To Austin, with Love

When a City Stole My Heart

(My daughter and me, at that place in Austin with that famous graffiti)

Like any other small town kid who loved to sing and dance and religiously watch Fame, my young mind flirted with dreams of a future big city life in New York. But, all that fantasizing turned out to be just a childhood crush. It wasn’t until I was nearly out of my teens that I knew what it meant to be lovestruck by a city.

Austin was not on my radar at all. What I knew about Texas came from TV: The Dallas Cowboys (especially the cheerleaders) and Dallas, the TV show. I followed these cultural phenoms like most other humans inhabiting a world above the rocks, but my interest was lukewarm. I was never really into football, nor did I care who shot JR. My parents had a few Willie Nelson records, and those sparked vague visions of Texas, but again, nothing that drew me in. It was the night I first heard The Reivers, college-radio darlings, that my attention was seized in an unfamiliar way, and my infatuation with the Violet Crown began.

The world of college-radio, and the alternative universe that came with it, only became available to me after I started school at the University of South Carolina. Where I grew up in rural SC, we didn’t even have access to MTV, so there were huge swathes of pop music and cultural trends I knew nothing about: punk, new-wave, hip-hop. What I knew about was Casey Kasem. If a band—I’m thinking Talking Heads & Blondie here—clawed its way to the Top 40, sure, I would be happy to record it off the radio airwaves to cassette tape with my all-in-one Panasonic stereo system. It didn’t occur to me, however, that these sideways musical acts represented the tip of an iceberg. Once I gained access to the musical underground via the radio station at USC, though, everything changes.

One spring night, I was sitting shotgun with one of my cool, new college friends in her bronze-colored Camaro, drinking beer and smoking Camels (ah, the 80s), when she picked up a random mix tape from those scattered across the dash and popped it into the player. The case of the tape was covered in hand drawn paisleys, swirls and a chicken-scratch handwriting identifying all the obscure pop jewels within. “Indoor Fireworks,” “Driver 8,” “Ways to be Wicked.” “Things Don’t Change,” from of The Reivers’ album Translate Slowly, came on. If I wasn’t already unrecognizable from the High School senior I’d been mere months before, the transformation was completed right at that moment in a suburban Columbia parking lot. My friend humored me like I was a child when I insisted she rewind and play the song again. And again! Again! For me, there’s a BR (before Reivers) and an AR (after Reivers), and that night demarcated those eras.

After this revelation, I went to the radio station where I had a DJ shift, checked Translate Slowly out of the music library and immersed myself in all the liminal spaces, soaring vocals and impressionistic lyrics there within. I had never been so fully engrossed by music. Who are these people? What are they trying to tell me? WHERE did this come from? No doubt about it, I was smitten.

For the next few months, I made furtive trips to the library—as if cheating on my then current ’berg—to read about Austin, TX, home of The Reivers. I was surprised to learn from the encyclopedia (the google of the time) how much Austin had in common with Columbia, at least on paper. They were similar in size and climate, both were state capitols, and both were the home of large state universities. It felt familiar. The major difference I could find, of course, was that Austin, unlike Columbia had manifested the correct roux to render forth a music like Translate Slowly. The secret to this sauce couldn’t be revealed between the thickly bound pages of the “A” volume of World Book. This difference hit me like cupid’s arrow. I knew by now that NYC was not for me, but I pictured Austin as a sweetheart I could settle down with.

Forty years later, I’ve spent most of my adult life in Austin, TX. It’s turned out to be nothing like what that kid reading the World Book Encyclopedia imagined, but it’s good! Over the years my feelings for the place have grown more complex, like only those from a deep, sustained affection can. Boy, how we’ve both changed. I’ve forgiven Austin the seasonal scourge of cedar fever, and it delivered me up a beautiful family. It refused me even the tiniest of toeholds in its music scene, but it provided other opportunities that couldn’t have existed for me elsewhere. I’ve always loved Austin more than Austin loved me, and that’s ok. My love is enough for the both of us.

2025 marks the 40th anniversary of the release of Translate Slowly. I’ve spent the past six months immersing my mature self in that record—so significant to my younger self—obsessively reimagining and recording those songs using my own musical vernacular and with tools that Back to the Future couldn’t have conjured. The process has brought on a great deal of reflection and served as something like couple’s therapy. I’ve had suspicions the past few years that it might be time for Austin and me to breakup. Come what may, however, ATX will always be the birthplace of The Reivers and my three children, and for better or worse could never be replaced as my personal ground zero.

I’ve come to think of my version of Translate Slowly, which I am calling Legendary and releasing in the spring, as my love-letter to Austin. If you are so inclined, please enjoy my cover of “Things Don’t Change.” The Reivers’ original is streaming on Spotify.

I’ll be playing a few Reivers songs along plenty of originals at The Hole in Wall in Austin, April 22 @ 6 pm. Early and free. Two of my favorite words in the language! Hope to see you there!

The Reivers were originally, and at the time I first heard them, known as Zeitgeist. For legal reasons, they changed their name in 1987 to The Reivers For simplicity sake, I always refer to them as The Reivers.

For those still engaging on IG, follow me @thesteelgemini to keep up with the musical side of things.