Sucks.
He’s been battling cancer for some time now. Our prayers go out to his family and friends.
Thanks the good Lord above that I got several occasions to meet-up with him, share a beer or 10 and bask in his greatness. He’ll be sorely missed.
It’s been confirmed. SUCKS!
From Buddy magazine, the last time I wrote about Rusty.
Rusty Wier was one of thousands and thousands of kids, back in the days of black-and-white TV, who rode imaginary horses with the Lone Ranger’s theme song ringing in their ears. They would all grow up, at least in their young minds, to be heroes, to save the day and ride off into the sunset.
Wier rode his imaginary horse a long time ago in the aisles of his dad’s restaurant in downtown Austin, as the piano player played the theme song – otherwise known as the “William Tell Overture” – to amuse the customers. Wier discovered he could make people smile, and became a professional musician – a drummer – when he was 13.
He eventually switched to guitar and wrote a bunch of songs including “I Hear You Been Layin’ My Old Lady,” “Coast of Colorado,” “The Devil Lives in Dallas,” “Black Hat Saloon,” “Texas Morning,” “Pirogue Joe,” “Cuervo’s Gold,” and more. Chris LeDoux, Jerry Jeff Walker, Barbara Mandrell, and others covered his “Don’t It Make You Wanna Dance,” which Bonnie Raitt made famous in the movie “Urban Cowboy.” George Strait once opened for him, and Wier was the first of the so-called Austin, Texas, “outlaws” to sign with a major label back in the early 1980s. The label thing eventually ended, but the albums kept coming and the live performances can be legendary.
The tall, thin Wier with his trademark black hat is a storytelling songwriter with an outlaw sense of humor. But rather than pigeonholing himself into that alternative country genre, he calls his music “Texas country rocking folk and blues.”
Watching several of his shows at Love & War in Texas, his ability to get a crowd roaring and totally into the show has always gone beyond his songs (which are good) and his band (which is good, especially on those occasions when his son Coby played lead guitar) and his solo performances. It’s Wier’s ability to relate to an audience and to get the audience to relate to him that make the biggest impression.
Back in 2005, Wier, who can play an audience as well as anybody, turned 20 years old for the third time.
In late 2007, doctors diagnosed an aggressive form of colon cancer than moved into his liver; the chemotherapy is just as aggressive and more painful than the disease itself. Sometimes Wier can keep on performing; sometimes he can’t; friends rally around him with a series of benefits. (Like most, or at least many, full-time musicians, Wier has no health insurance.)
“Don’t you write no sad story about me,” he told me by telephone. “My life has been a delight. I’ve done a wonderful job of getting away with doing what I love to do, and making a living at it. I’ve done everything I’ve ever wanted to do, and made a lot of people happy, and made myself happy. I’ve had a great time. If it was to end today, I would feel fulfilled. I’m not saying it’s going to end today; I’m not giving up, but I feel way ahead.”
Wier said in December that he didn’t know he had so many friends. Several places in Austin have hosted benefits. One of his frequent hangouts, Love & War in Texas, hosted a benefit and presented him with a lifetime achievement award. In Dallas, David Card at Poor David’s Pub plans a Jan. 6 benefit and chili cook-off – from the afternoon into the evening – with Tommy Alverson, Jayson Bales, Blacktop Gypsy, Bois D’Arcs, Randy Brown, Brian Burns, Mark Wayne Glasmire, Glitter Rose, B’Ann Grant, Joe Pat Hennen, Mark David Manders, Maren Morris, Ronny Spears, John Wilson of Bowley and Wilson, and more.
Wier is a bit overwhelmed by – and appreciative of – the support he’s getting.
“I’d just like to thank everybody that’s helping me. With no insurance and no nothing, the Lord has helped me out with some wonderful friends.”
Burns said Wier has influenced him more than any other Texas singer-songwriter and entertainer.
“If you grew up in Texas anytime from the 1970s onward, and Rusty Wier’s music didn’t have a profound and lasting influence upon your personal sense of culture and Texas pride, then you must have been asleep,” Burns said. “Of all the noble professions that a man or woman might pursue, my heart has always held a special space for those who choose to use their talents to make their fellow man laugh, cry, think, dance, or just tap their toes and smile. God, isn’t Rusty Wier a master at that profession?”
Wier has shared stages with Charlie Daniels Band, Marshall Tucker Band, Ozark Mountain Daredevils, Amazing Rhythm Aces, Pure Prairie League, Gatemouth Brown, Steven Fromholz, Willie Nelson, Johnny Paycheck, Waylon Jennings, Asleep at the Wheel, Jerry Jeff Walker, Commander Cody, Ray Charles, Lynard Skynard, The Allman Brothers, and many more. He’s made numerous appearances on Austin City Limits and the Nashville Network Series The Texas Connection, and shilled for McDonald’s, Lone Star Beer, the City of Austin, House of Jeans and many others. Until recently, he did 150 or so shows a year.
During an online discussion of Wier and his career in early December, I posted the quote where Rusty summarized his comment about “getting away with doing what I love to do,” making a living at it, making a lot of people happy, and feeling fulfilled.
Another poster replied: “Very few people on the face of the earth would be able to say that,” before sharing a personal experience: “One year when I was attending Jerry Jeff Walker’s birthday bash, someone in the crowd said, ‘Rusty’s playing at Saxon’s . . . There we headed. I had never even heard of Rusty Wier, but that night was certainly a highlight of the weekend. After that, if I was in Austin, I was looking for Rusty.”
Wier said he plans to continue working when he can, as the chemotherapy allows.
“I can get up for a little while, but as far as doing a whole show . . .” and his voice trailed off. “I’m going to have to get used to this. There’s nothing I’d rather do than get up there, but there’s nothing I’d rather not do than get up there and not be able to do it. I want people to remember me for the show, and I don’t want to do any shows that aren’t at my best.”
Wier said “a little prayer never hurt nobody. My belief in God and all that stuff is really coming out. I’m what you call a soft-shell Baptist; that’s where I always look when things get tough, and that’s where I’m really looking right now. I will never get well. The cancer may go into remission, but there’s no way of curing what I have.”
Once before a show on the outdoor stage at Love & War in Texas, I watched him spend a couple of rare minutes sitting alone by the fence around the side of the patio.
“People don’t usually see me do that,” he said. “It’s just a moment to try to gather my thoughts, to get into the mood. It’s hard to be me sometimes.”
His audience ranges from old hippies to the frat boys to old hippies’ grandchildren to oblivious business folks who wander in and get caught up in the crowd-participation shows. His audiences, like the online poster who heard him for the first time in Austin, always come back.
“My mother taught me how to get along with people. I have to pick the songs that work for the audience. Sometimes I go back to the old ones everybody’s heard before.”
Late in each show, Wier always asks, “Have you had a good time?”
The answer is always yes.
