Doors: 7pm Show: 7:30pm General Admission: $10.00

Stuart Burns has performed and composed for more than fifty years. He began playing during the Great Folk Revival in 1960. A native of New York, he traveled to New Orleans, the Caribbean, and California, where he met his musical mentor, the legendary Rolf Cahn. In 1980, after hearing the music of Townes Van Zandt, he came to Austin, Texas, where he performed at and helped to manage Chicago House, developing his signature earthy vocal and guitar styles. For a brief period, Stuart moved to the Texas gulf coast town of Rockport, hosting a weekly jam session. He performs throughout Texas and California, and tours in the United Kingdom.

Stuart is a master of the narrative song, both dramatic, and humorous. His songs evoke strong images of the people he has met and the places he has been, including Lucca, about a US Marine dog; If I Ever Start Crying, the epitome of a 12-bar blues; Erika, the tale of a shrimper’s wife; Alvin and Billie, a murder ballad set in the Texas Hill Country; and Darlene, about a beauty queen abducted by the King of the Shrimp. Stuart has been described as a “true Texas treasure”.

Stuart Burns has released his third solo CD: Stuart Burns Live at the Cactus. This CD is a mix of new songs with favorites from years past. It was recorded with a full house of friends and fans. This performance at the Cactus Café is the official CD release. Previously released solo CDs include: Borrowed Time and Island Off the Coast of Hell. For more information or to order, please visit: www.stuartmichaelburns.com

Stuart lives in Austin with Rex, the Wonder Dog.

Terry Klein is an Austin-based Americana singer and songwriter. His deep, personal songs reach for universal truths about vulnerability, love, family, and work. Terry’s songs draw on the genius of Hank Williams, Merle Haggard, Guy Clark, Bob Dylan, and Hayes Carll. Terry says. “I’m convinced that writing songs — chasing them, really — saved my life. The sense of connection I get when I share songs with people is a magical, miraculous thing.”

Terry’s song, “Dull Women Keep Immaculate Homes”, was a Publisher’s Pick at the 2017 Austin Songwriters Group Annual Symposium. He will also be a Regional New Folk Ballad Tree Performer at the 2017 Kerrville Folk Festival. Mary Gauthier said, “Close your eyes, give a listen, and let his songs take you on a ride. It’s a beautiful journey.” Terry’s new CD, Great Northern, is available now. For more information, please go to: www.terrykleinmusic.com

Terry lives in Austin with his wife Lindsay and their two daughters, Zoe and Beatrice.

Here it is 2017 already. My, my, my…how time flies! It’s hard to believe we’ve been back in Austin for six years now. I’ve been playing quite a bit and writing new songs. The year started off with the production of a new CD, which was recorded live at the Cactus Cafe. What a great experience that was! Singing my songs to a room full of my friends where the paint still recalls the music of previous well-known artists, like Townes, and Willie. We’ve got some CD release gigs booked and some in the planning stages. Check back to see where and when. I look forward to seeing you at the next gig.

Best,
Stuart

September 12, 2015

Did you miss me?  What a year, eh?   It took about eight months to clear up. Just as I was getting back to performing, I had a little hemorrhagic stroke this past November.  What is this?  Did I miss church?  Was I mean to old ladies, or kick some puppies, or what? 

The worst thing about stroke is what it does to confidence, a major consideration for performers.  Will I remember my words?  My chords?  Will I be able to emote in the right spots without being phony?  Will I stammer?  The Kerrville Folk Festival in May was a great help, a safe place to work out this stuff, surrounded by long-time, caring and supportive friends in song circles under the Texas stars.  Now it’s back to the Austin scene, back to The Live Music Capital of the World: lots of music, but no money.

Here’s a new song with a nod to summer in Texas   

Summer Again ( c. SMB, 2015)

(lazy; Gerschwinesque)

Summer again; the sun so cruel; the ragweed hangs a-grievin’

Screaming goes on in my head I just think about leavin’.

Summer again; you haunt my mind; Your eyes so sly deceivin’

The highway waits to claim my soul I just think about leavin’.

Summer again, the earth so dry; the floods of spring forgotten

I think of you; I cannot cry; That summer dress of cotton.

Summer again, the high road calls; the mountains cool and distant

Somewhere a stream caresses rocks; I smell the pines, insistent.

Summer again; though I am old, the blood still boils within me

The girls of spring are wrinkled now, but they still they laugh here in me.

Summer again; the air so thick; I can’t believe I’m breathin’

The cold one cools my weary throat; and I just think about leavin’.

I’ve been thinking again about authenticity as I listen to my colleagues strut and fret their three and a half minutes upon the stage.  Okay, there’s no rule that authenticity must always be the goal, unless you want to call what you are presenting as “Folk” or  . . . here we go . . . “Country” music.   The great Harlan Howard (I Fall to Pieces; Busted; Streets of Baltimore; Pick Me Up On Your Way Down) said that all you need to write a great country song is three chords and the truth.   But the truth has got to extend to the presentation as well as the lyrics.

 So I listen to my friends singing “hay-ouse” for house,   or “romaince,”  layin’ on thick, phony country accents.  And I turn on my radio and I see why!  The folks in Nashville are peddling this stuff to the young’uns, with the rationale that it’s real country.  I recommend a listen to Hank Williams, whose country credentials can’t be questioned.  Ol’ Hank had a pure Alabama accent, but it wasn’t anything like what we hear represented as “country”.  He sang like himself, and that’s what made him great.

I’m headed back to the UK next June/July- England, Scotland, and Ireland. If you know of any places with bookings, please pass my information on. Remember~ if it ain’t live, it ain’t music.

Hope to see you in a song circle soon!

June 7, 2013
Well, it’s their language, and they can do with it as they damned well please, I suppose. Lymington is “Limmington.” Combe-Martin is “Cum-Martin.” (sic) Keswick is “Kessick.” Who am I to try to straighten them out at this point? Just a dumb Texas Yank. (Wait! -Is that an oxymoron?)
I decided that driving on the left was more than I cared to handle, especially in London motorway traffic, so everywhere I go will be by train and bus. The UK has a great public transportation system, once you get the hang of it. I’ve got three weeks’ worth of clothing ~ assuming frequent nighttime rinse-outs ~ the computer, and miscellaneous electronics in my shoulder bag, and the TRIC guitar case, the one that’s made of hard foam covered with fabric, with shoulder straps, like a backpack. Made for long-distance troubadoring, even for an older fella.
By the time I got to Lymington at two on Wednesday, I was exhausted, having left Austin at 8 AM on Tuesday. I don’t sleep well on planes. The Lymington station is WTF across town from the Thomas Tripp Pub [ol’ Tom’s claim to fame was that he was one of the last people hanged in Christchurch, up the road a way, in the century before last,) and the home of Tony and Mary. Their phone number was in an email, but of course I couldn’t access the internet to get it. It occurred to me that there is a solution to that problem, a device called a “pencil,” but my timing was off, and consequently I walked the three miles or so, mostly uphill, to the pub, got Tony’s number from the bartender, and called him. He was there in minutes.
The show that night was packed with talent, and I was just a little concerned to see that the great David Massingill would appear. If you’ve never heard David, he’s a real treat. Plays the Dulcimer and writes these beautifully understated little songs about fairies and pie-stealing hobos.
But YT was the big star of the evening, the featured guest, the folkslinger from Texas. I opened with Darlene, and they loved her. They don’t talk to one another during a song, they listen to every word, and if they like it they cheer wildly when it’s done. If they don’t like it, they applaud politely. I’m standing up there thinking, “Oh shit! They’re listening! Now what do I do?”
The next day, Thursday, Tony dropped me at the Auplands B&B, where I put down my stuff and then took a walk back down High Street through Lymington to the waterfront. Little old medieval streets there, cobbles, no vehicular traffic, just pedestrians enjoying a sunny day. On the way down, through the town itself, I noticed how many people there were just out and about. I don’t know what they were doing, shopping mostly, but there were just lots of folks out enjoying their town. Very few cars and trucks. On the waterfront I had an ice cream cone and watched some kids learning to sail there in the little harbor. I got back to the B&B and fell asleep, and by the time I awoke the market across the street was closed, so I went without supper. Poor me.
Friday morning it rained. Graham, at the Auplands, kindly gave me a ride to the Laundromat, where I did a load and then braved the rain for the walk to the station. Train to Brokenhurst, another to Reading, another to Barnstaple, and a bus to Ilfracombe, far northern Devon, on the Bristol Channel. Ilfracombe is an old pirating area; the “combe” is as in “catacomb,” caves along the rocky shore of the Bristol Channel. They found a mass grave of bones traced to African origin; a slaver had disposed of his criminal cargo in one of the caves. That was a while back, they say.

Seven hours in all, and finally a taxi up the hill to the Sherborne Lodge. Sweet, slightly run-down, a little threadbare, all Formica and make-do. The room is too small for the double bed and I stumble on my own stuff as I try to get around, but somehow I don’t mind. The people are sweet, the vibe is good. Having gone without the night before, I spent too much on a nice dinner in a restaurant and then fell asleep like a rock. This afternoon Tom will pick me up here and take me to Combe-Martin and the gig at Shammick Music. Wish me luck and CD sales!

June 9, 2013
Mary Brown said, “Stuart, now I remember why I booked you! I wondered why in the world I’d invite someone to come ‘way out here to North Devon to play for one of our gatherings, much less pay him to come, but now I remember what it was I heard on the website. That was fantastic!” Like balm to Gilead, after my previous hostess’ reference to “Emmylou Harris’ ‘Pancho and Lefty.”’
Sweet-talkin’ ol’ lady. It was midnight and we were in the bar of the Pack of Cards pub in Combe-Martin, with her husband Tom and two friends. It hadn’t really been a show, just my spot in a sing–around. I was expected to take a double, two songs, every time my turn came up. The first time they got Darlene and Isaiah 40:4, the song that used to be called Bee Cave. The second round, they got Alvin and Billie, followed by Erica. The third round it was Barrett’s Privateers, a foolish choice inspired by all the a capella sea songs with the long participation choruses that some of the others had done. I mangled it, blew the words, looked to Tom for help without finding any (he clearly knew the song!) and made a muscular finish after a hideous 15-second silence. Not only did they forgive me, but they warmed quite a bit. It took some of that out-of-town-hotshot stink off me. Then Another Ol’ Road Song. Of course they knew who Kerouac was, but afterward I had to explain about Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters and One Flew ~
Anyway, that was the deal. From Lymington, three trains and a bus, a night in Ilfracombe, three thousand miles and more from Texas, to do six songs. I sure am glad they liked ‘em!
Here’s the Shammick quilt and then John, a good singer. I hope that they’ll make it past the email filters:

Most of the rest of the attendees at the Shammick Folk Club sang without instruments, some with big clear voices, and some with wispy attempts. Some just read poetry. Although many were grey-haired, there were enough with color left to give encouragement to those of us who’d like to think that the art isn’t dying altogether.
It was a very warm gathering and I was clearly the only stranger, for Combe-Martin is a small seaside town about the size of Rockport. Pretty rolling hills, then cliffs down to the water, which in this case is the mouth of the Severn River or the opening of the Bristol Channel, depending on which you happen to be facing.
Today it’s a train to London Paddington for some R&R, mostly R, then off the Keswick, hell-and-gone up north in the Lake District. Like travelling Houston to Dallas and back to play Uncle Calvin’s. Without a car.
June 10, 2013
This part of London is growing on me. At first I was horrifies, even scared, arriving here past suppertime, the few boarded storefronts, the deferred maintenance on the buildings, the dark faces.
June 11, 2013
Raining in London. One thing that we don’t worry about here in the Kingdom is water. Leave the water running, wash the car, water the lawn (as if you had to!) no one will look at you askance. There’s water and water and water. It shows in the roses. The unit next door here on Sigdon Road has got a Peace rose growing from an unkempt bit of trash in the few square feet of “garden” between the house and the sidewalk.. A few beer cans, a bread loaf wrapper, some uncut grass, weeds. The rose is fifteen feet tall and has, easily, fifty enormous roses on it in glorious bloom. I mentioned it to Heath (no, I don’t think that it’s short for Heathcliff, but it might be!) and he looked puzzled that I’d find it worth mentioning. “That rose? Oh, well, yes, I guess it’s always like that.” Unfed, un-watered, untrimmed, neglected, un-fussed-over, glorious.
Zipper likes being in the doorway, and you can pick him up if you like, a dead, floppy weight like the pussycat he reminds me of, Bob. He’s nearly all black, with just enough white on his paws and chin to identify him as a B&W shorthair. A little soft in the belly. When you pick him up he grunts, and then will stay for ten or fifteen seconds and accept an ear scratching before he decides that’s enough and begins to squirm. Put him down and he shakes the wrinkles out if his glossy fur and then plops down where he was, right smack in the doorway.
I take back most of what I thought about this neighborhood. It’s just a sort of crummy ol’ big city neighborhood. This Brooklyn boy has forgotten what big cities are like. Like Bensonhurst or Flatbush. I walked to Kingsland Road yesterday afternoon, past the beautiful St. Marks church, got a little lost and asked directions from a very helpful Afro-British gent who tried manfully to find what I was looking for on his Blackberry. He finally gave up at my insistence, but he was very friendly and earnest, and if I hadn’t turned him loose he’d be looking still. I’m sure that I passed a thousand people on my walk and not one of them was the same shade as another. Languages that I couldn’t place. Short shorts and tats (it was cold!) and head coverings and costumes of every possible variety, including the full chador. A string of store-front religious buildings, all in same block as if zoned: a Mosque, a Synagogue, a Baptist church, a Hindu temple. A couple of Christian one-offs. At the Oxfam charity shop I bought a padded vest that, although I didn’t much like it, would keep me warmer when I get Scotland. Then I went into the St Vincent de Paul half a block down and found a very nice North Coast insulated armless jacket that I really do like though at XXL it’s just a little roomy. Five pounds. I took the first one back to Oxfam and they kindly gave me my three pounds back. Hey, nothin’s too good for the kid.
Rather than explore greater London in my remaining day, I believe tht I’ll lay low and let my body recover. My throat is scratchy and I hope that it will improve before I’ve got to perform again.
~SMB

Bevis and Butthead

Now I’m in England, staying here at Jack’s house in Hampshire. Our first gig was last night.
Last night’s set list at O’Connor’s Hidden Garden, Alton:

Pancho and Lefty (J&S)
John Hardy (J on banjo)
Darlene S
The Cat Came Back J&S
The Ballad of Ira Hays J&S
Maintenance
New York Girl
United 93 J&S

2nd set:
Pastures of Plenty J&S
Erika S
Junk Food Junkie J&S
You Are My Flower J&S
Oh Babe it ain’t no lie J
The Cat Came Back J&S
Wildflower S
John Hurt J
If They Come in the Morning J&S

The audience was maybe a dozen, mostly members of a poetry club. Indeed, they did a bit of open mic poetry between the sets, but they were very appreciative of our stuff, even though Ifelt it was really rough. But they didn’t much care about rough because it was entertaining. You Are my Flower was particularly bad. There were several – well, three – attractive women in their forties and fifties who got really squirmy on Maintenance. I’m just reporting that the song worked.
We made 47 BP in tips and sold four CDs.

Friday, September 28th. Jack has dug up an unexpected gig, a charity, no pay, PangbourneTown Hall.  We’re working on Road Song, My Name is Morgan, Nobody Knows You, Hello Stranger, in addition to the previous list.
Pangbourne. Something about the name sounds a little slutty, but I can’t quite place it. It reminds me of the word “poontang.” It’s somewhere outside of Reading, if you’re mapping. Jane drove and we got lost, wandering around the back roads of West Berkshire after dark. We played to an audience of 45 or 50, who paid 3 BP each to support their town hall, where it was held. As with any sort of open mic format, most of the audience was made up of performers and their supporters. There were six or seven other acts on the bill, including an seven-piece barbershop quartet ~ I guess that makes ‘em a septet ~ and the usual nervous youngsters playing loud guitar badly and singing inaudibly, a pair of old farts who did Black Orpheus really well on fiddle and Strat, a couple that looked at each other lovingly ~ no, wait, they were staring into each other’s eyes in panic while hoping that what they practiced that afternoon sounded a lot better than it actually did. You get the pitcher. Jack booked us on the principal that it’s better to play than not to play.
Saturday (September 29th) we day-tripped to Petworth House, Sussex. I couldn’t help thinking that Jimmy and Sergio would be interested in a place with such a name.  Blurb from the leaflet:  “Magnificent country house and park with an internationally important art collection The vast late 17th-century mansion is set in a beautiful 283-hectare (700-acre) deer park, landscaped by ‘Capability’ Brown and immortalised in Turner’s paintings. Inside, the house contains the National Trust’s finest collection of pictures, with numerous works by Turner, Van Dyck, Reynolds and Blake, ancient and Neo-classical sculpture, fine furniture and carvings by Grinling Gibbons.  Blah . . .” As it turned out, I never discovered why it, and the surrounding town, is called by that name. The folks who lived there for centuries were the Earls of Something ~ One of them had 86 children. Mmmmmm. More than 700 acres of peasant girls to tend to. Nasty work, but somebody . . . etc.
The Anchor in Basingstoke; there was an open mic quality to it.  We would have gone last, but got hungry and asked John to let us go second. The work on stuff like You Are My Flower and John Hurt has improved from horrible to just not very good ~ we played a full hour and then zipped back to the house where Jane had a nice Sunday meal waiting, roast chicken, roast potatoes, carrots and peas, with apple crumble & custard for dessert. I was starved, a little high from packing hydrocodone kind of close, and I had seconds of everything.

Oct 1, an 80 miles drive each way to a studio in  Kent, a very pretty yard.  We recorded six songs; they sound pretty good.

10.02
Drove Jack’s spare WV Golf to an old cottage to look at pictures of old dead people, Gilbert White et. al. The village, Selbourne, was really pretty and the road was narrow and green. Left handed five-speed. Whoopie.
Tomorrow it’s The Back Porch. Hey, where have I heard that name before?

Now I’m in England, staying here at Jack’s house. Our first gig was last night:
Last night’s set list at O’Connor’s Hidden Garden, Alton:

Pancho and Lefty (J&S)
John Hardy (J on banjo)
Darlene S
The Cat Came Back J&S
The Ballad of Ira Hays J&S
Maintenance
New York Girl
United 93 J&S

2nd set:
Pastures of Plenty J&S
Erika S
Junk Food Junkie J&S
You Are My Flower J&S
Oh Babe it ain’t no lie J
The Cat Came Back J&S
Wildflower S
John Hurt J
If They Come in the Morning J&S

The audience was maybe a dozen, mostly members of a poetry club. Indeed, they did a bit of open mic poetry between the sets, but they were very appreciative of our stuff, even though Ifelt it was really rough. But they didn’t much care about rough because it was entertaining. You Are my Flower was particularly bad. There were several – well, three – attractive women in their forties and fifties who got really squirmy on Maintenance. I’m just reporting that the song worked.
We made 47 BP in tips and sold four CDs.
Friday, I guess, September 28th. Jack has dug up an unexpected gig, a charity, no pay. We’re working on Road Song, My Name is Morgan, Nobody Knows You, Hello Stranger, in addition to the previous list. .
Pangbourne. Something about the name sounds a little slutty, but I can’t quite place it. It reminds me of the word “poontang.” It’s somewhere outside of Reading, if you’re mapping. Jane drove and we got lost, wandering around the back roads of West Berkshire after dark. We played to an audience of 45 or 50, who paid 3 lb each to support their town hall, where it was held. As with any sort of open mic format, most of the audience was made up of performers and their supporters. There were six or seven other acts on the bill, including an seven-piece barbershop quartet quartet ~ I guess that makes ‘em a septet ~ the usual nervous young songwriters playing loud guitar badly and singing inaudibly, a pair of old farts who did Black Orpheus really well on fiddle and Strat, a couple that looked at each other lovingly ~ no, wait, they were staring into each other’s eyes in panic while hoping that what they practiced that afternoon sounded a lot better than it actually did. You get the pitcher. Jack booked us on the principal that it’s better to play than not to play.
Saturday (September 29th) we day-tripped to Petworth House, Sussex. I couldn’t help thinking that Jimmy and Sergio would be interested in a place with such a name.
“Magnificent country house and park with an internationally important art collection The vast late 17th-century mansion is set in a beautiful 283-hectare (700-acre) deer park, landscaped by ‘Capability’ Brown and immortalised in Turner’s paintings. Inside, the house contains the National Trust’s finest collection of pictures, with numerous works by Turner, Van Dyck, Reynolds and Blake, ancient and Neo-classical sculpture, fine furniture and carvings by Grinling Gibbons.
As it turned out, I never discovered why it, and the surrounding town, is called by that name. The folks who lived there for centuries were the Earls of Something ~ One of them had 86 children. Mmmmmm. More than 700 acres of peasant girls to please. Nasty work, but somebody . . . etc.
The Anchor in Basingstoke; there was an open mic quality to it, with the two guys before us being loud and electric and ending with a Beatles thing. We would have gone last, but got hungry and asked John to let us go second. The work on stuff like You Are My Flower and John Hurt has improved from horrible to just not very good ~ we played a full hour and then zipped back to the house where Jane had a nice Sunday meal waiting, roast chicken, roast potatoes, carrots and peas, with apple crumble & custard for dessert. I was starved, a little high from packing hydrocodone kind of close, and I had seconds of everything.
Oct 1, an 80 miles drive each way to a studio in a tiny house in somebody’s yard in Kent, a very pretty yard. A dumb little studio and I don’t know what the purpose of the day’s work was. I thought that I’d have something clever to say, but I find that’s not true.
10.02
Drove Jack’s spare WV Golf to some old cottage to look at pictures of old dead people, Gilbert White et al. The village, Selbourne, was really pretty and the road was narrow and green. Left handed five-speed. Whoopie.
Tomorrow it’s The Back Porch. Hey, where have I heard that name before?

Jack and Stuart in West Sussex in 2010

OK, we are out of the hospital, got the electro-leech off the neck, and feeling good.  Sunday it’s on the big bird to the UK for a tour with Jack.  We’ll be back about October 22 and headed for Port Aransas, and I hope to see my winter Texan friends.  If that’s you, drop me a note at [email protected], or at the email page at the end of this website.

Just in case you happen to slumming around the south of England next month, here’s our schedule:

26 Sept 7.30 The Crown Hotel, Alton, Hampshire

30 Sept 3.00 The Bounty, Bounty Road, Basingstoke, Hampshire

3 Oct. 8.00 Coach and Horses, Rotherwick, Hook, Hampshire

7 Oct. 8.00 The Roebuck, Laughton, E. Sussex

8 Oct. 8.00 White Horse, Bodle Street Green, Hailsham, E Sussex

9 Oct 8.00 Green Man Folk Club – Golden Pheasant, Farringdon, Hampshire

18 Oct 8.00 Thursday Blues, Arts Centre, 21 South Street, Reading, Berks.

19 Oct 8.00 Phoenix Theatre, Bordon, Hampshire. – Concert

Love and health to all ~ be in touch!

SMB