Willie Tichenor
9 November 2005
Professor Bump
Taking Stevie Home
Finally, I finished. After a weekend of intense soul
searching, I found my inner muse and the two of us sat down and wrote the words
to what I was sure would be the greatest song I had ever written. So with my leather bound journal of
lyrical doom in my hands, I reached under my bed for what I thought would be
the easy part: the guitar accompaniment.
For most songs, I am content to settle for the usual G-C-D chord
pattern, and sometimes I will get adventurous and throw in an E minor, but for
some reason that night I decided that these words deserved more. I once again summoned my muse, begging
her for help. ÒIÕm terribly sorryÓ
she said politely, Òbut helping you play guitar is not in my job
description.Ó I had learned over
the years that arguing with your muse is pointless and often counterproductive,
so I decided that maybe a change of scenery would help me. Even though I had recently hung posters
of my musical idols—Radiohead, The Beatles, and The Red Hot Chili Peppers
to name a few—all over my dorm room, I was still struggling to find that
spark that would light the path to musical nirvana. I was feeling stifled in the cold, disorganized cell that
The University of Texas had randomly assigned me way back in June. The white, unnatural glow of the
overhead fluorescent light cascading down the pallid white walls of my room
couldnÕt inspire me, but I was determined to find somewhere that would. So with my guitar in hand I set out and
bravely walked out the front entrance of my dorm.
Somewhere
between wondering if I had locked my door and wondering why it was so damn hot
outside, I realized that I had no idea where I should go to find my
inspiration. So I got in my car
and began to drive. [1]Stevie
Ray VaughanÕs ÒThe House is RockinÕÓ came on over my speakers and after those
two and a half minutes passed, I found my car parked near Town Lake. I got out my guitar and began to walk,
still not quite sure how or why I had ended up at Town Lake. After about five minutes of walking, I
saw the silhouette of Stevie Ray VaughanÕs statue against the setting sun. I stopped to admire him, standing in
his boots, poncho, and hat with his number one 
Stratocaster[2]
by his side. From a distance, it would
be easy to confuse him with a soldier ready for battle. He seemed to still have his swagger and
aura, as though this bronze statue could step on stage and still be one of the
greatest blues guitarists of all time.
As I took out my
guitar and began to play, I heard a voice say to me, ÒThatÕs not bad. You mind if I give it a shot?Ó I turned and looked at the
stranger. He actually bore a
rather striking resemblance to the man under whose statue I sat at that
moment. ÒI donÕt see why
not.Ó I gave him the guitar (I had
been getting nowhere on my song) .
He puttered around the fret board for a second, and then as if he had
been struck with a stun gun, his fingers began to dance. His right hand picked and plucked
faster than anything I had ever seen; he leaned his head back and his eyes
closed, like a man possessed.
After a few moments, he stopped and yelled out, ÒDamn that felt
good!Ó The stranger looked over at
me and, sensing that I was speechless, held out his hand. ÒMy nameÕs Stevie Ray Vaughan. You can call me Stevie.Ó This was enough to pull me out of my
momentary daze. I snapped at him,
ÒStevie Ray Vaughan has been dead since 1990.Ó
ÒWell what year is it?Ó
Ò2005Ó
ÒWell hot damn! I must be a ghost.Ó
At this point, I
had half a mind to ask him for my guitar back and to leave, but suddenly the
voice of Professor Bump came into my mind and I flashed back to him looking at
the tables in the Parlin computer lab saying, ÒI donÕt know what this is. I have given it all the meaning I
can.Ó If Professor Bump did not
know what the table was, then how could I possibly know what this guitar
playing stranger in front of me was.
I made up my mind and extended my hand, ÒNice to meet you Stevie. My nameÕs Willie.Ó
ÒReal cool, Willie. You from around here?Ó
ÒWell, IÕm going to school here,
but IÕm from Dallas.Ó
ÒHey, I used to live in
Dallas. Before I moved here of
course. Grew up in Oak Cliff[3].Ó
ÒSo Stevie, why did you move to
Austin from Dallas?Ó
ÒMan, Dallas music had no
soul. I knew that if I wanted to
play the blues, and I mean REALLY play the blues, I had to leave. So when Roddy[4]
got married, all of Blackbird moved down to Austin with him.[5]Ó
ÒSo when your drummer moved, you all decided to follow
him. Did the fact that your
brother[6]
lived in Austin at that point have any affect on your decision to move?Ó
ÒAre you kidding? When Jimmie would come home, I would
Ôpick his brain nonstopÕ[7]
about what it was like to live there.
He just made it sound so cool, like all you had to do was sleep, eat,
and play. One night in 1971
Blackbird had just finished some lame gig in Dallas, and I decided that IÕd had
enough. I went over to the guys
and said, ÔGet me out of here!Õ[8] And that was that—we were going
to Austin.Ó
ÒWas your plan to move to Austin
and form a band with your brother?Ó
ÒNooo [sic] way.Ó Stevie said,
letting out a chuckle. ÒMy brother
never wanted to play with me back in those days. Hell, when we were kids, I wasnÕt even allowed to touch his
guitar. It was kind of his way of
showing me who was in charge, but it didnÕt matter to me. I thought he was so cool. I would sit outside his room and listen
to him play for hours, and then if he was gone somewhere, I would sneak into
his closet and shut the door and pretend like I was him. I couldnÕt play too good [sic] at
first, but after a while I started to get it. But no, there was no way that Jimmie would be caught dead
playing in the same band as me. I
went to Austin so I could find some real blues and maybe make it as a blues
player.Ó
ÒSo what was it like? I mean, when you first got down here?Ó
ÒIt was a like a circus,[9]
and if you were in a band, you couldnÕt stay way from it. When I first got here, I would hang out
at the Vulcan Gas Company and it just blew my mind. You had black kids, white kids, all mixed together just
coming to check out the scene, get high, and listen to the blues.[10] I had never seen anything like it. I mean, all this was going on and ÔI
was trying to figure out ÔHey, whatÕs happening here? How are these people getting away with all this? This is the capital. Where are the police?Õ[11]Ó
ÒDid you ever feel like your drug
and alcohol addictions got in the way of your music?Ó
ÒNot at first. When it all started out, man I would do
a line of coke and my fingers could dance all night—faster than they ever
could sober. But after a while I
started to need it. When we were
recording our live album in Õ86, we played a couple nights at the Austin Opera
house, and I remember thinking that I wouldnÕt make it through the night. My guitar tech had to bring me out a
shot of crown with a gram of coke mixed in, and I did two, maybe three of those
a show.[12] Eventually I hit bottom, and knew I
needed help, so I checked into Dr. BloomÕs[13]
clinic in London and got clean.
But I donÕt really want to talk about that. Come on, letÕs take a walk.Ó
I packed up my
guitar, not sure of where he would take me, but certainly in no position to
argue. We headed back towards
downtown Austin, stopping here and there as Stevie seemed to recall familiar sights
and sounds of the city in which he built his legacy. Occasionally Stevie would tell me a story about a
particularly wild night of partying or sharing a stage with his blues idols. After a nice long stroll, we stopped at
the corner of 5th and Colorado in front of AntoneÕs, a club that I
had visited not two weeks ago.
ÒOh yeah, AntoneÕs. I saw a Stephen Speaks show here a
couple of weeks ago.Ó
StevieÕs eyes lit up excitedly.
ÒI donÕt know those guys. Are they a blues band?Ó
ÒWell, actually, theyÕre an
acoustic pop band,Ó I replied sheepishly.
What was I doing? This
could be the greatest blues guitarist of all time and here I am trying to
impress him with my knowledge of acoustic pop-rock. ÒDid you ever play here?Ó
ÒMan, AntoneÕs was where it really
started for The Cobras and The Thunderbirds.[14] Clifford Antone was the first guy to
open up a real blues club in Austin.[15] I remember the first time I ever got on
stage here. Clifford put me on with Albert King—who was one of my idols
man—so I got up there and was trading licks with him. I think I may have even outplayed him a
little, but thatÕs all right. It
was just real blues man, just two guys having fun, playing guitar.[16]Ó
We plopped down in
front of the entrance. Stevie once
again picked up my guitar and began to play. This time his playing seemed different than it had when we
were in front of the statue—somehow more intense—as if being in
front of the club where he had gotten his start was inspiring his hands. He closed his eyes and tilted back his
head. His upper lip curled. Periodically he would wince and groan,
as though he was confessing his sins through his guitar. This continued for what felt like an
hour. I closed my eyes and was
transported by each movement of his symphony. I could feel the emotions in his playing—the anger,
the joy, the sadness. After he
finished, neither of us said a word.
I looked up at his face and saw tears slowly forming in his eyes. I could not tell if they were tears of
sorrow or of happiness or perhaps a combination of the two. I still did not say anything. What was there for me to say? I could only wait for him to speak.
Finally, he looked at me and asked,
ÒDoes Clifford still own the joint?Ó
ÒYeah, he does.Ó
ÒIs it still a blues club?Ó
ÒNot really. They have ÔBlue MondayÕ every week where
blues artists come and perform,[17]
but itÕs tough to make enough money to stay afloat only showcasing blues
bands. There just arenÕt enough
people who will come see those bands play.Ó
ÒThat canÕt be true. Eric Clapton and I used to play in
front of 35,000 people some nights.[18]Ó
ÒWell Stevie, things arenÕt the
same as they used to be.Ó
ÒOhÉI see.Ó
He sounded so
dejected, so defeated. I
immediately regretted saying what I had said. I also realized why he had been crying: he could never go
home again. Not home to Oak Cliff,
but home to the venues of Austin, from the dirty blues clubs he had started in
to the Austin Opera House where he recorded his live album.[19] He could never pick up his guitar
and bare his soul to an audience with just an amplifier and his trusty
Stratocaster in his hands. For so
many years he had lived for the thrill of performing; even when he had been so
messed up on drugs that he could barely stand, all he had really wanted was to
play guitar, to be a blues musician.
I tried to think of ways to console him. It was a sad sight, really, the two of us sitting like bums
outside of AntoneÕs, wondering what to do next. As I opened my mouth to tell Stevie that I was [20]sorry,
the club entrance cracked open and we both turned to look as the roar of a
packed 
house
rushed through the doorway. We
walked in the club and weÕre greeted by chants of ÒS-R-V! S-R-V!Ó The club reeked of smoke and cheep
beer, just as I imagined a blues club should. After my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the club, I
noticed Stevie shooting me an incredulous glance, as if I might know what was
going on. ÒTheyÕre calling for
you.Ó I said to him, nearly
suffocating under the heavy cloud of cigarette and marijuana smoke. A huge smile spread over his face, as
he looked up to the stage and saw his old band waving to him to join them on
stage. The Cobras were preparing
to be the kings of AustinÕs blues scene for one more night. As Stevie walked on to the stage, the
joint-passing, bellbottom-wearing crowd erupted into a mass of screaming and
whistling. Stevie grabbed his
number one Stratocaster[21]
and played like it was 1979 and the words Òhelicopter crashÓ had never entered
his vocabulary. He once again took
on Òthe lookÓ with his eyes closed, head back, and lips curled as he alternated
between a grimace and a devilish grin.
Halfway through the second 90 minute set, it hit me: Stevie was back
where he belonged and it was time for me to leave.
I grabbed my
guitar and headed out. Stevie had
just ripped into one of his trademark blues solos, somehow quieting the packed
crowd who could do nothing but stand and stare, mouths agape. As I left, I hoped in the back of my
mind that Stevie would somehow acknowledge me. Maybe he would point at me or come on the microphone and
say, ÒThere goes Willie Tichenor, everyone.Ó But alas, it was not to be. He was too caught up in his playing, and I walked out the
door without looking back. In the
end it didnÕt matter; it was StevieÕs night anyway. He was finally home.
I, on the other
hand, was nowhere close to home. I
reached into my pocket for my phone to check the time, but my pockets were
empty, save the guitar pick that Stevie and I had shared. I made my way back towards Town Lake
and my car. I estimated that
Stevie and I had spent the better part of six hours together, and I had nothing
to show for it. Certainly no one
would believe my story, I had mountains of homework waiting for me at my dorm
room, and I still had not finished my song. I walked the rest of the way to Town Lake with my head down,
muttering to myself about what an idiot I was. I was so absorbed in my own world that I nearly ran into
StevieÕs statue. I looked up and
saw the silhouette of the statue against the sunset, just as it had been
before. I panicked. A whole day had passed, I had missed my
classes and now I might as well tie all of my books and homework to my legs,
jump into the lake, and slowly sink to the bottom behind the weight of my
unfinished work. I returned to my
car, loaded my guitar, and started the drive back to campus. I checked my phone and saw that I had
no missed calls, no voice messages, and no text messages. Things were only getting worse. Now not only had I lost a day, but
apparently I had no friends to speak of either. Crestfallen, I trudged back into room 2401, where my
roommate was sitting at his computer.
ÒBack so soon?Ó He
inquired. I was in no mood for his
facetiousness. I dropped my guitar
and fell onto my bed. ÒYeah,Ó I
replied, ÒI was gone for 24 hours and didnÕt get anything written, and on top
of that, Stevie Ray VaughanÕs ghost took me to AntoneÕs and played a show, and
I lost of track of time and somehow didnÕt make it to class.Ó He turned away from his computer and
looked at me. ÒWhat are you
talking about, man? YouÕve only
been gone for half an hour. And
what was that about a ghost? Are
you alright?Ó
ÒWait, are you serious? Half an hour?Ó
ÒYeah, have you been drinking? You smell like beer.Ó
ÒNo, itÕs just that Ste- never
mind. This is great news, IÕll be
back in a little while.Ó
ÒAlright, see you later. You sure youÕre all right?Ó
ÒYeah, IÕm fine. IÕll be back in a bit.Ó
I grabbed my
guitar and ran back to my car. I
headed straight for Town Lake and the statue. After I frantically pulled out my guitar, I stopped. I remembered that I had time. I looked out at the lake, over at the
sunset, and up at my friend Stevie.
I decided to take it slow, to really let this place inspire me. I remembered how Stevie told me that
Dallas music had no soul, and that he had to come to Austin to really play the
blues. That was it. For me, comparing Town Lake to my dorm
room would be like Stevie comparing the blues scene in Austin to that of
Dallas. By 10:00 p.m.
I had finished the song. I put
away my guitar and stood up. I had
left Stevie at AntoneÕs, the place where he belonged, and as I looked around
and saw the lights of the city of Austin and heard the sounds of nature
intertwined with the noise of the city, I knew that I had found the place where
I belonged. I was finally home.
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