One Liner: Probably my favorite of the 90's rockin' Nashville stars on this poster
Wikipedia Genre: Country
Poster Position: Large Type
Sunday.
Not long after my 18th birthday, I moved to Sherman, Texas and the Baker dormitory on the campus of Austin College (Land of Knowledge). I lived with my childhood best friend, Cary. His dad was my dad's big brother in their fraternity, back in the 60's, also at Austin College. Cary had already moved into the dorm room, as he was a soccer player and their intense practice schedule had already kicked in over the summer. I showed up alone, my bright red Ford Ranger stuffed to the top of the bed with everything I thought would be important for college. Cary was bald, his head shaved by the upper-classmen for some low-key hazing.
AC was a tiny school. Still is. About half the size of my high school. So, when my friends who had ended up at Texas or A&M were talking about the complicated enrollment process to navigate to sign up for their classes, the Austin College experience was much more old school. After discussing classes with a faculty advisor, we went to the gym, in person, to scurry around to the different tables situated around the edges of the shiny, wooden basketball court to snag class spots. A mass of confused freshman, nervously glancing around the room for too-small signage, hoping to get all of the classes they needed for their freshly chosen majors.
Having my best friend around meant that I hadn't met many of the other folks at the school yet, we had the luxury of spending that first weekend together without any awkward attempts at new friends. But a handful of the guys from Baker dorm ended up walking over to the sign-up festival together, and I got to chatting with a few of the guys who were going to live on my hall. One of them was named Tate Gorman. After only a few moments of introductory small talk, we discovered that we had both actually grown up on the same street. Well, he lived there part time with his father, and then part time with his mother in Harker Heights, Texas, but nonetheless I had driven by his house thousands of times going between home and church. We knew some of the same people, had eaten at the same restaurants, been to many of the same places. And from that small slice of connection, a great friendship arose.
There was very little to do in Sherman, Texas in 1994. I expect that statement still holds true today, but I couldn't honestly say. We had lots of time on our hands, but Tate had a desktop computer. This fact will not sound interesting or novel to anyone reading this who is younger than me, but at the time, he was kind of big time. And on that computer, he had a super jenky ass game called Betrayal at Krondor. I lovingly call it "jenky ass," just because my recollection of the graphics and gameplay mechanics is that it left much to be desired, even at that time. But, the cool thing that it had in spades was a series of slightly complicated puzzles that had to be solved in order to open treasure chests. I love little puzzles like that, and so Tate offered to let me play one time, and then that became a sort of post-lunch ritual. He would pack in a massive dip of snuff and sit off to the side of me, and I would fire up Krondor to play for a while. Tate would help with the puzzles and then just kind of generally goof on the game as I otherwise played. And our soundtrack to those times was, to my recollection, almost exclusively Clay Walker's 1993 album Clay Walker and George Strait's 1992 soundtrack for the movie Pure Country.
I don't know if your brain works this way, but there are a number of songs that absolutely, positively yank me right back to the place and time and activity that I was doing when they became embedded in my brain. The songs from Fables of the Reconstruction take me to my great-grandmother's back bedroom, my discman connected to garbage, tinny speakers, as I sweated and read stacks of library books. Living Colour's Time's Up brings me back to my childhood bedroom, playing The Legend of Zelda for hours after I finally got a long-awaited Nintendo. Doggystyle makes me think of driving a certain section of South Lamar in high school. August and Everything After takes me to a lacrosse trip to San Francisco. Many songs bring me back to summer camp with such immediacy and clarity that it usually makes me sad. But just the opening guitar riff of "Dreaming With My Eyes Wide Open" is all it takes to transport me back to the second floor of Baker dorm, at Tate's desk, enjoying some afternoon down time with my good friend.
For years after that, we'd shift into other music. I'll probably mention Tate when I write about Charlie Robison. When I lived with Tate in Corpus Christi for a summer we listened to a lot of Pete Yorn. He'd make fun of my love for Bjork or rap or anything heavier in the rock vein than grunge. Any sort of hard music and he'd throw up devil horns and squawk a goofy note to make fun of me for liking it. I came to college with very little knowledge of country music, other than a burgeoning appreciation for the things that got heavy play at summer camp - Robert Earl, Jerry Jeff, Alison Kraus, George Strait, Bob Wills - but after a few years of Country Music 101 with Tate I had learned a much deeper appreciation for several strands of the country music thread. But both of us always knew that we could get the other one pumped up and singing along if we played some classic Clay Walker.
We did a ton together after college. A few trips to Mexico. The Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City. A family trip to New Mexico. Couples' trips to the beach, the lake, or Fredericksburg. Lots of weddings and baby showers and homecomings. He was a fiercely protective friend at times, and a selfish bastard at other times. We didn't keep in as close of touch as I would have liked sometimes, but such is the world of marriages and careers and kids and all of the above.
Unfortunately for the world, Tate died this year. Cancer in his lymph nodes. Freaking awful, leaving behind a wife, three kids, and his parents. But while he was hoping that he was improving on yet another experimental treatment, bits and pieces of him started to give out and he had to go to hospice. Just before he did, Tate got the bad news and sent a text that I should call him as soon as I could. He didn't answer when I called, so I just ditched work and hauled ass for Dallas right then. Seeing him, in all honesty, sucked. He looked like crap and was in constant pain. I hated it. Back in the day, one of the hallmarks of a night out with Tate would always be the bruises on your bicep where he had repeatedly socked you in the arm. You'd wake up the day after a wedding or something, feel your arm, and go "oh, yeah, Tate." I so wanted for him to be able to get up, go get a bite to eat, and sock me in the arm while he said something politically incorrect. But instead, we talked about generally benign things for a few hours, he finally got the heavy-duty pain meds he needed, I gave him an awkward side hug, and then I never saw him again.
But you're here for actual Clay Walker takes, aren't you? My bad. A maudlin trip down my memory lane probably wasn't you expected today! But if you went down that road with me for a bit, I'll just give you a heartfelt PSA to check in on the folks you love and give them some time when you can. Anyway, let's talk about my main man Ernest.
Ernest Clayton Walker is 53, and was born in Vidor, Texas. Like Tracy Byrd! That is weird. All four of his first four albums reached platinum status, and he's had six number one singles. This snippet from Wikipedia is awesome: "After leaving his shift as nighttime desk clerk at a Super 8 Motel, he stopped at a local radio station to deliver a tape of a song that he had written. Although the morning disc jockey told him that the station's policies prohibited playing self-submitted tapes, he played Walker's song and said that it was "too good to pass up.""
And for good reason, because that first album rules. I mean, don't get me wrong. I fully understand that some of the lyrics on this are godawful stuff. "What's that? I hear angels singin', tellin' me to make my move. Listen to it, their voice is ringin' baby, if you feel it, get in the groove!" That is from the most streamed song on his debut album, "What's It To You," and I know every dumb word. GET IN THE GROOVE! YEEHAW! And yet, because of my history with this guy and these songs, I'll still belt those dumb ass words out with everyone else. Off of that first album, it is the same with "Live Until I Die," "Next Step in Love," "Where Do I Fit in the Picture," and "Dreaming With My Eyes Open." Also funny, the way that I know the words to these songs although I probably haven't listened to them in years. Here is that most-streamed tune from this album, "What's It To You." 18.4 million streams.
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