All this week and next, I’ll be touring around the web, celebrating the December 7 release of Brand New Me, my fifth Konigsburg novel. And since it’s Christmas time, I’m also giving away three copies of Brand New Me to people who comment on my blog tour. Just stop by and say howdy, and you’ll be entered into a random drawing. My blog tour schedule: Friday: Savvy Authors; Monday: Tina Donahue; Tuesday: Romance Lives Forever; Wednesday: Nine Naughty Novelists and Romance Junkies; Friday: C.J. England.

And today, of course, I’m here! So without further ado…

Honky Tonkin’

My newest Konigsburg book, Brand New Me, takes place in a bar, or actually a honky tonk. Now a honky tonk, according to Wikipedia, that font of all knowledge, is a bar with live music, and that’s certainly true. But it’s also not the whole story. I’ve been in bars that had live music that weren’t close to being honky tonks, and I’ve also been in the genuine article so yes, I do know the difference.

The bar in Brand New Me is based, physically at least, on a honky tonk called Hondo’s in Fredericksburg, Texas. Although Hondo’s is relatively new (at least in this incarnation), it’s named for the legendary Hondo Crouch, owner of the honky tonk in Luckenbach, Texas, that was celebrated in the Waylon Jennings song, so it’s got the right pedigree.

San Antonio, where I used to live, is located in Honky Tonk Central. Along with a multitude of small venues scattered around the hills and countryside outside the city, San Antonians are within an hour’s drive of two of the most legendary honky tonks in the state: Gruene Hall and John T. Floore’s Country Store.

If you’ve seen the movie Michael, you’ve seen Gruene Hall—it’s the setting for the dance scene. It’s located in Gruene (which, all evidence to the contrary, is pronounced “green”) and it’s billed as the oldest continually operating dancehall in Texas. The hubs and I used to hit Gruene regularly for people like Joe Ely and Steve Earle, as well as lesser known but no less talented musicians like the Band of Heathens, the Bellevillle Outfit, Audrey Auld, and Guy Forsyth. The accommodations are pretty rudimentary: long, scarred tables with benches that fill up pretty fast for acts like Joe Ely. The hall isn’t really closed in, either. The walls are made up of screened windows that stretch from one end of the room to the other, letting the people strolling the streets of Gruene peer in and listen to the sounds of the bands as they walk by. Much of the time you end up standing in elbow-to-elbow crowds, trying not to go deaf from the nearby amps and hanging on to your longneck (beer is the drink of choice at a honky tonk). Dancing is encouraged and occasionally even possible, assuming people can get out of the way of the flying feet. It shouldn’t be fun, but believe me, it is.

Floore’s Country Store is less well known, but no less celebrated. It has the distinction of having been one of Willie Nelson’s first steady gigs back in the seventies when he moved back to Austin from Nashville, and they still display the “Willie Nelson every Wednesday Night” poster. At Floore’s it’s a little easier to find a seat on the benches to listen to people like James McMurtry, and they actually had the temerity to set out chairs for the audience at a Steve Earle/Alison Moorer show (they also sold tickets, which meant they could control the number of people who showed up). On the other hand, Willie does still play there on occasion and if you go to see him, prepare to stand shoulder to shoulder with three or four hundred other dedicated fans.

The honky tonk in Brand New Me is called the Faro, owned by one Tom Ames, a relative newcomer to Konigsburg. Like a lot of honky tonks, it’s replete with colorful characters, pool tables, and the occasional live band. My heroine, Deirdre Brandenburg, takes a barmaid job there so that she can earn enough money to rent the ideal location for her coffee roaster right next door. The Faro’s staff teaches her the in’s and out’s of honky tonk etiquette. Needless to say, hi-jinks ensue.

So what’s the attraction of honky tonks? It’s hard to explain if you haven’t been to one. For me it’s the fact that they’re the opposite of slick. They’re usually old buildings, beat-up, lived-in. The stages are sort of basic, without a lot of special effects. You’re usually close enough to the performers to see the sweat and the grins. They’re the antithesis of the arena show. They’re what live music is supposed to be about.

My favorite memory of honky tonk life comes from a Joe Ely show at Gruene Hall. It had been one of those nights where everything that could go wrong did. The sound system went out. One of his band members was late. Joe forgot the lyrics to some of the songs. Most of us didn’t care—we were dedicated fans, and the dilettantes had already left long before. At the end of the evening, Joe decided to do “Gimme a Ride To Heaven, Boy” rather than the usual Buddy Holly encore (nobody does Buddy Holly like Joe Ely, believe me). “Gimme a Ride to Heaven” is one of those weirdly hilarious songs you hear on Americana radio late at night and in honky tonks when the band gets really loose—it’s a Terry Allen number about a tipsy honky tonk patron who picks up a hitchhiker he believes is Jesus, an assumption the hitchhiker cheerfully encourages until the point where he steals the guy’s car. The last line is a classic: “The Lord moves in mysterious ways, and tonight he’s gonna use your car.” That night Joe and the band launched in, clearly relieved to finally be done with the show. When he got to the last line, Joe delivered the first part “The Lord moves in mysterious ways, and tonight my son…” pausing as the singer is supposed to do before hitting the punchline. Suddenly, from the streets of Gruene there arose the most godawful unified chorus of Harleys I’ve every heard, a veritable menagerie of roaring bikes. Joe stopped, dumbfounded, looked at the crowd (all of us, of course, helpless with laughter), looked at the heavens, and finally delivered the punchline with the thunder of the bikes as accompaniment.

Ah, honky tonks.