Brian Burns

Border Radio

Presidio Records

by Dave Pilot

Since the dawn of time, or at the very least since the inception of literary hacks posing as music critics, a stark raving need has existed to define THE turning point in a musical artist’s career.  That one seminal moment when the cosmos aligned and Joe Sixstring turned into John Lennon or somesuch.  Thus has it ever been, and thus shall it always be, so inscribeth the Ink-stained Nation.  And who knows, maybe it’s true.  Maybe there is some magical nexus when an artist transmutates into something greater than the sum of his or her theretofore whole.  Beats me.  I’m just a bona fide literary hack posing as a music critic.  But I do know that once or thrice before in Brian Burns’ career it’s been heralded from the rooftops that the man has arrived.  There was that Angels and Outlaws album that spawned some tremendous airplay in the Dallas-Fort Worth area, and thereby in the nation’s largest country music market, getting Burns recognition from sea to shining gulf.  And then The Eagle and the Snake record, with its faithful rendition of Texana and history, launched an entire educational program that landed Burns in the middle of schools all over the state and tasked with breathing life into the minds of Lone Star children.  Heavy Weather, man, that one got some reviews.  Mystical, they called it.  Intense.  Mature.  The Turning Point.

Whatever.

Wanna know the truth?  I’ll fill you in.  Every one of those records we just discussed stands on its own and begs all comers to call.  Every one of ‘em is an all-in bet under the gun with pocket aces.  And every damn one of ‘em is different, each unique in its own way, linked by a common birthright but as distinct as the planets in this solar system we call home.  That’s where Burns’ genius takes root.  To define the man’s craft is to put a label on Texas music. Try doing that at the next SXSW.  It just can’t be done.  What we’ve got here, folks, is an artist who can swim in whatever pool he chooses and with equal ease dig his own if he doesn’t see one that’s inviting.  Which is exactly what he’s done with Border Radio.

It’s getting repetitive to say this, and that’s hard on us press box heroes, but Brian Burns has delivered a masterpiece.  It’s not the sweeping cinematic scope of mythical Texas we got on that history CD, and it’s not the probing and incisive examination that Heavy Weather so frequently provided.  Rather, it’s the soundtrack to a life lived on freedom and a dream.  A lofty goal, to be sure; yet one that almost never happens in this fractured 21st-century society without a three-shake dash of maudlin.  But maudlin tends to run and hide when sincerity’s involved.  And for that reason alone, you need to hear this record.

Border Radio’s seventeen (advertised) tracks in length; practically a double CD.  And as usual with Burns, there’s more to it than meets the eye.  Quite a punch, statistically speaking, for the asking price.  Brother, quite a punch.  From “Del Rio” and its almost Sinatra-esque bent through legendary territory authored by everyone from Bill Staines (“Border Blues”) to Tom Russell, Dave Alvin and Nick Lowe, it’s a mystical journey.  As is becoming the norm, Burns has picked covers that both fit the mindset of the album he’s conceived and at the same time pay homage to those who’ve gone before.  And as has always been the case, when your hero records his original work it stands just fine on its own against that backdrop.  You in the mood for a road trip?  Pop in “The Prettiest Girls In Texas,” and let Burns and Tommy Alverson point you down I-35 in a flash. Nursing a lost love?  “Never Goin’ Back to Mexico” is what you need. “Crying On the Shoulder of the Road,” on the other hand, might suit your style if you’re second-guessing that love’s finale.  And if it’s all gone to hell in a hand basket and can’t be retrieved, then “Dark Spanish Eyes” will reassure you that you’re not the only sorry sumbitch it ever happened to, nor the only one who ever did it to himself:

"From the gulf coast of Texas to the Campeche winds
No matter how far I travel
I’ll never find that place again
Her tears will haunt me forever
There’ll never be words that can say
Why only dark Spanish eyes can make me feel this way"

The range of songcraft on display here is astonishing in its own right.  From stone country tearjerkers (the above-mentioned “Crying On the Shoulder of the Road,” “He Never Came Back From Mexico”) to light-headed and heartfelt odes to friendship (“The Pink Flamingo”), it’s a seamless transition.  Rather hear a sunset brought to life at the end of a satisfying day?  “Sagebrush Symphony.”  Thinking of that time out in West Texas on a highway in the middle of the night when something touched your spirit and changed you forever without offering an explanation of how or why?  See the title track.

"The Wolfman of Del Rio is no longer on the air
And these days you just have to wonder
What’s goin’ on out there
Good poetry is everywhere,
Good songs are all around;
Yeah, sometimes all you gotta do’s
Reach out and pull one down.
Music’s not a choice I made, but man, it’s what I do;
How I wound up on this journey,
I have not a clue.
But I got drunk with Hondo Crouch and Edgar Allan Poe….
Or was it just a song I heard on border radio?"

There’s not much else to say.  Brian Burns continues his steady march to the top of the Texas songwriter heap.  As with many of his predecessors and a goodly number of his peers, commercial radio hasn’t really yet deigned to notice.  But if you’re looking for something worth listening to, here it is. Gorgeous melodies, Burns’ warm and inviting baritone, and mental pictures worth more than any thousand-word cliché.  As usual, a masterpiece.

Visit www.brianburnsmusic.com to get the scoop.  Don’t miss the hidden track, and whatever you do, don’t miss the CD liner notes.

                                                                                           

Written by Dave Pilot, September, 2006

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