We Are All Sons of Hermann Hall
Last year, I went to Kerrville. As it happened, I didn’t enjoy it. The music was great, and the people were friendly, but I had a miserable head cold, and the ubiquitous white dust – think Pigpen of Peanuts – impacted in my sinuses and drove me to fits. There seemed to be two camps: serious networking musicians, and boomers desperate to relive Woodstock, both losing under the law of diminishing returns.
I rode down with my buddy Robert Wagner, and we stopped at famous music towns along the way – Nashville (disappointing!), Memphis (one big Hard Rock Café), Dallas. Okay, Dallas may not be a famous music town, but it’s the one in which we had the most fun. We discovered this fantastical joint called Sons of Hermann Hall on Elm Street. All the famous Texas songsters have played there. There’s a bar, bowling alley, and several gathering rooms downstairs, and upstairs a vast dance hall with a big, raised stage. Posters from yesterday and yesteryear tip their ten-gallon hats to the greats who’ve gigged there: Asleep At The Wheel, Guy Clark, The Dixie Chicks, Fred Eaglesmith, Buddy Miles, Robert Earl Keen, Indigo Girls, Arlo Guthrie. You name ‘em, they’ve had ‘em.
The place is owned by Jo Nicodemus, a charming hostess who insisted on showing us the digs. The dance hall was all laid out for a Wiccan wedding reception, complete with pentagram plates and little skull candles on tables draped with webby black crepe. Jo was tickled by the whole thing, and her infectious humor made it all seem less ominous.
We’d found a free paper at the YMCA, and the event listings described an indoor campfire sing-along at The Sons of Hermann Hall. We high-tailed it over there. They had a “campfire” made of plastic flap “flames” billowed by a small fan, and lit by a yellow light bulb. And what a cast of characters gathered round that flameless fire. There was a fellow who’d broken his neck in a horse riding accident. All his friends had held a musical benefit to raise money for him. They’d called the event Brokeneck Mountain. His nickel plated belt buckle was almost as big as his cowboy hat. “That’s the biggest goddamn belt buckle I’ve ever seen!” I said. “I got two at home’s bigger than this.” There was an African-American rancher the brim of whose cowboy hat was as wide as the open range. When his turn came at the campfire, he recited a poem about his life that carried us from the street gangs of the Bronx, and jail time, to a peaceful existence on horseback in Texas. What a life.
After Kerrville, Robert had an emergency and flew home to Pittsburgh, while I took my time and drove back alone. I stopped again in Dallas at Hermann Hall. Jo was there for the Wiccan wedding rehearsal. I knew I’d be driving late into the night, and asked for a Red Bull to help me stay awake. Jo said they weren’t open, and gave me the drink for free. When I was leaving, she gave me two more for the road. I left her my CD and mentioned that I’d love to open there for one of the national acts sometime.
I rode down with my buddy Robert Wagner, and we stopped at famous music towns along the way – Nashville (disappointing!), Memphis (one big Hard Rock Café), Dallas. Okay, Dallas may not be a famous music town, but it’s the one in which we had the most fun. We discovered this fantastical joint called Sons of Hermann Hall on Elm Street. All the famous Texas songsters have played there. There’s a bar, bowling alley, and several gathering rooms downstairs, and upstairs a vast dance hall with a big, raised stage. Posters from yesterday and yesteryear tip their ten-gallon hats to the greats who’ve gigged there: Asleep At The Wheel, Guy Clark, The Dixie Chicks, Fred Eaglesmith, Buddy Miles, Robert Earl Keen, Indigo Girls, Arlo Guthrie. You name ‘em, they’ve had ‘em.
The place is owned by Jo Nicodemus, a charming hostess who insisted on showing us the digs. The dance hall was all laid out for a Wiccan wedding reception, complete with pentagram plates and little skull candles on tables draped with webby black crepe. Jo was tickled by the whole thing, and her infectious humor made it all seem less ominous.
We’d found a free paper at the YMCA, and the event listings described an indoor campfire sing-along at The Sons of Hermann Hall. We high-tailed it over there. They had a “campfire” made of plastic flap “flames” billowed by a small fan, and lit by a yellow light bulb. And what a cast of characters gathered round that flameless fire. There was a fellow who’d broken his neck in a horse riding accident. All his friends had held a musical benefit to raise money for him. They’d called the event Brokeneck Mountain. His nickel plated belt buckle was almost as big as his cowboy hat. “That’s the biggest goddamn belt buckle I’ve ever seen!” I said. “I got two at home’s bigger than this.” There was an African-American rancher the brim of whose cowboy hat was as wide as the open range. When his turn came at the campfire, he recited a poem about his life that carried us from the street gangs of the Bronx, and jail time, to a peaceful existence on horseback in Texas. What a life.
After Kerrville, Robert had an emergency and flew home to Pittsburgh, while I took my time and drove back alone. I stopped again in Dallas at Hermann Hall. Jo was there for the Wiccan wedding rehearsal. I knew I’d be driving late into the night, and asked for a Red Bull to help me stay awake. Jo said they weren’t open, and gave me the drink for free. When I was leaving, she gave me two more for the road. I left her my CD and mentioned that I’d love to open there for one of the national acts sometime.
posted by Jack Erdie at 4:53 AM
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