Among my favorite YouTube videos is an outtake from Heartworn Highways, a documentary you’ve surely seen if you, like me, go crazy for the late, great Townes Van Zandt. Not much happens in this video: the dashing Townes spins a few good yarns, possibly true, while his bass player, Rex Bell, shoots BBs off into the woods, his brightly painted nails clutching a half-eaten bologna sandwich. (“I had OD’d sniffing airplane glue,” Townes recalls good-naturedly, squinting at the sun. “First thing I remember when I came to, the guy asked me if I was hooked on airplane glue, and I said, no, I’m stuck.”) They’re in the Clarksville part of Austin, where Townes had lived in the ‘70s with his teenage girlfriend Cindy, a few chickens and a dog, in a trailer, in what you might call hippie squalor. In January, the week of central Texas’ annual freeze, I visited the address (1100 Charlotte St.) you can plainly see a royalty check made out to in this video, where I found nothing that I’d seen in Heartworn Highways but the oak trees, and in the trailer’s place, a bungalow priced at $1,096,000.
What had brought me back to Austin, a place of which I’m hardly fond, where I had moved spontaneously in 2021, having fallen in love with a stranger at first sight, and last year finally decamped from (so I thought) for good? It could only have been Townes, my favorite American songwriter, who’d have turned 80 on March 7 had he not died in ‘97 from heart failure due to alcoholism. “An on-the-road piece following in the footsteps of TVZ that would get to the bottom of the twisted yuppie shithole known as Austin, TX,” was how my editor at County Highway had put it well before we’d been acquainted, before he could have known I was the woman for the job, my lack of a driver’s license notwithstanding. In the last days of December I passed the driver’s test with ease, chauffeuring through light rain a gruff Czech man about Townes’ age, a retired blues musician who advised me, “Keep your nose clean and you’ll be alright.”
Anyway, I spent a week in Texas chasing the ghost of Townes Van Zandt from motel to motel, bar to bar, flexing my newly minted driver’s license in the little white Lexus I’d bought from a dead woman’s estate sale back in my Austin days. My trip took me to Galveston, an island town on Texas’ Gulf Coast and a very strange place indeed, where I befriended a trio of locals tripping on acid, ate disagreeable fried oysters, and caught a show at the Old Quarter — a name you’ll recognize, too, if you care anything for Townes. What consensus there is on the matter of Townes’ best album goes to Live at the Old Quarter, Houston, Texas, recorded in ‘73 and released in ‘77. Wrecks Bell (who at some point changed his name from R-E-X to W-R-E-C-K-S) opened the Old Quarter in Houston in 1965; though it was small and in a bad part of town, Townes would play there over the years and eventually record one of the best live albums ever, on which despair and dirty jokes co-mingle ‘cause that’s just the way it goes. The club closed in ‘79, but Wrecks re-opened it in Galveston in ‘96, where it remains today. Townes played there twice before his death on New Years Day the following year; in the interview that follows, Wrecks’ll tell you how those went.
Besides his long friendship with Townes, with whom he toured for many years, Wrecks is a legend in his own right; aside from running the Old Quarter, he played bass for Lightnin’ Hopkins and Lucinda Williams over the years. (He’s also the subject of “Rex’s Blues,” a Townes song he used to hate and now occasionally covers.) These days he’s retired (though he’ll still pop up to play the Old Quarter now and then, especially for its annual Townes wake), sober, and living with his wife Janet, who he met back in the ‘60s. To help me with my story, Wrecks was kind enough to take my call. (“I’m a recovering musician, so let’s do very late afternoon,” the 79 year old requested.) From elsewhere in the room, Janet contributed, too.
For the full story of my week in Texas on the TVZ trail, you’ll have to get your hands on a copy of County Highway, America’s only newspaper. It’s a nice thing to read with your morning coffee, filled with interesting tales from our strange country.
In the meantime, please enjoy my conversation with Wrecks and Janet below.
“He did love his life; he just couldn’t live it.”
— WRECKS BELL ON T.V.Z.
01/16/24 — TEXAS
MG: Wrecks Bell!
WB: Yes ma’am. Is this Meaghan? How you doin, girl?
Well, I’m sitting here in a motel room in cold-ass Austin, Texas.
I hear ya. How did you get to be a Townes fan, anyway?
It wasn’t until later in life. I have a bit of a melancholic, rambling disposition…
That sounds like a Townes song. Melancholic rambling disposition — well, there you go. The interview’s over. Just interview yourself. Townes’ influence is so wide, it’s unbelievable. There were three people from Quebec who came to Galveston for the wake this year. You either love him or you don’t, and not knowing’s in between.
How was the wake this year?
Oh my god. [Janet: It was great!] I started this thing 27 years ago, and I didn’t even think about it becoming anything, it was just the anniversary so I said fuck it. People thought I was nuts because wakes are supposed to be really sad and solemn, but we set a bottle of vodka out there and said well, we’ll just drink it.
I enjoyed my time at the Old Quarter on Saturday. It’s so apparent when a place actually gives a shit about what they’re doing.
I sold that place because I had a stroke, but the people who took it over are so nice and they’ve just kept it in the same vein. Without them there would be no Townes wake anymore, or I don’t know where it’d be. Who was playing on Saturday night?
Rats, I can’t remember the band’s name, but it was cool, these young guys doing kinda R&B, funk, slightly psychedelic…
You say they were young; how old are you?
Just turned 36.
Aw, you’re a old hag! Naw, you’re a baby. I got livers older than you.
I feel pretty young. Let me ask you this: I read all this stuff, Gulf Coast Boys and whatnot, about these times when you guys were out here ripping and running. They say nostalgia’s a trap and you shouldn’t indulge it, but for me, nostalgia’s the best...
If somebody says nostalgia’s a trap, they need to get caught. Nostalgia’s a great thing. Who doesn’t have it? Only super young people would say that.
When I read that stuff, I envy you guys — not everything, of course, but it just seemed so much easier to be an artist, a deadbeat, somebody living outside of society. Nowadays if you’re living outside of society, you’re probably living in a tent and not having very much fun.
Well, we were definitely living outside of societal realms. It was a great time! Of course there were a lot of down times — we were also drinking heavily and doing drugs, and doing drugs is never all fun. It just sounds like fun.
Were you happy?
Yes, ma’am. I look back and I have nothing but great thoughts about it. As you get a little older, you tend to remember the good things. You forget the long car rides and the plane rides and the train rides, and you remember the fun you had and the girls you met — the good, good stuff. So it’s really wonderful for me, and for my wife Janet, who knew Townes also.
When I read about you, it’s through the lens of Townes, so I don’t really know what you were doing before you met him.
Well, I’d just gotten out of the Navy. I was singing in a duet, and I knew I wasn’t good enough to make a living doing music, but I knew I wanted to do that. So I decided to open a club, and run that club ‘til I was good enough to play music. That was my naive thought when I got out of the Navy. But I did it. My partner and I, we saved up, I don’t know, we had about $1,300 and we found this old beaten up place and said, we’ll take it. That was the original Old Quarter. And then I was at this place called Sand Mountain, which goes back to the ‘50s; it was a beatnik place, they served coffee mainly. I ended up worming my way into the owner’s heart and got to open up for most of the acts, carry her money bag around. So I actually got to open up for Townes, Jerry Jeff Walker, Don Sanders, buncha other people I can’t even remember. It was unbelievable; I was getting to open up for the premiere acoustic acts of that era. Townes and I were the same age, but he was already a star.
As the story goes, you meet Townes at this dry venue and he’s pulling up some booze through the window with a rope. Does that sound about right?
It was the same Sand Mountain Coffee House, and it was really strict, no alcohol. And I’ll never forget it. We met in the green room, and he said, do you drink? I said yeah, even though I didn’t really drink. So he opened the window and pulled a gallon of wine he had on a rope out the window. He was pulling up this jug and taking swigs.
What else do you remember about that meeting?
Well, I remember how important it was to meet Townes, because I was an aspiring young musician. I wasn’t a writer, though I thought I could write poems. It was exciting to meet Townes, I was so thrilled. And we kinda became friends right then, and I told him I was looking to open up a club and kinda left it at that. Then I found the club, and it was a cool — well, it wasn’t cool, it was a dive in wino town, in the real bad part of Houston. I didn’t care, I was a hippie, that didn’t mean nothing, and the winos outside, they don’t bother me. They still don’t bother me. Anyway, it wasn’t long before I saw Townes again and asked him to play. He was gonna play, and then Mrs. Carrick got all weird and said no one who plays the Old Quarter can play Sand Mountain ever again, which was a big deal because it was the premiere club and I was just a little nothin’. But Townes said, I’ll play, and once Townes broke that barrier, people started playing there. She did forgive me, many years later.
It seems to me that if I had the choice, I’d probably go to the one where I could drink beer.
Hey, listen, in reality she didn’t have a chance. You could drink beer, you could play music, you could smoke weed on the roof — and back then, they’d put you in prison for weed. Back in the ‘60s… [Janet: A matchbox!] I almost went to prison for a matchbox, cause that’s how weed was sold, matchboxes. [Janet: Not the big ones!] The little bitty ones that had maybe three grams, not even a quarter ounce. That’s how you bought it back then. And a lid, that was a Prince Albert can of tobacco, probably about an ounce.
So how’d you avoid going to jail over this stuff?
It’s funny, the Old Quarter got closed after two months because of this… Back then, we had these stucco walls and people could write anything they wanted, so everybody had chalk. It was the ‘60s, y’know. I think the three they busted me on were, “Beware, your local police are armed and dangerous,” “Vandalize the church of your choice,” and “Donald Duck is a Jew.” They closed me for that. I’m not kidding! This one cop would come in and he would erase “Jew,” and he’d leave and I’d put it back up, and he’d come back and arrest me. I was in jail like, I dunno, 10 times, and then they just took my license away. But we were only closed for about a month, and then me and my buddy Dale, we drove by and it was for rent, so I said, let’s do it! Then the Old Quarter started in earnest, and that’s when Townes would come over, and Guy Clark, and Jerry Jeff Walker. It was all hippies hanging out and playing music.
Were you guys making any money?
Well, yeah, the Old Quarter was making money. Heck, we were charging 40 cents for a draft beer, cost me about a dime, back in those days when a dollar was actually a dollar. Not a get rich club by any means, but our rent was $150 a month, so if you made $75 at the door… But Townes always made money. Y’know, he was a star from the second… he had something that no one else had. He was just one of those charismatic figures. Somebody else said, and I copy them, “When Townes walked in the room, he was in charge.” And not cause he walked in the room as a bully. He’d walk in the room silently, sit in a chair and he was still the center of attention, because he was just a charismatic, tall, good-lookin’ genius of a guy. All the girls loved him, and the guys loved him too.
So when Live at the Old Quarter comes around, at what stage of Townes’ arc was he in? Was he well-known?
Well, let’s see. The Old Quarter recording, that was in ‘73. He was kind of a star when we opened in ‘65. By that time he was well-known, he could fill up any place. He loved the Old Quarter; he didn’t have to do a record there. When I toured with him shortly after that, we played 2,000 seaters, but he’d just as soon play a 100-seat room. That’s the way he was. He didn’t care about money.
From what I’ve read, it seems he liked to give it away.
Listen, I played with Lightnin’ Hopkins. I tell people, I worked for Lightin’, but I played for Townes. He didn’t care. When we were a duet traveling around, heck, we made good money, we’d make two or three thousand dollars in a week and I’d get half of it, or all of it. Townes didn’t care. My buddy Mickey White, do you know about him? Mickey played with him more than any other single musician. The Hemmer Ridge Mountain Boys, you’ll hear about that — that was Mickey White and I and Townes. We were on the road and we had no idea what we were gonna call ourselves on this here tour that Mickey booked, and we had to call ourselves something. I’m an idiot, so I was making a play on words on “hemorrhage.” Hemmer Ridge Mountain Boys. How in the hell it stuck, I’ll never know.
We did a lot of funny songs. I’d played in a cover band where you play other people’s music six nights a week, and it sucks. I mean, it’s always good money. I was in this band where I was the bass player and he was the singer and the star, and he would make me learn songs. So I learned “Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother,” and I hated that song. Right after that I went to Townes — he spoke Pig Latin to his wife all the time, cause it pissed her off. We weren’t saying anything that she couldn’t hear… Anyway, we were singing the entire “Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother” in Pig Latin, and Mickey was singing harmony. “I’ve Been Everywhere” we changed to “I’ve Done Every Drug.” We did some funny stuff.
When you read stuff about Townes, you always reach a point where they say, well, you never knew what kind of performance you were gonna get. Was this a concern of yours, or is that a bit overblown?
Well, it’s a yes and no. It was a joy touring with him when he was so good. When Townes was young, his finger-picking, his whole act was so pristine. We played to 2,000 people in New York City and Townes played one chord and the whole place was silent. And he would keep ‘em silent. So he was great. And in those days he drank, but he wasn’t getting drunk onstage. On tour in the ‘80s he was blowing sets at times, but always the second set. Townes would have two days back then: the first part of the day where he’d get drunk then pass out in the afternoon, and then the second part of the day. He’d have two days a day. Mickey and I would just let him sleep until it was gig time. So all the first sets were so good, and then he’d start getting drunk. But up until later in life, even his drunk sets were so entertaining and so good.
He started putting on bad shows in the ‘90s. I reopened in the Old Quarter in 1996 down in Galveston, and Townes played the second weekend, and it really helped get interest in the little dive I was opening again. At that time, his sets were not good. But it didn’t matter. Townes would sell out a place, and they didn’t care if he was too drunk to play or not. It was kinda like, I read that people would come to see Hank Williams fall off the stage, they wanted to be there, and they’d pay for it. So of course it sold out instantly. Townes put on really bad shows, but it was still Townes.
So his two Galveston Old Quarter shows were not so good?
No, they weren’t. I don’t know if any of his 1996 shows were good. He played one in May and the second one in October, just three months before he passed away. I went to see him in between, actually, at a really prestigious tour in Houston, and it was really bad. But it was sold out. I felt so bad. He drank himself to death. It wasn’t heroin, even though everybody always wants to talk about heroin.
Oh, I know. Because it’s got that drama. But alcohol’s a killer.
You know, when they did Be Here To Love Me, I swear, I was only on about six minutes of the entire film because I wanted to talk about the happy times, the fun! They wanted to talk about heroin, the dark days. That sells. Heroin sells; vodka doesn’t. But Townes, he was so much fun to be around. I don’t know if he was a tortured soul. He was sad underneath, and no one knows what caused it. But he did not take it out on people. He was the most fun person to be around in the world. All of his anger and hurt and depression he took out on himself. You’ll interview a thousand people and you won’t hear too many times when Townes was angry and breaking things or shooting his TV. [Janet: He just hurt himself.] That’s right; Janet says he hurt himself.
There’s certain songs of his where, wow, it scares me, this void that opens up. But you’ve got to love the world to be so perceptive about it, I think.
Well, that’s true, and you talk about his religious songs — Townes wasn’t necessarily a religious man, but he was so spiritual. And he did love his life; he just couldn’t live it. But he had a lot of fun. I tell people, he was the Elvis Presley of folk music. A hundred women came to every gig just to be with Townes Van Zandt. He had that charisma — which was really good for a young bass player, by the way.
Now, you know, in some of these accounts, Townes is portrayed as what you might call a bad influence, in that he rubbed off on the people around him who tried to keep up with him.
Well, you won’t believe it, but I have an opinion about that. As far as being a bad influence, that’s kinda true in a way, but people have to be prone to being influenced if they’re that easy to influence. People wanted to be around Townes, to be friends with Townes, to be part of the deal so bad that they’d do anything. That was one of the reasons, later in life, when he… He had his people that loved him, but people that loved him would also go get him heroin, whiskey, weed, whatever, you name it, they’d go get it. And who knows if that’s the influence over other people, or almost worship, in a way. Those last days, when he came to my beach house in Bolivar, I didn’t let anyone know that he was there. I literally kept one guy from coming over, because I didn’t want anyone who would go get him anything. At that time he was just drinking, and that was fine. I’d go get him from the airport and he had his bottle of vodka. He was extremely addicted by that time, and very ill, and very weak.
Y’know, I have a theory that his taste buds were defective. Do you agree with that theory? [Janet: Yes.] Because, of all the stories you’ll hear about Townes, you could interview a thousand people, you will maybe never hear one around the dinner table. He didn’t eat. He didn’t care about eating. Townes could have $10,000 on him, walk into a grocery store and come out with bologna and white bread. That’s just the way he was, and getting him to eat was an issue. I know that hurt him.
Was that the last time you saw him, when he came over to that house?
Yes, ma’am. I’ll tell you, we’re the same age, he’s about three inches taller than me, and he tripped in the yard and I caught him. And he was so light. That really affected me. He was light as a feather. I was able to just catch him like it was nothing. That was sad, and I had no idea until that moment how little he weighed.
As for your own journey — at a certain point, and I’m assuming it’s after Townes’ death, I figure you had a “clean up your act” moment.
[Laughs] Well, yes. Listen: people ask me quite often, “Why didn’t you keep Townes from drinking?” I’m like, shut up! Get out of here. I was the one, we’d go halves on the booze and the heroin. I don’t know, maybe I was a bad influence on him. No, couldn’t have been. We were just bad influences on each other. But yeah, I was an alcoholic after I got away from heroin. That’s kind of normal: people who have problems with heroin often end up graduating to hard liquor. I graduated to hard liquor and I fit right in with Townes. But yeah, I had to get sober and I’m doing great now. I can hardly believe that Townes and I will be 80 this year. And I’m still able to perform and play. I’m just blessed.
I hope this isn’t a morbid question, but to what do you attribute the fact that you were the one who made it to 80?
You can write this down: Life is a lot of luck. Luck is involved in everything. People get killed on the freeways. There’s so many ways to die in this super dangerous world. I’m from a family with a lot of longevity, but I was lucky to do drugs and drink in those years. And I sobered up when I was in my 40s, but then I drank again. I had to sober up two or three times in my life, but I never went back to hard drugs. My #1 antagonist was always alcohol. Unless you’re Keith Richards, there is no heroin dealer in every town, but there is a liquor store. Townes actually got me out of Houston once, just to get me away from heroin. It was great, he took me on the road, we played, and you just get drunk. That’s what getting out of town meant: you only get drunk. Alcohol’s hard to quit because it’s at every gas station, right in your face. You walked in to pay for your gas, back in the days before credit cards, and there’s two 99 cent Budweisers iced down and ready. So the alcohol’s gotta be the hardest to quit — and cigarettes. Do you smoke?
Um, less than I used to.
Ah, ah, ah. You stop, girl. Y’know, it’s funny. I was in New York with Townes in the early ‘70s, and we were at a bar and cigarettes were a dollar in the machine. A DOLLAR! I went back to Texas and said, man, cigarettes are a dollar in New York, and everyone said, if they ever get to be a dollar, I’m quitting! Cause they were like 40 cents back then. Now what are they, seven bucks?
In Chicago the ones I smoke are $15!
Get outta here! [Janet: Oh my god!] Listen, you, you gotta quit just for financial reasons. You asked why am I so old, or… what’s the word? Anyway: quit smoking, you. Why have I benefited from this long life? No smoking. I quit smoking when I was in my 20s. But when I was a kid, doctors on TV advertised smoking. It was a way of life. It was like tattoos are now, and nose rings. But that’s okay. If I was young today I’d probably have tattoos and nose rings. Were you young enough to get into the tattoo thing?
Oh, big time.
That’s okay. They’re okay now. I kinda like ‘em sometimes, if they’re tasteful.
The problem is when you’re young, you think, I’m always gonna be the same kind of person I am right now. But you’re not.
Do you have some regrets?
Well, I’ve got some names of some people I’m no longer very fond of.
Alright, you. Listen, Meaghan. No names. No one even likes their mother forever. No, that’s not true. If I ever got a tattoo, I’d have “MOM.” I need to send you some money so you can have those X’d out.
Can I ask you something: did it ever give you sort of a complex, being in the role of Townes’ intermediary? You know, people calling you up and asking you questions but they’re more about Townes than yourself?
Listen, I worshiped Townes. I loved him dearly, my wife loved him dearly. We got so close because… maybe our addiction helped our friendship, I don’t know, but we became super close. We did so many things together. No, it’s an honor. And I realized, I’m one of the few that’s left. And hey, you’d be surprised — there have been so many interviews in the last few years, but that’s good! Young people like you are keeping his legacy alive, so it’s a pleasure. I’m honored to do it.
It’s my pleasure, too. Hey, let me ask how you and Janet met.
WB: Well, that’s funny — we met at the original Old Quarter.
JANET: No! He came down to the flea market where I had a tobacco shop. Him and Dale walked in and wanted to see what was going on, we started talking, and he told me about these jam sessions they did in the afternoon, and that I should come see one of them. So I went in, and that’s where I met Townes and Guy and gosh, all these wonderful musicians, all sitting in a circle playing songs. So I started singing with ‘em, then Wrecks and Townes said, you’ve gotta learn how to play guitar, Janet. So I got a little Mexican guitar and learned how to play. I had everybody teach me one song.
WB: And that’s the beginning of it! So we were lovers for a little while, and then we went our separate ways for like 40 years. But we kept in contact, we had a couple flings over the years, because she would know where I was touring with Townes and I would see her places. But in between time, we were both married and divorced and WHATEVER. One day I emailed her, or she emailed me, and she said, are you with anyone, are you dating? I said, no, come to the club. And she was there the next night. And she never left! That was in 2008.
Hell yeah!
JANET: After… almost 57 years ago. Isn’t that cool? We’ve had a great relationship.
WB: And we were friends our whole lives, too. There was no bitterness back then, those hippie relationships. We never stopped being friends.
That makes me happy. I don’t know why that gives me hope, but it does. I don’t know. My ex-boyfriend lives here in Austin, so we tried to reconnect, but it went very poorly. Yelling in the hotel room, “Get out of my life!”
Oh, a “get out of my life” thing? Usually you just have sex and then tell them to leave. Well, you can’t trust men. [Janet: Coming from a man!] But you’re young, you’ll be alright.
Yeah, I’ll be alright. Hey, do you have some kind of memoir going?
Oh, god, yes. I wrote a book, but then Mickey White wrote his book, and it was so good. Y’know, he’s a college graduate. I’m a dumbass. [Janet: Oh, Wrecks!] It discouraged me to put my book out because his was written so well. [Janet: His book is really good!] I might try to do it one day, but it’s so badly written. I’m pretty good at grammar and everything, but I was just so blown away by Mickey’s so correct book. And he was very truthful about the heroin days. Why not, at this point? You don’t want to embellish things just for a story. Who called me and wanted me to embellish his book? [Janet: Steve Earle.] He called me about a year and a half ago, when he was writing his memoirs. He said, I need some help — he was around a lot in those early days. He followed Townes around like a puppy dog. He wanted me to help him remember these stories that happened when we were all stinking drunk, so I helped him, and if I didn’t remember, I embellished them. So his memoirs are gonna be really good.
Well, I’m gonna let you guys go eat dinner.
If you wanna follow up on anything, please call me, it’s totally cool. I’m honored to talk about Townes. I’m happy that young people like you are interested. That makes me feel good. Okay, well be careful out there. Love you! I mean, I don’t love you, but I like you a lot!
Like you, too!