stars. One of my best memories.
This is a timely piece for me. I learned this past week that an old Austin music scene artist of my acquaintance had died in June. We'd fallen out of regular contact, but I always liked knowing she was still around, and active, and whether in Austin or Seattle, was still involved in music. I reviewed her initial self-released cassette for the Chronicle and got a live shot photo published, I thought she deserved as much attention as anyone else at the time. Her initial Austin period was c. 1987-91, then Seattle, then Phoenix, then Austin again for much of the last decade or so, until the pandemic, when she relocated again to Seattle. Many professional and personal road bumps along the way. We were good friends in the earlier times, only erratic and occasional contacts afterward, but I liked to think we'd be those old friends who eventually reunite and share memories as we creak in our rockers and remember those bad old days. She was in part a victim of that obsessive drive to become famous and well known, that hobgoblin of manic minds. I leave her unnamed here out of respect for her family and friends, and their privacy, but I have remembered her and that long-ago community all this week.
I had my own encounter of that genuine, no-hint-of celebrity modesty in 73. I was working out in the hills of eastern oklahoma with my husband and another couple for Leon Russell. We were young, and each of us had new babies; we sorta ran the kitchen, fed the stars at midnight - that sort of thing. One day a big pink caddilac rolled in and it was Bob Dylan with several actors who had just finished the Patt Garrett movie. I had no contact with most of them (thought my husband took Dylan into town for some tires). But that night the four of us spent a very companionalbl, pleasant evening watchin TV and drinking beer with of all people, Harry Dean Stanton. He was modest and genuine, he asked about our lives and our babies and what we did in rural Oklahoma for fun. It was an evening that stood out from months of working for the stars. One of my best memories.