Desperado, Waiting for a Train
I wanted to write tonight about a man with the unlikely name of Rusty Holster.
I knew him as a young songwriter, though I understand he has concentrated more recently on other beautiful things like raising sun conures and stewarding the Earth. I recognize him now as a mentor in my life; he is also certainly a friend.
We met when I was 18 years old and he, 20. We lived in the same West Texas town, played guitars and wrote songs, and had girlfriends in the Civic Ballet. I guess when we heard that rock stars dated dancers, we got it slightly wrong. We shared a real passion for music and the dream of the music business. Every so often we would get together and write a song together; probably a total of about 20 or so songs over several years. But we weren’t equals, not even close. Rusty’s songs had a character about them, a connection with the history of music that my attempts at Beatle regurgitations just didn’t approach. You could hear Americana in his melodies and themes; from Jimmie Rogers, Texas twang and Roy Orbison; Elvis and Roger Miller through the Beatles, Brian Wilson, Jimmy Webb, and Neil Young. Some of his melodies were solidly based in the background of American music and you would swear you’d heard it before even while knowing that you hadn’t. His melodies were so wonderfully crafted that I still sing many of them 30 years later.
“Though I left her long ago/I know that I’m missing/More than St. John’s pastel shores/ And cold island misting/Retrospectively, I see” More Than St. John’s by R. Holster
This song is flat out beautiful. The melody breathes melancholy and the words evoke sensuality, loss. There is also something in the feel of this song that reminds me of Edgar Allan Poe.
“Back in a different place and time/ She waits by the window, I know/ Sea Island blow/Me, on her mind….” Rio Frio by R. Holster
The opening line of this song “Everything’s quiet in Texas tonight” is something I sing to myself a lot in various settings. It’s a modern cowboy song.
“If you go, Alexandria/Slip away into the rivers silent mist/I will follow, Alexandria/Till my dismay is quite requited in a kiss….” Alexandria by R. Holster
This is a dark song, with a slinky melody in minor mode. It continues his penchant for the river imagery.
A week from today, I’m headin’ out/Louisiana, here I come/Don’t like it here, I’m gettin’ out/ Louisiana, here I come/Back down to New Orleans and dirty water/Back down Bourbon Street the booze is better/When this week is done/I’ll grab my hat and run/Look out Louisiana, here I come.” Louisiana by R. Holster
It’s exuberant, a sing along, about a weekend going to NO.
How can I possibly convey the grasp of his songs in words? Describing his melodies is impossible. Every time I’ve written tried to write a description, I’ve failed and deleted it. So you’ve never heard the songs and quite possibly you never will. It’s your loss. I can only say that I looked forward, with some jealousy, to every new song he’d play for me.
I came to Houston to share an apartment with him and work together on getting famous. I had been writing songs for about 4 years by that time and they had become (or had remained) mostly confessional in nature. I was still a gross amateur, but open to learn. By his example, he taught me about point of view. He had a clear vision of his art. Rooted in Texas, he had a look, a sound, a name that just worked. He pushed me to do the same, to understand that I shouldn’t just be a Beatle-clone writing songs about current girlfriends and romantic tragedies. Or if I was going to do that, do it with some style and originality.
I remember he would explore abandoned homes sometimes. Other lives fascinated him in the detail he could borrow for his songs. Once he found a stack of old vinyl 78s of what they once referred to as ‘race records’. Songs like “Jesus Gonna Hit You Like An Atomic Bomb” and “No Deposit, No Return”. He played them, took inspiration from them, and wrote a song with the distillation of the music. I think the resulting title was called “I Still Think About You”, but I’m not sure. He taught me to observe and use the unique experiences in my life in my writing; he taught me to listen for a turn of a phrase, a lyric in passing. He encouraged me to write things down so as to not start with a blank page every time, and showed me that disparate inspirations could be crafted together to form something uniquely brand new.
He was a great conceptualizer and was fired with a myriad of ideas. Record companies, promotional gambits, press relations and philanthropies. He had a list that he constantly tinkered with, of possible album titles, singles possibilities, and minutiae. In our time together, we formed a band called ‘Southern Cross’, long before the Stephen Stills song of the same name. We recorded and financed a 45 record. His song on one side, mine on the other. His was ‘Louisiana’ and mine was ‘Can I Be With You Tonight?’. I listen to my contribution now and I cringe. Poorly recorded and amateurishly performed, it sounds terrible; his has much more polish and finesse. With a box of 45’s in our cars, we each drove opposite directions, me headed west and he into Louisiana, to stop at radio stations along our routes and talk to programmers. My youthful ego was fully engaged, so I pushed my side of the record wherever I stopped. I should have promoted his song, it was clearly better, but I couldn't get past my desire to succeed. Without a doubt, my recording really sucked and I can only imagine what the radio people thought of this 21 year old in a Southern Cross jersey, pushing his crappy record on his own little vanity label in the days of Fleetwood Mac and the Eagles. It didn’t get any airplay at my end; Rusty said he heard his several times in Louisiana.
And that was kind of the brilliant thing about him; driving off to the bayou country to promote a single called Louisiana. I would have never thought in those terms at that time. With no money or backing and no chance of promotion, the single crashed before it ever took off, but his handling of the details of it all showed me a lot.
We worked together for about 3 years before we parted, going different directions as I unknowingly took what he’d taught me and applied it to my work. He was the best kind of teacher in that I didn’t become a clone of him. I became accomplished at having my own voice and style. That meant that we were no longer on the same path, but it was OK. We continued to see each other occasionally in the club circuit in and around Houston but never worked together again.
He later moved to LA and worked for a while and later still traveled completely around the world. I spoke to him by phone after a long time of no communication and our conversation still resonates with me. He spoke of who he’d been during our time together and of who he was now and it was clear that his sense of journey and learning and growth were still very much a part of his life. It was the best kind of talk.
He’s released some amount of work over the years, a lot of it quite good. I wish the recordings I have of him were better. I often want to play these wonderful songs for people but it’s hard to get past the poor quality of my copies.
I guess the point of writing this was to both acknowledge my debt to him and to illustrate that even when we don’t realize it, we can have such amazing affect on another person. He didn’t set out to be my teacher or to influence me in any particular way. Yet, 30 or more years on, the values I learned from him permeate my writing and my viewpoint. We served in the ‘war’ together and he was my captain. And that realization has been, for me, profound.
I knew him as a young songwriter, though I understand he has concentrated more recently on other beautiful things like raising sun conures and stewarding the Earth. I recognize him now as a mentor in my life; he is also certainly a friend.
We met when I was 18 years old and he, 20. We lived in the same West Texas town, played guitars and wrote songs, and had girlfriends in the Civic Ballet. I guess when we heard that rock stars dated dancers, we got it slightly wrong. We shared a real passion for music and the dream of the music business. Every so often we would get together and write a song together; probably a total of about 20 or so songs over several years. But we weren’t equals, not even close. Rusty’s songs had a character about them, a connection with the history of music that my attempts at Beatle regurgitations just didn’t approach. You could hear Americana in his melodies and themes; from Jimmie Rogers, Texas twang and Roy Orbison; Elvis and Roger Miller through the Beatles, Brian Wilson, Jimmy Webb, and Neil Young. Some of his melodies were solidly based in the background of American music and you would swear you’d heard it before even while knowing that you hadn’t. His melodies were so wonderfully crafted that I still sing many of them 30 years later.
“Though I left her long ago/I know that I’m missing/More than St. John’s pastel shores/ And cold island misting/Retrospectively, I see” More Than St. John’s by R. Holster
This song is flat out beautiful. The melody breathes melancholy and the words evoke sensuality, loss. There is also something in the feel of this song that reminds me of Edgar Allan Poe.
“Back in a different place and time/ She waits by the window, I know/ Sea Island blow/Me, on her mind….” Rio Frio by R. Holster
The opening line of this song “Everything’s quiet in Texas tonight” is something I sing to myself a lot in various settings. It’s a modern cowboy song.
“If you go, Alexandria/Slip away into the rivers silent mist/I will follow, Alexandria/Till my dismay is quite requited in a kiss….” Alexandria by R. Holster
This is a dark song, with a slinky melody in minor mode. It continues his penchant for the river imagery.
A week from today, I’m headin’ out/Louisiana, here I come/Don’t like it here, I’m gettin’ out/ Louisiana, here I come/Back down to New Orleans and dirty water/Back down Bourbon Street the booze is better/When this week is done/I’ll grab my hat and run/Look out Louisiana, here I come.” Louisiana by R. Holster
It’s exuberant, a sing along, about a weekend going to NO.
How can I possibly convey the grasp of his songs in words? Describing his melodies is impossible. Every time I’ve written tried to write a description, I’ve failed and deleted it. So you’ve never heard the songs and quite possibly you never will. It’s your loss. I can only say that I looked forward, with some jealousy, to every new song he’d play for me.
I came to Houston to share an apartment with him and work together on getting famous. I had been writing songs for about 4 years by that time and they had become (or had remained) mostly confessional in nature. I was still a gross amateur, but open to learn. By his example, he taught me about point of view. He had a clear vision of his art. Rooted in Texas, he had a look, a sound, a name that just worked. He pushed me to do the same, to understand that I shouldn’t just be a Beatle-clone writing songs about current girlfriends and romantic tragedies. Or if I was going to do that, do it with some style and originality.
I remember he would explore abandoned homes sometimes. Other lives fascinated him in the detail he could borrow for his songs. Once he found a stack of old vinyl 78s of what they once referred to as ‘race records’. Songs like “Jesus Gonna Hit You Like An Atomic Bomb” and “No Deposit, No Return”. He played them, took inspiration from them, and wrote a song with the distillation of the music. I think the resulting title was called “I Still Think About You”, but I’m not sure. He taught me to observe and use the unique experiences in my life in my writing; he taught me to listen for a turn of a phrase, a lyric in passing. He encouraged me to write things down so as to not start with a blank page every time, and showed me that disparate inspirations could be crafted together to form something uniquely brand new.
He was a great conceptualizer and was fired with a myriad of ideas. Record companies, promotional gambits, press relations and philanthropies. He had a list that he constantly tinkered with, of possible album titles, singles possibilities, and minutiae. In our time together, we formed a band called ‘Southern Cross’, long before the Stephen Stills song of the same name. We recorded and financed a 45 record. His song on one side, mine on the other. His was ‘Louisiana’ and mine was ‘Can I Be With You Tonight?’. I listen to my contribution now and I cringe. Poorly recorded and amateurishly performed, it sounds terrible; his has much more polish and finesse. With a box of 45’s in our cars, we each drove opposite directions, me headed west and he into Louisiana, to stop at radio stations along our routes and talk to programmers. My youthful ego was fully engaged, so I pushed my side of the record wherever I stopped. I should have promoted his song, it was clearly better, but I couldn't get past my desire to succeed. Without a doubt, my recording really sucked and I can only imagine what the radio people thought of this 21 year old in a Southern Cross jersey, pushing his crappy record on his own little vanity label in the days of Fleetwood Mac and the Eagles. It didn’t get any airplay at my end; Rusty said he heard his several times in Louisiana.
And that was kind of the brilliant thing about him; driving off to the bayou country to promote a single called Louisiana. I would have never thought in those terms at that time. With no money or backing and no chance of promotion, the single crashed before it ever took off, but his handling of the details of it all showed me a lot.
We worked together for about 3 years before we parted, going different directions as I unknowingly took what he’d taught me and applied it to my work. He was the best kind of teacher in that I didn’t become a clone of him. I became accomplished at having my own voice and style. That meant that we were no longer on the same path, but it was OK. We continued to see each other occasionally in the club circuit in and around Houston but never worked together again.
He later moved to LA and worked for a while and later still traveled completely around the world. I spoke to him by phone after a long time of no communication and our conversation still resonates with me. He spoke of who he’d been during our time together and of who he was now and it was clear that his sense of journey and learning and growth were still very much a part of his life. It was the best kind of talk.
He’s released some amount of work over the years, a lot of it quite good. I wish the recordings I have of him were better. I often want to play these wonderful songs for people but it’s hard to get past the poor quality of my copies.
I guess the point of writing this was to both acknowledge my debt to him and to illustrate that even when we don’t realize it, we can have such amazing affect on another person. He didn’t set out to be my teacher or to influence me in any particular way. Yet, 30 or more years on, the values I learned from him permeate my writing and my viewpoint. We served in the ‘war’ together and he was my captain. And that realization has been, for me, profound.