This place was old-time Texas, a proper dance hall. It typically wouldn’t be for me, but having lived outside of Texas for the last year, I was loving it. I do generally enjoy the spirit and soul of the south very much. The best thing about Blanco’s was that there wasn’t a touch of irony – it was full of very very old people in sincere cowboy hats. Arty Hill hails from Maryland, writes his own songs, and had a backing band that seemed to be mostly from Austin. The band did everything from honky tonk to modern country to outlaw country (some very Robert Earl Keen songs). Some choice lyrics: “The Lord was Sunday, but church was Saturday night,“ “I get hungry for baby, she’s like a bourbon and red eye steak.” My favorite member of the band was the absolutely orgasmic drummer – even when he was playing a slow steady beat, which he usually was, he was throwing metal-ecstasy faces all over the place – we were pretty sure we’d seen him play with Austin bands. He makes me laugh one month later. Every drum stroke, a revelation. I was admiring all of the two-stepping ancient couples, thinking how sweet it was that they’d stayed together so long, and then one of the old men winked at me behind his woman’s back… It wasn’t a harmless friendly wink either. Our foreign-accented waitress (who did not fit the clichés of the place) was being hit upon by the ancient white-bearded professor looking fellow sitting behind us. All in all, we had a mighty fine time – maybe Blanco’s is for me.