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dispatches: Notes from different corners of the world.

Fireworks With Willie Nelson

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from: Seth Stevenson

Posted Tuesday, July 7, 1998, at 3:30 AM ET

We know we're in Texas and it's the morning of July 4 when, standing nipple-deep in Lake LBJ, in hot water thick with jet-ski fuel, we see our hosts emerge from their lakeside house and start firing bottle rockets out of a postal tube, aiming in a low trajectory over the lake surface and directly at our heads, cackling good-naturedly with each new launch. At this point we decide to head for Willie Nelson's Independence Day picnic, and so we swim to shore, towel off, and pack into our cars.

Every region has its own accessory of choice--an object that natives wouldn't be caught without. In Boston, it's a hardcover book. In D.C., it's a plastic security access badge on a thin metal chain. In New York, it's a Prada bag. And in central Texas, it's a half-ton payload, extended-cab pickup. Fortunately, my friend owns one of these, an immense Chevy with a toothpaste-white paint job, and this is what we drive to the picnic.

Lake LBJ is a bit south of Austin, and the picnic is about two hours further down, in Luckenbach ("Luke-n-Bach"). The highway runs through gorgeous Texas ranch land, blooming cactuses lining its shoulders. We see barely another car for an hour and a half, several times speeding through lightning storms, thumb-thick raindrops exploding on the windshield. But as we pull into Luckenbach, cars are everywhere, and the sun is shining.

Parking is in a wide open, cowpat studded meadow. The attendants hold an orange flag in one hand and a Lone Star beer in the other. We find a spot, drop the tailgate, and start drinking. After a time, we join the procession to the picnic grounds, buy tickets, and head in.

At Willie's picnic, dress for gentlemen falls into three categories:

1) For the average guy: cowboy boots, tight denim shorts, no shirt, and a ten-gallon hat.

2) For the UT and A&M frat guys: khaki shorts, cinder-block pectoral muscles, and a ten-gallon hat.

3) For all other males: T-shirt with offensive slogan (e.g., "Silly Faggot--Dicks Are for Chicks") and a ten-gallon hat.

Dress for women is unvarying: cowboy boots, tight denim shorts, bikini top (preferably in an American flag motif), and a ten-gallon hat.

The music is fantastic. Soon after we arrive, Willie Nelson's blues band takes the stage. Later, Emmylou Harris and Leon Russell will play. (In between sets, we sing "Happy Birthday" to America.) But the man the young folks want to see is Robert Earl Keen, a 30ish guy who plays straight-ahead country.

It's during Keen's set that the college kids go nuts. Women are sitting up on guys' shoulders, so frat guys on the ground point up at them and start chanting crudely in an effort to convince the women to expose their breasts. Many women oblige. Some taunt the crowd, slowly lifting their tops and stopping just short. Testosterone is nearly fragrant in the air. The zenith of my love, hatred, guilt, and excitement occurs when a blond sorority girl begins waving a Confederate flag with one arm while hoisting up her bikini top with the other. (There are almost as many Texas state flags as there are American flags here, but nearly every group of people has a flag of some sort. And lawn chairs.)

Though Keen's set is undeniably smoking (in large part due to all the breasts), it's Willie Nelson who truly wows me--his long twin braids swaying, the tanned hide of his face crinkling into a smile, his familiar twang singing words so true. And his guitar solos are shockingly sharp and energetic. It's Willie's picnic, and that's the way it should be.

I see not a single black or Asian person at the entire event. My friend claims to have sighted one black man, but I cannot confirm.

The music goes on and the sun burns bright, and many songs and Lone Star Lights later we finally straggle back to our truck and hit the road. We set course for Austin while a soft, purple sunset arches out across the scrub brush. As it turns dark, bright fireworks begin on the horizon ahead of us. Sometimes I really do love America.