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Charlie Robison
Life of The Party

From the pedal-steel swing of "You're Not The Best" to the Tex-Mex swagger of "Don't Call Me a Fool" to the mandolin-and-dobro- grace of "My Hometown,", "Life of the Party" takes us on a whirlwind tour of Texas music- and into the Hill Country heart of a remarkable songwriter and singer, Charlie Robison. His vocals as lived-in as good denim, his lyrics rich in evocative detail, his melodies lean and irresistible, Robison writes from where he lives. "Texas is a big place, and you do a lot of driving," he says. "Late at night on the highway is when I get a lot of ideas for songs." He amplifies: "I write about everyday things-I just sometimes take them to the extreme. And it helps if I'm alone and in places that inspire me, where the subject matter is all around me-people like the ones I grew up with, characters whose heads I can get inside of."

Recorded in a brisk 10 days with Robison and Lubbock native Lloyd Maines co-producing, "Life of the Party" chronicles life's joys and heartaches with care, skill, and the mastery of a natural story teller. "It's the first time that I've felt a record really represents who I am," Charlie says. "I like the variety of it. I've got a short attention span-yet there are so many different things on this album that it keeps me interested."

Hand-picking a cast of 10 musicians, ("they have real talent in their fingers, and they play from their heart," Charlie says), Robison went into the studio with 10 of his own tightly crafted songs, two by his brother Bruce, an impressive artist in his own right, and a gem by Damon Bramlett. Picking an Epiphone acoustic and signing his signature conversational style, Robison imbued the material with honest soul. "Listening to playback of my vocal track," he says, "I want to hear feeling - that's much more important than just the notes." Bruce and his wife, Kelly Willis, sang back-up for Charlie, and the entire band plays with the spirit of the friends they actually are.

A wry, laconic humor is one Robison hallmark that comes through clearly. Check out "Sunset Boulevard," the tale of a hapless dreamer. "I wish I had a supermodel/ so skinny and so wild/ And a waitress in Nevada/ she says she's carrying my child." Or Arms of Love," another hard-luck case: "I knew a dancer named Star/ she loved guitar/ her dresses fit her like a glove/ But my best friend Phil got a record deal/ I was snatched from the arms of love." Charlie's equally adept at rendering the hours when love departs, "I'd love to care enough to slam another door," "I Don't Feel That Way"), the mystique of closing-time saloons ("Barlight"),or the power of yearning in a single, cinematic image- "And the frost on the windshield shines toward the sky/ like a thousand tiny diamonds in the lights of Loving County," Of "Loving County," one of the album's highlights, Charlie says, "I was in El Paso, where all you see is oil wells and little bars and desolation. The song's about envy and false ambition- and about how your mind can really wander in a place of desolation like that."

A sixth generation Texan, Charlie grew up on his family's ranch in Bandera (pop. 940), a town straight out of "The Last Picture Show," At age five, with brother Bruce in tow, he bought his first records; at the local supermarket, the boys happened upon Jimi Hendrix and Creedance Clearwater Revival. At age seven came another pivotal event. "I was watching Dean Martin on television," Charlie recalls. "He was wearing a beautiful tuxedo, holding a drink, surrounded by girls. I knew my family worked extremely hard for almost no money. When I saw Dean Martin, I thought, "That's the way to do it!"

If dreams of stardom and escape enthralled the youngster, it was music of another sort, earthier and closer to home, that captivated him. "I never 'got into' country," he says, "I didn't have to. It was always around me. It was part of me-listening to Willie Nelson, Doug Sahm, Linda Ronstadt, and going to see singers like Johnny Bush three or four times a week in juke joints and honky-tonks." Charlie's mom was in the nigh-life business, a bartender at various watering holes; she even managed a club, The Purple Cow, for a spell.

At the ripe age of 15, Charlie began gigging around Bandera- as a drummer. "It was a small town," he chuckles. "My brother played bass, a friend of ours was on guitar, so if I wanted to be in the band, I had to play drums." Playing rodeos and high school dances whetted his appetite for performance; soon he'd switched to guitar ad singing and, after a stint at Southwest Texas University, he headed to Austin. There, with the ultra-traditionalist Chapparal and the cow-punk Two Hoots and a Holler, he learned the delights of hitting the stage with steadily working bands; fronting The Millionaire Playboys, an aggregation of Austin all-stars, he got used to the spotlight.

Going solo in 1995, Charlie garnered raves for his indie debut, Bandera, a set of songs showcasing a talent long on poetry and grit and absolutely clean of any pretense. A follow-up album for a major label took him in a direction too commercial for his comfort. Now signed to Sony's Lucky Dog label, he's pleased with his artistic freedom: "The label just said, 'You do your thing, and when it's finished, call us."

"Do his thing: is what gave us "Life of the Party", music firmly rooted in one man's reality, ad yet emotionally generous enough to muster a universal appeal. It's music that welcomes us into a world of hard-won wisdom, of real experience. As Charlie invites, in "My Hometown," "If you're ever out West, son/ and you feel like slowing down/ I'll see you around/ around my hometown."

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