Like anyone who grew up in the Austin arts scene, I was well aware of Rusty Wier’s music.

 Of course, I admired his work, but I had no clue who he was at his core. After all, I had never met the man. I saw him perform on many occasions during the 1970s. But in those days, I was just a kid.
In the mid-1980s, I moved away to raise a family. Homesick, I finally returned to the Hill Country and eventually wound up editing the lil’ ol’ Lake Travis View.
That’s when I met Rusty, a self-confessed “Lake Snake.” I had to find a story for our Lake and Country Living Magazine, and our graphics designer Clay Holberg [aka Clay Jefferey, the musician] turned me on to the idea of interviewing Rusty for an upcoming magazine. He and Rusty had been friends for a while.
In those days, I just worried about the newspaper and just contributed stories and photos to L&C.
So I met up with Rusty at a Lake Travis bar. The audience was scant — to put it politely. Hence, there was plenty of time for Rusty and I to shoot the bull before he hosted “open mic night.”
From the get-go, Rusty was uncomfortable with the questions I was posing, particularly when I mentioned my previous writings about Gary P. Nunn. He quickly informed me that Mr. Nunn was indirectly responsible for Rusty having to even bother with this ridiculous interview with the editor of the Local Yokel. After all, as a pedestrian, I have no multi-platnum pedigree.
At any rate, it seems Gary P had given Rusty his walking papers in a band way back when. Rusty actually started out as a drummer — which I believe influenced his writing and performing style.
But by gawd, when Gary P gave Rusty the boot, it begrudgingly forced him to give up the trap set for the guitar. The whole mess that became his career started one night [around 1970] when he was bussing tables at “Checkers,” an old-time Austin watering hole.
Perhaps it was Rod Kennedy — maybe it was someone else — memory fails — but when the act that was booked that night failed to show, Rusty was ordered to the stage and stumbled through his first gig as a front man. Seems like he told me he played one song six or seven times.
At any rate, that first volley was, by Rusty’s recollection, a disaster.
But he decided to take another shot at it, and something changed: Rusty realized that he knew how to interact with an audience. This gift transcended music — he realized he had certain banter with the crowd. A symbiotic relationship emerged with his listeners.
Then he discovered that songwriting came naturally — in fact it was basically second-nature.
Record deals followed.
It wasn’t a perfect marriage. Rusty was a little further out of the box than the rest of his colleagues at the time. He was, after all, “Rock and Roll Rusty.”
The problem? He was a decade before his time. That fact causes me to fear his true legacy to the Austin music scene — and in particular — the Progressive Country movement — may be over-looked in the long run.
What Rusty brought to the party was good, old fashioned rock and roll. No element in the Progressive Country scene was more essential to its success. Just try to turn on a C&W station and not here music that more resembles the roots of rock. Well, if Rusty wasn’t the first, he was certainly at the front of the line. His unique style influenced a generation of musicians either directly, or indirectly, and will continue to do so for years to come.
Saint Willie, and I say that with genuine respect and reverence, was lucky enough to stumble onto a scene that was already happening in Austin, way back in the days of yore, when the Armadillo World Headquarters was the center of the known universe. Willie Nelson’s incomperable body of music is one of those freaks of nature that few artists are lucky to see come to fruition. Still, Nelson was clearly influenced by what was already going on in Austin.
It is hard to explain to someone who wasn’t privvy to the scene: In those days, Austin was a “big little town.” It was a city, but everybody knew everyone. This was before the “2 a.m. closing.” Bars shut the doors at midnight.
When they did, the bars unwittingly unleashed a myriad of musicians filled with energy. These musicians then would migrate from a series of jam sessions that evolved around town. There were the jazzers, the rockers, and the country pickers. As each night would progress, musicians would move from one session to the other session.
All these musicians benefitted from the experience; incorporating the things they learned to their own respective gigs. Progressive Country was its firstborn child.
And Rock and Roll Rusty put the rock edge into the equation.
Yeah, he made his mark professionally — “Don’t It Make You Want To Dance” ensured his “industry” status— but that is not the man I met in 2006.
It was a Wednesday “open mic” night at that Lake Travis bar where we first met, with Rusty serving as the emcee and entertainer. After the business end of the interview was completed, we dropped our facades and within minutes, we were fast friends. It was Texas talk from two natives — an element in which we were both comfortable.
Rusty was happy with the subsequent article and we stayed in touch from time to time afterward. While I am a musician, I never brought that aspect of my personality into the conversation.
Initially, the acquantance was a casual, but friendly relationship.
When I learned that Rusty had contracted cancer — and that it was advanced — I called. That is where our relationship changed. That’s when I got to know who he was at his core. Since I also knew what it was to be a death’s door, a connection was only natural.
For many years, Rusty had been at odds with many aspects of life. But as fast as mortality was staring him in the face, he turned inward. He found solace in his Christianity. For some reason, he thought that might surprise me — that such a raw nerve actually had a deep-seated faith.
But I’m an old country boy, and I have that same raw nerve — that same faith — and those same flaws. Hence, our conversations took on a deeper, more revealing tone.
I have been told that sometimes when Rusty had to leave home for a gig, he would say: “Well, I gotta go be me now.” It was a polite way of saying that the public Rusty wasn’t the private Rusty. But I saw through it, he knew it, and appreciated it.
Having worked as an actor, musician and journalist, I kinda understand what it is to be a public figure. At the end of the day, all you really want is to be anonymous. I know Rusty understood that first hand.
So from my point of view, I think I saw the person, rather than the entertainer. That was my good fortune.
So what really mattered to him? Easy. His kids, first and foremost. Since Rusty’s relationship with his own father was strained by the classic “generation gap,” he had been determined [since long before I met him] to have a meaningful relationship with his own children. And he did. He was immensely proud of them. They were truly his pride and joy.
Rusty was also touched by the outpouring of support from his friends. In fact, until he became ill, I think he thought he had few “true” friends. But he learned otherwise.
All of this turmoil actually was, in its own way, a blessing for Rusty, by his own admission. He could clearly see the fruit of his life’s work. More importantly, he gained a personal perspective he had not previously appreciated.
Poodie Locke’s [Willie Nelson’s longtime road manager and friend] death was tough on Rusty. In some way, it just didn’t seem fair to him. He had been the one who was sick. Yet Poodie — his friend — died first. When I spoke to him about it, he really hadn’t had the chance to put it all in perspective.
The last time I spoke with Rusty, things had changed. He was finally admitting he was in pain — a lot of pain. Sadly. I had no magic wand or I would have waived it. I tried to encourage him. That was all I really could do.
Last week, a distraught friend called me upon learning of his death. As the conversation progressed, I pointed out how Rusty had been on a path of self-discovery, largely inspired by his illness. From my point of view, he had learned more about himself, his family, and others, than during any other phase of his life. He had, to his own satisfaction, found redemption and salvation. And yes — the terrible pain was finally over.
Know this: Rusty lived a full life. When I breathe my last, I will be lucky to have learned as much about myself as my friend Rusty discovered about himself.
Goodnight, Sweet Prince.