Among friends in a neighborhood park Monday night, trying to drum up optimism and holiday cheer, my mind was elsewhere. I even blurted it out at some point, when asked how I was doing.
“Joe Ely has died.”
He was 78. To me, and to so many others, he was the missing puzzle piece of Texas music, the bridge that paved the way from Willie to the Big Boys. Intuitive and endlessly curious, Ely always forged ahead.
His beginnings were unassuming. A couple of years younger than his Lubbock songwriting pals Jimmie Dale Gilmore and Butch Hancock, he soaked up the dust of their empty landscapes, and studied his friends’ every move. Their unsuccessful 1972 recording, with Gilmore on lead vocals, didn’t have a single Ely songwriting credit, and only found a home on eight-tracks at truck stops. It was a decade before a British vinyl reissue put The Flatlanders’ name on the map. By then, they had all gone their separate ways.
Austin songwriter Jerry Jeff Walker would help Ely, now an Austinite, land a deal with MCA records, and among covers of Hancock’s and Gilmore’s, his 1977 debut was full of his own memorable tales (including the kickoff, The Flatlanders’ bio “I Had My Hopes Up High”). Ely’s remarkable four-album run (Joe Ely, Honky Tonk Masquerade, Down on the Drag, Musta Notta Gotta Lotta) proved to be essential.
His long recording career was marked by eclecticism, especially once he began recording independently. (His 1984 synthesiser album baffled MCA and more than a few fans.) Unconcerned, Ely always followed his own muse, and was unafraid of the occasional misfire.
I interviewed The Flatlanders for Texas Monthly when they finally got around to recording their reunion album in 2002, and by that point, it was clear the script had flipped. It was Joe Ely who was firmly in charge.
But despite all their great moments, his recordings proved almost beside the point.
Because early on, Ely had discovered a gift for something other than songwriting — performing. Riveting and charismatic, his road-tested bands (first with Jesse Taylor, Lloyd Maines and Ponty Bone, and a later edition with David Grissom, Jimmy Pettit and Davis McLarty) brought along euphoria wherever they went.
One sweaty night after another at his hometown base of Liberty Lunch, looking on the verge of collapse but grinning ear to ear, Ely would push his band even further into the night. “Boxcars,” “Fingernails,” “Cool Rockin’ Loretta”... there was an unquestionable right-place-right-time feel to these shows, what it must have been like to see Elvis or Buddy Holly or Little Richard in their heyday. And when the Clash and Bruce Springsteen came to town and would haul Ely on stage, it was a validation that made perfect sense. They knew what everyone in Austin knew and will never forget: Joe Ely was undeniable.
