Chapter One
Did I Choose Music, or Did Music Choose Me?
I didn’t set out to become a musician. Music was already there—waiting on me.
I fell in love with it as a child, listening to my dad and his buddies during jam sessions at our house on Wood Street in Athens, Texas, back in the late 1960s. Later on, those gatherings moved out to our place near the Blackjack community. By the 1970s, those nights had taken on a life of their own.
My daddy was usually the lead singer at what we called “thumpathons”—sessions that ran late into the night and sometimes into the early morning. Lonnie “Bigon” McCall played fiddle, Roy Feagin was on harmonica, and A.F. “Bo” Cole handled slide guitar and dobro. Every now and then, a man named Robert McPeak would show up. He had a smooth voice and sometimes brought his family along.
I still remember telling his daughter—who I thought was real pretty—that her dad looked a lot like Elvis Presley. She smiled big. That moment stuck with me.
Folks would come by to dance, drink, and forget about whatever was weighing on them. Sometimes things got a little rowdy, but the music always held it together. It brought people back, no matter how the night went. They didn’t play for money. They didn’t play in bars or book gigs. They just played—old country, gospel, bluegrass—because it was part of who they were.
The first time I ever sang in front of anyone was at one of those gatherings on Wood Street. I asked Daddy if I could sing “Hey Good Lookin’” by Hank Williams. He looked at me and said, “You know all the words?” “Yes sir,” I told him. I’d heard him sing it so many times, I didn’t even have to think about it.
Truth is, I always liked that song. Maybe it was because “Hey Good Lookin’” sounded a little bit like “Hagood.” After I finished, somebody in the band said, “That wasn’t half bad.” That was all it took. From that point on, music had its grip on me.
Sometimes Mama and my brothers and sisters would join in. There was music on both sides of the family, especially on Mama’s side when it came to gospel. Mama and Daddy used to sing in church when they were younger. Daddy never was much for talking about religion, but he could carry a tune that would stop you in your tracks.
There was a feeling in those songs—something deeper than just melody, something that stayed with you.
One of my cousins, Janette “J Byrd” Hosch, went on to become a successful singer and songwriter out in California. Back in her younger days, she even played in a band with Rodney Crowell down in Houston. Mama Jessie and Janette’s mama, Flora Mae, were sisters. They looked so much alike you could hardly tell them apart.
Music ran through that side of the family like a river.
Looking back now, I can see it clearer than I could then. Those nights on Wood Street, those long sessions out near Blackjack, and the sound of fiddle, harmonica, and voices carrying out into the dark—that’s where it started. Not in a studio, not on a stage, not chasing a dream, just a bunch of people gathered together, playing music because it meant something to them. And somewhere in the middle of all that, without me even realizing it, it started meaning something to me too.
Watch Video: “Black Jack Texas Saturday Night”