NOTES FROM A DOUG SAHM JOURNAL
Doug Sahm, 31-year-old musical soldier of fortune, sank back into a patch of crimson clover in a sun-dappled field in the secluded hills outside Austin, cradled a four-inch Texas Tamale in one hand and exhaled at length. “Brother, this it,” he half-choked on the smoke and waved a spidery arm at the woods around him.
Doug Sahm, 31-year-old musical soldier of fortune, sank back into a patch of crimson clover in a sun-dappled field in the secluded hills outside Austin, cradled a four-inch Texas Tamale in one hand and exhaled at length. “Brother, this it,” he half-choked on the smoke and waved a spidery arm at the woods around him. “I’ve come home. I mean, Texas, you have to fight for this shit, the hills and the freedom but it’s worth it. I’m here and I’m stayin’.”
Halfway down the hillside was his current home base, a rambling barn-like affair of a club called the Soap Creek Saloon, an [extremely informal joint where he was”$erving as the house band and playing three nights a week.
