I was a seed, a tiny ol' seed.
Water and sunshine was all that I need.
I felt so lifeless, discouraged and hurt
'til someone took me and stuck me in dirt.
– Al Barlow, “I Was a Seed”
The first time I met New Braunfels-based songwriter/musician/raconteur Al Barlow, he was singing someone else’s song – “Sunday Morning Coming Down,” by the late, great Kris Kristofferson, to be exact.
Al was already a legendary name among the proponents of the Texas Hill Country songwriting culture, and also in the broader sense of Texas Music. Some of the folks who he’d influenced, and shared stages with had “bigger” names, to be sure. Folks like Todd Snider, Robert Earl Keen, Terri Hendrix and even the great Willie Nelson, all knew of Barlow’s magic.
The last time I saw him was in 2015, at the hallowed Cheatham Street Warehouse in San Marcos, where he played songs at a special writers’ night hosted by Snider, alongside other legends like Adam Carroll. Barlow’s “I Was a Seed,” an empowering song about the journey from a most humble beginning into something majestic, never failed to strike a chord within me.
Al and I kept in touch through the years via Facebook, but it wasn’t the same as being there in the same room with him, seeing his mega-watt smile, hearing his jokes and his incredible songs and sharing many a cold beer and conversation with him. Al passed on recently, after several years of health struggles, and although he was 71 years young, he had a sort of youthfulness about him that defied his actual years.
Al Barlow’s joie d’ vivre came from a deep place. He had opened up to me once about some hardships in his young life, and it was the perspective of a cousin who’d returned from Vietnam that helped shape his outlook to keep alive the spark that makes life worth living.
Al never lost touch of his childhood soul, of finding the joy in simple things, of laughing without hesitation and dreaming without the fear of failure. He understood that holding onto that inner child is not about being naïve or escaping reality.
As we grow older, life has its way of piling on responsibilities, hardships and disappointments. Bills arrive with pesky regularity, and our jobs demand our energy, and over time, the older one gets, losses start mounting, and make the world feel heavy. Children, however, know how to wonder. To a child, a puddle is not just water, but an entire world to splash around in. In a child’s eyes, a cardboard box is not something to put by the curb for the garbage collectors, but it can be a spaceship.
Al Barlow knew that happiness was not something that could be measured or monetized, and as an artist, his songs could unfold into profound universal truths, even if, on the surface, it just seemed as though he was singing about a book of matches.
Al’s music reminded me of some of the best elements of Tom T. Hall and John Prine, but at the end of the day, nobody was writing the kind of stuff Al was, and nobody was as laugh-out-loud funny onstage, or as charismatic, as Al Barlow.
Grand achievements do not always make for happiness. Oftentimes, the smallest of things – the smell of the rain, or the sound of a familiar song – can really turn on the joy in a person. Children naturally understand this, yet many of us grown folks, sadly, lose touch of this construct.
Choosing to notice beauty in the seemingly small things, practicing gratitude and allowing ourselves to laugh, even when things are imperfect, help build resilience. Positivity can be a great tool for survival, not just a mood, and that’s something Al Barlow understood better than just about anyone I ever met.
God bless Al Barlow. I know he’s up there swapping songs with Townes, Guy and Tom T., and making ‘em laugh. Keep the beer cold for me, amigo.
