Sitting here listening to some George Strait “Right or Wrong” I am instantly transported back to a summer night in 1995 or 96, 18 or 19 years old, road trippin’ on back roads with Will Alberthal and Scott Staudt. Ain’t it funny how a melody can bring back a memory? Wait- I’m trying to talk about George, not Clint, lol. Back to the story…
When participating in the South Texas rite of passage also known as road trippin’, with two individuals as manly and, well, large as Will and Scott, you (if you happen to be me) end up in the back seat of the truck. It’s just how it is. This is not an episode of women’s lib gone wrong, nor is a clear case of Texas sexism. This was simply a straightforward issue of leg room. They needed a lot of it. Me- not so much.
Anyway, there I was stuffed in the back seat of Scott’s truck. The guys were up front, deep in some conversation about something. If I had to guess I would say their conversation had something to do with weightlifting or car stereos or maybe where was Bullet Haas. So I was left to entertain myself until the topic came back around to something that interested me, such as guns, tanks (Texan for a “pond”) skipping rocks, something of that nature. And entertain myself I did.
The radio was cranked up with Scott’s windows down, and we were rocking George Strait’s “Right or Wrong.” Since I was uninterested in the topic at hand, I sang my little heart out along with George. I love George just as much as any Texan should- as a matter of fact I think someone should make a bumper sticker proclaiming his greatness along the lines of the “God Bless John Wayne” one I see so often when in West Texas. But I do have ONE tiny little problem with him (gasp). When my voice sings George Strait, he hits me right in the “break” and I have to jump back and forth from chest voice to head voice a whole lot. To the trained musician, this is a pretty laughable and avoidable situation. They are thinking to themselves, “She needs to wait this one out and try to sing next time Clint comes on the radio.” But to Scott Staudt that night, I was a fabulous new discovery.
Scott got all quiet and said, “I didn’t know you could sing!” He kept saying, “Sing this! Sing that!” And he pulled out Strait out of the Box and clicked through hit after hit. I was happy to oblige him on that awesome summer night, singing with my arm hanging out the open window. The night seemed to last forever. We drove, skipped rocks in the Pedernales, stropped at JEK’s a time or two, and just lived. I remember the air on that night and am thankful for those nights gone by with old friends.
As I sit here today at 35, I am watching the rain and singing “Right or Wrong,” ignoring the breaks. Smiling. Thanks, Scott.
