My Name is Spike Gillespie

And I Am (WAS) a “Local Celebrity”

Once, when Henry was little and I was struggling daily to pay the bills, I took a one-night gig working at a gala event, hosted by the UT Athletics Department to coerce rich ex-UT athletes to pony up some big bucks. My then roommate worked beside me as we laid ridiculously complicated place settings. Occasionally, before placing the finishing touch—a tiny, individually boxed piece of chocolate—on the center of each fancy plate, we would unwrap the treat, bite through half, and stick the remaining half back in the box and then onto the plate. 

Several “actors” had also been brought in to work the event. The idea was to recreate the Drag back in the day these ancient athletes strode the campus. A number of performers were instructed to sit slumped against the walls outside, pretending to be homeless, drinking bottles from brown paper bags. One was given the role of Bicycle Mary, a particularly well-known eccentric who hung out around campus back in the day. Yes, that’s right, the University of Texas paid people to pretend to be homeless and drunk for the purpose of entertaining the rich, old fart jocks.

The memory came to me as I decided to throw in my two cents about how I perceive the differences between so-called Old Austin and so-called New Austin. This after dedicating considerable time to taking in Lawrence Wright’s recent novella-length piece about Austin in the New Yorker, and still more time reading Jason Stanford’s substack piece, The Curse of Austin, sort of rebuttal to Wright. I found valid points to ponder in both pieces. Still, something seemed missing. 

I think I figured it out. 

Like everyone else who moved here from somewhere else, I was informed by those who got here before me how much I had missed by not being in Austin when X, Y, and Z were still hopping. For me, it was, according to my Austin predecessors, the greatest loss of all time that my arrival came after the demise of the Armadillo World Headquarters. You can swap that out for other later clubs—Liberty Lunch, Club Foot, Electric Lounge, yadda yadda. Oh, and don’t forget the original Austin City Limits studio where, I’m going to say it, I got to see, among other folks, Miss Dolly Parton perform for about 200 lucky free ticket holders.

Hold onto that thought.

I don’t know when people started calling me a “local celebrity,” but it’s been going on for a fucking long, long time now. I wince whenever I hear it. I always demur, by pointing out the truth. I just happened to get to Austin when it was still a small enough pond for a loudmouth like me to make a medium-sized splash. 

When I arrived in Austin in 1991, it was still a relatively sleepy town. Slacker had just come out (I saw it at the Dobie Mall). In very short order I scored what I now see to be an astonishing trifecta of work gigs, taking jobs at the Magnolia Cafe South, Esther’s Follies, and freelancing for the Austin Chronicle. I had no idea that each of these would directly connect me with a vast network of artists, writers and musicians, club owners, politicians and other super interesting Austinites of all stripes, many of whom remain friends all these years later. I was just looking for ways to feed my kid

Working for the Chronicle was especially excellent, as it gave me a place to stretch my writing wings. This, in turn, would lead to fulfilling my childhood dream to one day become a published author. These essays, along with occasional airtime on KUT, yielded the “local celebrity” title. Despite my discomfort at the term, I must acknowledge the privileges it bestowed upon me. I got plenty of perks—namely free concert tickets. More importantly, name recognition meant that I could throw fundraisers— The NAKED Calendars come to mind—and the people I needed to connect with to make these projects succeed would take my calls. That, to me, was always the best part of my “celebrity.” 

I once asked Henry what it was like growing up with me as his mom. He said he always loved the free tickets but hated going shopping with me. For there was a time, a very long time ago, where everywhere we went people recognized me, which meant a “quick” trip for a gallon of milk could easily take two hours. 

I liked Jason Stanford’s reminder that sometimes when we say how much we miss one long gone club or another, very possibly mixed into the lament, perhaps the very root of it, is another bigger lament. Cliche but true: Lost Youth. 

Local Celebs: Shannon Sedwick and Yours Truly

Because let’s face it—even if the Electric Lounge remained, I would not be hanging out there participating in poetry slams, which in my youth I did weekly. Staying home more often than not, as I do these days, is not some protest against the changing face of Austin. It is purely a stamina thing. If I’m not in bed by 10 these days, despite decades of sobriety, I will wake up feeling like I have a hangover.

When my son, now 32, was 16 and playing in a couple of bands, I went to a SXSW day show to see him perform. I felt overwhelmed by the crowds, freaked out at this festival that, for many years, I had gleefully participated in—as a journalist, an attendee, a performer even. I ran into Margaret Moser at that show and we laughed at how the marching on of time had slowed us down.

“I’m going to tell you something Roland told me,” she said, referencing, of course, Roland Swenson, one of the three original founders of SXSW. “He told me SXSW isn’t for us.”

We had aged out.

This felt like such a relief. Permission to both stay home and NOT succumb to FOMO. Being grateful for all the years I’d done south-by balls to the wall. Being grateful not to be doing that anymore. 

Pause. 

Margaret Moser was another “local celebrity.” And there were so many others: Leslie in his thong. Gerry Van King, that guy who played electric bass on 6th street wearing a crown.  Lucinda playing on the drag. Kathy McCarty, translating Daniel Johnston in a way we could all understand. Daniel Johnston himself. John Aeilli with his polarizing on-air antics. Roky Erickson. Rebecca Havemeyer. Jo Carol Pierce. Owen Egerton. Lars Eighner, a literary genius, who shined a bright light on homelessness in his book Travels with Lizbeth (and, I have to add, whose wedding I performed once same-sex marriage was legalized). So, so many world-class musicians. And yes, many of “our” musicians have made a great go of it, out on the road nationally and even internationally. But they still maintained the hometown hero status, not as stars “based” in Austin, or as celebrities who moved to Austin, but true Austinites out and about. (Kelly Willis and I once had a laugh on a Saturday night when we ran into each other at Hancock HEB—just a couple of local celebrities living it up in the cereal aisle.)

One time, a long time ago, I was hanging out at Quack’s with Kacy Crowley, another “local celebrity.” I used to go hear her play many a Tuesday night at Hole in the Wall. Each of us, in our very young career days, had had a breakthrough. She got a national recording contract. My first book was published by Simon & Schuster. By the time of that Quack’s visit, we each were very clear that likely neither of us would ever fully catapult to a national stage.

We both expressed genuine relief, happy enough with our local opportunities to do our stuff. How grateful I am that I never was in a position to grow a big head or deal with the demands of “real celebrityhood.” I was too busy working endless side gigs to support my art. 

As a wordsmith, I long had another issue with the phrase “local celebrity.” It’s oxymoronic-ish, but not exactly. It’s confusing. Like, which is it? Are you local? Or are you a celebrity? Suddenly, though, I hear it differently. I think of it as the best kind of celebrity one can have. To be appreciated by one’s immediate community. To be able to throw endless handfuls of spaghetti at the wall, be allowed to “fail,” and not have that “failure” mean the end of a career, because in one’s true community, one can count on a measure of safety and encouragement, space to experiment.

While every community has its memorable characters, I would argue Austin, up until recently anyway, had an exceptionally high freak-to-normie ratio relative to other cities. Legit freaks, flying their freak flags not for views and likes but, because, you know, genuinely freaky. 

Because I am old now, and because I haven’t lived in Austin since 2015–though hilariously enough, for several consecutive years after my departure, Chronicle readers voted me Best Writer in Austin— and because the population is massively larger than it was when I arrived so long ago, I’m no longer a “local celebrity.” I had my turn splashing around in the pool, then the pool got way bigger, and any splashing I continued doing became less noticeable to the point of near imperceptibility. (I do still run into people who know me and it is always a thrill. But it doesn’t happen too often.)

As I contemplate the long gone establishments about which longer-term residents taunt newcomers for having “missed out on,” and as I examine the list of unique Austinites and us so-called “local celebrities,” it strikes me, the true difference between the Current New Austin and the Genuinely Old Austin. Forever and a day, as sad as it might be to lose a beloved establishment like Armadillo World Headquarters, eventually and invariably some other joint would arise and reach its own different but nonetheless legendary status. By all means, correct me if I’m wrong, but these days it feels like there aren’t genuinely genuine new venues and restaurants opening up that have any hope of gaining legendary status. 

Along those lines, I’m pretty sure we “local celebrities” are a dying breed. Not entirely the fault of the pond growing so much bigger than it was when I was able to make a splash without too much effort. Social media is a culprit, too. One no longer need make a pilgrimage to an actual geographical place to see a person unique to that place. Just pull them up on the socials. 

I once had sex in a field under a starry sky with Johnny, a traveling musician from Michigan I met when he was busking outside a bar in Knoxville, Tennessee. Turns out it was a field of poison ivy. It took us a week to heal and when he left he gave me a cassette and said listen to this. The tape had been home recorded by Daniel Johnston and to get some more of his homemade tapes, I made a road trip pilgrimage to Austin, when I was 24, to go to Sound Exchange and buy it. (This was five years before DJ painted the now famous Hi! How Are You? mural on the side of the building.)

Would Leslie even have stood out on TikTok? Possibly not. Leslie had to be experienced in person. That was an opportunity I had once, upon running into him randomly and complying with his request that I give him a ride. He was only going four blocks. Still, what a memory. 

The days of “local celebrities” and legendary local clubs are dwindling. I am happy, though, that opportunities remain. James McMurtry playing his intimate Tuesday night residency at Continental Club Gallery comes to mind as an outstanding chance to experience the Old Austin of yore. You’re lucky if you can get in and if you’re stupid enough to run your mouth, well, word to the wise, don’t be.

Last week I had friends in from out of town. They’d heard of Esther’s Follies and asked if we should go. YES WE SHOULD GO. My roommate and his mom joined us. Of our group of five, I was the only one who’d seen the show before. Many dozens of times, in fact. Like I said, I worked at Esther’s briefly in the early ‘90s. Not onstage. As an usher, a bartender, clean-up crew. I never, and I mean never got tired of that show. 

In the years since, I have taken many people to see it. I don’t just get off on the show, I get off on watching people watch it for the first time. Some skits have been in rotation since the beginning, and to me they’re even funnier because I know what’s coming and I can anticipate how hard the audience will laugh. I also get off on appreciating now, far more than I did decades ago, just how incredibly hard the cast works.

Local celebs: Yours Truly and Ray Anderson

This cast—and I am going to call them out by name down below—is small but stunningly versatile. And for every tried and true skit they continue to put on, there are at least a couple dealing with very current events. Many of the sketches involve singing and dancing. Somehow, this little band of comic actors writes, choreographs, composes music, and rehearses it all on a super tight time schedule before serving it up five times each weekend. Shannon Sedwick, a founder and star of the Follies, and Ray Anderson, the show’s longtime magician—oh he is so fantastic—get up there and are still as energetic as the youngsters flanking them. 

These performers comprise a handful of our remaining, diminishing roster of “local celebrities.” They aren’t going on a national tour. They aren’t on TV. They are 100% specific to Austin and they do a hell of a job simultaneously loving on the city and poking fun at all the change we have endured. I am in awe of their talent, talent you can only see on 6th Street.

I did a cursory search for “local Austin celebrities” and “local Austin eccentrics” to see who might show up. Maybe, I thought, there is a new crop of unique-to-Austin folks I’d not heard of due to my increasingly homebody ways. Search returns bring up not some current answer to Leslie or Bicycle Mary but instead transplants from Hollywood. Elon Musk also makes the list. 

Elon Musk who, along with his tech-bro ilk and their obscene fortunes are hugely responsible for the demise of small clubs, homegrown restaurants (the type not backed by “corporate groups”) and “local celebrities” driven out by the exponential rise in the cost of living. One can no longer piece together rent working one-night gigs taking bites out of chocolate designated for rich people who get a kick out of actors playing drunks on the Drag. Few, it seems, derive satisfaction from remaining local only, and who can blame them when the possibility of going viral exists in a way it did not during my heydays in the ‘90s?

Experiencing Austin then and now feels like the difference between going to a concert to really listen and experience it, and going to a concert to snap a duck lips selfie to prove you were there and then talk at the top of your lungs for the rest of the show, failing to appreciate the immediacy of a beautiful moment in favor of bragging about it later, ruining the show for the diminishing number of attendees who actually did show up for the right reasons. 

NOTES:

Shout out to the entire cast of Esther’s Follies—go see these local celebrities while you still can: Ray Anderson, Shannon Sedwick, Doug Ewart, Billy Brooks, Keyshaan  Castle, Shaun Branigan, Jill Blackwood, Ted Meredith, Beckijo Neill, Ellana Kelter, Steven Baranowski, Michael Shelton. Thanks y’all!

This Saturday, February 25th, I’m hosting the inaugural Tiny T Tiny Flea Market at my ranch from 9 am til 2 pm. I still have more room for vendors. If you want to participate drop me a line. Info on the ranch at TinyTRanch.com

I am back to hosting SMALL weddings at the ranch and also presiding over weddings and funerals. Please help me get the word out. Thank you. 

If you enjoy this substack and/or my IG feed, please consider subscribing for $7 per month. If that’s out of reach, you can still help by sharing this substack with your friends. After all these years I’m still gigging to support my art. I appreciate your contributions which mostly go to feed my menagerie of ill-behaved farm animals. You can throw one-time tips in the tip jar on venmo @spike-gillespie.