Archives for March 2020

My transition from San Angelo to the San Antonio Express-News was seamless, partially because I was already familiar with the Harte-Hanks way of gathering and printing the news, and partially because I wasn’t terrified of Houston Harte Sr.

Strange as it may seem, old man Houston Harte took a shine to me after I pitched the big muddy sign on the hood of his Cadillac.

Executive editor Charlie Kilpatrick hired me after a short telephone conversation and a brief meeting. I was soon to learn that Kilpatrick was a frightened executive who bent and turned with the winds of company politics.

Kilpatrick knew I was coming in from the Harte-Hanks home base of San Angelo, and he was taking no chances.

I hadn’t been on the job a month when Harte Senior walked into the Express and News city room and yelled, “Where is the kid who worked for us in San Angelo?”

My desk was in the back of the city room next to the sports department. When I said “Here,” the old man hustled right back and took a seat on the side of my desk.

“Well,” he said. “How do you like it here?”

When I said I liked the new job, the millionaire publisher asked, “What do you think we need to do to make the paper better?”

“Stop running shinplasters,” I told him.

“Shinplaster?”

“Yes, sir, Shinplasters.”

I explained the shinplaster, a derogatory term I had picked up in the paper’s editorial department. Advertising copy that is disguised as news, I told Mr. Harte. He frowned and had me repeat the bit about shinplasters.

“I didn’t know we were doing that,” Houston Harte said. “We will stop it today.”

And stop it he did.

This had a profound effect on the entire editorial staff, all of them older and more experienced than me.

It is hard to believe that the executive editor of a daily newspaper in a metropolitan market would fear a cub reporter. But I honestly believed that Kilpatrick was afraid of me from that day forward and so long as the Harte’s owned the Express and News.

Dan Cook was the Evening News sports editor and columnist when I arrived. Cook was a great writing talent and the most popular sports writer in the city. Of Charlie Kilpatrick’s unctuous propensity to please his superiors, I heard Cook say: “If a chicken farmer bought the newspaper, Charlie would show up for work wearing a feather suit.”

Cook and I became friends and drinking companions, as did company artist Bob Dale. Front page columnist Paul Thompson, a recovered alcoholic, became my friend and mentor of sorts. I also worked with legendary photographer Bill Goodspeed. Goodspeed was nearing the end of his career when I arrived on the scene, but I had heard about his pigeon loft on the top floor of the newspaper building.

In the 1940s and 1950s, Goodspeed used homing pigeons to fly his football game film back to their newspaper home. The rival San Antonio Light and other Texas newspapers could not compete. Goodspeed would have film flown home, processed and ready for print before any other newspaper could even hit the streets.

I sold an article on Goodspeed to Editor and Publisher Magazine, a national trades publication.

I was the Express and News top general assignments reporter early in my career. a time when my third child and daughter Gena Gay Kindrick was born. She was delivered without complication in San Antonio’s downtown Baptist Hospital on October 20, 1963.

Most of the major story assignments were falling my way as I worked with three photographers, Goodspeed, Johnny Tarsikes, and Jose Barrera.

Tarsikes burned up a company Chevrolet as we raced to Austin. Infamous University of Texas Tower sniper Charles Joseph Whitman was picking pedestrians off like fish in a barrel.

Then came the disaster of nature that nobody could ever forget.

I had just returned home from a night of fishing on Canyon Lake when I got the call. The day was Tuesday, September, 19, 1967.

It was Ken Kennamer, city editor of the San Antonio Express and my immediate superior in the newspaper’s chain of command.

Unusual, I thought, to get a morning call from Kennamer. We both worked night shifts on the morning Express.

“Pack enough clothes to last several days,” Kennamer said. “Bring rain gear. Rubber boots if you have them. The storm is bearing down on Brownsville and that’s where you are going. You will be riding with Joe. Expense money will be waiting when you get to the office.”

Joe was Jose Barrera, one of the Express and News young photographers.The storm Kennamer referred to was Hurricane Beulah, one of the biggest and most deadly hurricanes to ever hit the Texas Gulf Coast.

I was a greenhorn reporter who had never heard of a category 5 hurricane. Photographer Joe Barrera was equally inexperienced. I met him at the Express and News city room and we were off to cover the hurricane which would pack 160 mile-per-hour winds, dump rain bombs that would total 25 inches, and kill a total of 58 people, 15 of them Texans.

I covered three major hurricanes while working at the Express and News–Carla, Celia, and Beulah. Big bad Beulah was the first and the most destructive. Weather experts, law enforcement officials, and first responders all agreed that Beulah probably packed more than a few tornadoes close to the huricane’s eye.

Joe Barrera and I started out in high spirits. Like a couple of kids embarking on some sort of Boy Scout adventure. We had never experienced wind that can turn your mouth wrongside out, or broken power lines spewing high voltage death in the dark. Who would ever believe that hurricane-force winds and heavy rain can somehow bring 6-foot rattlesnakes up out of their dens and onto city streets, writhing and buzzing their deadly song? And only those who have suffered a shotgun charge of buckshot could imagine the searing pain of rooftop pea gravel driven by the ungodly winds of a major hurricane.

Joe Barrera and I were babies heading for our baptism of fire in the Rio Grande Valley. Joe drove. I noticed the stream of cars coming our way. We seemed to be the only ones heading down into the Valley.

We reached Brownsville at dusk. It took us longer than we had anticipated to cover the 250 miles. We were told the Fort Brown Motel was the place to stay, but we found a no-vacancy sign on the entrance. Everything else in town was taken. Media people had filled the Fort Brown, including a reporter/photographer team from the Dallas Morning News, and award-winning San Antonio Light photographer Gilbert Barrera (no relation to our Joe Barrera).

Joe and I had about despaired of finding shelter when help appeared behind a badge. It was a Cameron County deputy sheriff who told us to head for the courthouse. There were no beds available, but the sandstone courthouse, which was built in 1912, was open for us and some others fortunate enough to run into the helpful deputy.

“There ain’t any building stronger or safer than a Texas courthouse,” said the deputy. “They will be standing when nothing else is.”

The deputy knew of which he spoke. Most of the Fort Brown Motel was wrecked by the storm, and there was little else left standing in the town. Only the majestic Cameron County Courthouse took the big wind hit with no damage done.

I will never forget the early morning hours of September 20, 1967. We knew Beulah was coming. The Coast Guard had radioed ahead. The air had a waxy feel and there was an eerie yellow hue to the sky. The Devil had to sit this one out. This morning belonged to the big bad bitch called Beulah. She roared across Boca Chica Pass with unrelenting fury. She screamed like a runaway freight train with no engineer. Power lines were snapping in the darkness, showering Brownsville with deadly white and blue ribbons of electricity. Great sheets of roofing metal were windmilling through the air like airborne guillotines, any one of them capable of removing a human head. This was hell on the Texas coast, and it would get worse long before the people of Brownsville would recover from Hurricane Beulah.

It was raining bathtubs when the photographer and I ventured out to view and photograph the aftermath. One big rattlesnake buzzed at our approach, and we saw several smaller ones as we made our way around live power lines that were snapping and popping. I learned later that intense rain water flooding their underground dens drove the snakes above ground and often onto downtown streets.

Our Express-News staff car was a white Chevy II, and we were preparing to drive out and survey the damage when San Antonio Light photographer Gil Barrera flagged us down. I knew Gil Barrera to be an award-winning photographer whose work had graced the cover of Life Magazine. Gil was the younger brother of ace criminal defense attorney and District Judge Roy Barrera. The younger Barrera had been staying in the Fort Brown Motel when a two-by-four timber was driven through the windshield of his San Antonio Light staff vehicle. He came down to Brownsville with a Light reporter, but the two of them had been separated in the storm. He asked if he could ride with us that morning and I said “hop in.”

In those days, the San Antonio Express and the San Antonio Light employees were spirited competitors and often bitter enemies. But my relationship with Gil Barrera had always been one of professional respect and admiration. With other editorial employees from both newspapers, we often drank beer together at the Melody Room Lounge on Avenue E, about a half block distance from both papers. And, privately we had lamented in the past that we did not work together for the same publication.

Our Express-News photographer Joe Barrera was quiet when Gil Barrera crawled into the backseat. I knew Joe was intimidated by the presence of the older and more accomplished photographer, but Gil’s naturally humble demeanor belied his genius with a camera. He wore horn-rimmed glasses that were seemingly always broken and patched together with scotch tape.

“I’ll just ride along and snap a few pictures when I’m not getting in anybody’s way,” he said. I knew that was bullshit. I was already feelig nervous.

Gil Barrera was carrying what we considered to be a little-bitty new-fangled 35 millimeter camera. He also had a ragged rain poncho he held wadded up in one hand. Joe shot a number of photographs as we worked our way through the wind wreckage which was Brownsville. He shot an upended car, downed power poles, wrecked store fronts, and other damage. Street signs were twisted like pretzels, further indication that tornadoes were probably in the mix.

Gil Barrera sat quietly in the back seat while we worked our way through Brownsville and out onto the highway leading to Port Lavaca. He had not said a word or taken a photograph. The rain was a solid sheet.

Then Gil Barrera spoker to Joe Barrera.

“Hey, Joe, would you mind letting me out here for a minute or two?”

Gil had the old poncho over his head when he crawled out of the car. He headed straight to a highway sign that had been bent down by the wind, almost level with the ground. I think it read Port Lavaca 20 Miles. Nothing different from many other similar signs in the same condition. We had been passing them all morning. They were barely visible through the curtain of water.

I suspected something might be happening that foretold nothing good for the Express and News.

Gil Barrera was my friend and competitor, but to be scooped by the San Antonio Light was a horrible fate to contemplate.

At this point, I was driving the car. Joe Barrera was shooting the Express News photos.

“Find out what Gil is doing out there by that sign,” I hollered at Joe. The rain was pouring.

“He’s shooting the sign,” Joe said.

“We have been passing signs like that all morning,” I yelled at Joe.”You better get over there.”

Gil reappeared.

He seemed relaxed. Jovial.

Deep in my bowels I knew that the greatest news photographer in the country wasn’t taking pictures of a Port Lavaca road sign.

“Thanks,” Gil Barrera said. “I really appreciate you guys letting me ride along.”

Oh, shit. I thought it but said no more.

We found couriers to deliver storm film to the Express city room. Gil Barrera did also. We found out the next morning when issues of both papers hit the streets.

Joe Barrera had a hellacious photo of hurricane wreckage which appeared on the front page of the Express and News. I don’t even know what it was. But I will never forget the photograph that Gil Barrera killed us with.

Gil Barrera had one simple photo that said it all.

The photograph was six columns wide, engulfing the entire cover page of the San Antonio Light.

The photograph pictured a tiny chihuahua dog and a large rat. They were wet and bedraggled as they snuggled together, cheek-to-cheek and paw to foot, shivering and exchanging body warmth with all four eyes tightly shut.

I think the headline said Strange Bedfellows in the Eye of a Storm

I didn’t say anything about it to Joe Barrera. He was hurting enough. And I was part of it, too. Maybe I should have tackled Gil Barrera in the rain. It didn’t feel good. That’s for sure. But I later told Joe we had nothing to be ashamed of.

We got beat by the best in the business.

I was working with Elmer Kelton on the San Angelo Standard-Times when Buffalo Wagons, his first best-seller western novel was published. Kelton was my friend and one of my early influences in the writing game. He told me to always hang onto my day job if I ever tried writing books.

Elmer Kelton was voted the greatest western novelist of all time by the Western Writers of America association. And he was as humble as St. Frances of Assisi.

The following copy details my rough start in the newspaper business.

The English professor’s name was Elton Miles. He was a member of the Sul Ross State College faculty in 1955.

Miles kept me after class one afternoon to deliver this message: “I know you have been writing theme papers for other students and charging them in the neighborhood of $10. The papers are obviously the work of one writer, and many of them are quite good. But this business is going to stop.”

Then Miles asked me what I was majoring in. I told him I had no major. I was taking general courses and drinking a lot of beer. He was a skinny little fellow with a crooked grin and a limp shock of brown hair that kept falling down over one of his eyes. I knew he was plenty smart. I sensed that he sort of liked me. Even when he was dressing me down. He was doing it with his lopsided grin.

“You are accomplishing nothing,” Miles said. “You need to transfer out of Sul Ross to a school with a journalism department.” He was telling more than suggesting. “Southwest Texas State in San Marcos has a journalism department. Joe Vogel is head of the department and he is my friend. I am going to recommend you to Joe. This is something you really need to do.”

The rest is history. I didn’t know what journalism really was at the time, but I became a journalist in spite of myself. Vogel was a one-man journalism department with one parttime professor by the name of Box. I never took a course from Box. All of my J school courses were from Vogel. I hit it big with Vogel, my very first article for the College Star was an interview I did with a half-naked female student with hair scorched in a student housing fire just off the main campus.

The reporter for the weekly San Marcos Record concentrated on the fire, the damage done, and the number of fire-fighters it took to control the blaze. I wrote about nothing but the half-naked girl with the burnt hair, and Joe Vogel loved my story.

I married my first wife, Vicky Miller, shortly before leaving Sul Ross and Alpine for San Marcos. Vicky had just graduated from Alpine High School. She and Ann Bounds were the two prettiest girls in Alpine High. I pegged Vicky as the most comely. After graduating from Southwest Texas State, my first newspaper job was editor of the Bay City News, a small Bay City weekly owned by shrimp boat owner and captain Steve Parsuit. Steve didn’t have a printing press. We got the Bay City News printed just a few miles up the road in El Campo at State Sen. Culp Krueger’s El Campo Leader-News and Svoboda (Svoboda was the Czech language part of the paper). El Campo was and still is rice farming country with roots going back to the Czech Republic. Before this, the country was known as Czechoslovakia and the language was Czechoslovakian. A number of the oldtimers still spoke the language back in the 1950s. I heard it in some stores around Bay City and El Campo.

I would write copy and headlines for our paper, then Parsuit’s business flunky Chuck Arthur and I would drive it to El Campo for printing.

I fished and drank a lot of beer the three months I was in Bay City, the big event of my Bay City newspaper tenure being the birth of my first child, Grady Michael Kindrick. Grady was born premature on June 26, 1957, in Matagorda Regional Medical Center. He weighed three pounds at birth. Within two months, his weight had climbed to that of a normal child of that age. I was making $65 a week in Bay City, and when it began looking like the Bay City News might have been on shaky ground, I headed for Kerrville to write for Rankin Starkey’s Kerrville Daily News. The pay at Kerrville was $70 a week.

We rented a little duplex not far from the Junction Highway that ran through Kerrville. Vicky was spoon feeding baby Grady. We couldn’t afford to go anywhere, and our only entertainment in those days was a little black-and-white TV with rabbit ears. We could see snowy forms on the little screen, and the audio was just as bad. Sometimes we tried to watch boxing and wrestling.

The Kerrville job lasted a month. I started on the wrong foot in Kerrville. Carroll Abbott was Starkey’s editor, and I was all ears as Abbott explained that, in order to become successful in the Kerrville newspaper business, a young newsman like me should join the Kerrville Junior Chamber of Commerce. Abbott was a big wheel with the Jaycees. He insisted that this was the only way for a young fellow with any kind of ambition to go.

I didn’t know what the hell a junior chamber of commerce was all about, but I wanted to do good so I told Abbott to sign me up. Abbott then directed me to the city park. The Miss Texas pageant had just been held in the Kerrville City Park and the Jaycees had been tasked with dismantling the stage and catwalk that had supported the beauty contestants.

The Jaycee who seemed to be in charge handed me a clawhammer.

“What do I do with this,” I asked.

“Start pulling nails out of that catwalk,” he said.

“What’s the pay?”

“Nothing, of course” he said. “The Junior Chamber of Commerce is a civic organization. We do work like this because we are proud of our city.”

I handed him back the hammer and quit the Kerrville Junior Chamber of Commerce on the spot. I never joined anything again.

But my days in Kerrville were already in short number. When Rankin Starkey ordered me to wear a coat and tie to work, I told him I would if he would pay the cleaning bill. He refused and I was headed to San Angelo the next day for a reporting job with the San Angelo Standard Times, the daily newspaper I grew up reading in my hometown of Junction.

I got the San Angelo job by telephone. I called and asked for the editor. Managing editor Ed Hunter came on the line. I told him I was from Junction, that I had graduated from Southwest Texas State, that I wasn’t making enough money in Kerrville, and that I needed to make more than

$75 a week. Hunter said he could start me at $85 a week, and I was rich. I herded Vicky and Grady into our peach-colored 1951 Ford sedan and we were loaded and rolling into the sand dunes and tumbleweeds of West Texas. I had the world by the tail with a down-hill pull. I would make money and history in the metropolis of San Angelo where the Harte-Hanks red rooster was emblazoned on the door of every Standard-Times staff car.

I did know that Houston Harte and Bernard Hanks came out of the Missouri School of Journalism at the University of Missouri. They founded the San Angelo Standard-Times and branched out with a chain of mid-sized daily newspapers that included the Corpus Christi Caller-Times, the Greenville Hearld, Abilene Reporter-News, and three others that were not Texas papers. Bernard Hanks died during the early going, and Houston Harte kept the Hanks name in respect for Bernard Hanks’ widow.

It would be euphemistic to say that Houston Harte Sr. was eccentric. He was that and then some, a compact-sized executive with the stern and craggy features of a pitbull. He had red rooster images on most everything he owned.

I never knew the story behind Harte’s affinity for the barnyard cocks; I learned quickly, though, that the image of a crowing rooster in red ink was overlaid on the front page of every San Angelo newspaper when it rained an inch or more over three or more counties in the West Texas newspaper’s circulation area.

The red rooster was emblazoned on the door of every Standard-Times staff car. The foyer tile in Harte’s San Angelo mansion was red, white, and black, in the giant image of a crowing red rooster. Harte’s cufflinks were red roosters, and the newspaper icon was adapted by at least one independently-owned drinking joint, The Red Rooster on Concho Street. Harte-Hanks had no interest in the saloon, but most of the Standard-Times staff frequented the place.

The one staffer who did not drink in the Red Rooster or anywhere else was farm and ranch editor Elmer Kelton, a serious writer who was raised as a cowboy near Horse Camp on the Five Wells Ranch near Andrews in West Texas.

Kelton, a graduate of the University of Texas at Austin, is now recognized by many as the top writer of western fiction in America. His story lines were fiction, but Kelton’s work was as honest and unfailingly accurate as most pieces of library history.

Elmer had published his first western best-seller, Buffalo Wagons, when I met him. I was impressed with his humility. He wrote his fiction at night, his newspaper farm and ranch news by day.

“It’s fine to write western fiction at night,” Kelton once told me, “but be sure and hang on to your day job. There ain’t a lot of money in it.”

He then went on to win every western writers award available. He was voted the best western author in the counry by the Western Writers of America.

I liked Kelton because of his affable nature. He treated everyone the same and we all loved him. But he always declined when I invited him out drinking. I don’t think he even drank alcohol.

Publisher Houston Harte’s office was behind one-way glass. He could sit in his office and view everything going on in the newspaper city room. The outside of the glass was reflective, and new employees were known to fix their hair or squeeze pimples without knowing that the company’s chief executive was looking straight out at them.

I had been with the newspaper for about a year, long enough to rate a staff car with a red rooster on the door when I committed what I thought then was my worst gaffe in San Angelo. I was a general assignments reporter then, covering everything from car wrecks to an occasional murder away from San Angelo and Tom Green County. Each reporter had a designated parking spot in the Standard-Times lot. Mine was occupied by a cream-colored Cadillac when I pulled in from an assignment one rainy afternoon. A wooden sign that read Staff Only had somehow toppled over. It had a couple of rusty nails protruding from the sign board and it was caked with West Texas mud.

I picked the sign up and pitched it onto the hood of the Cadillac, mud and nails included. Then I found another parking place for the staff car and went into the newspaper building. I was in the newspaper snack bar when I heard old man Harte screech at Ed Hunter, the managing editor.

“Goddamn it Ed, find out right now who put that muddy sign with nails on my Cadillac.”

Hunter came to San Angelo from the Daily Oklahoman in Oklahoma City. He was a likeable professional, but he hadn’t been on the job long enough to know that the old newspaper pioneer had a soft spot in his heart for drunks and intemperant kid reporters.

Hunter was a little rattled. He seemed to know who to zero in on.

“Okay, Sam Kindrick, what about this?”

I had to confess.

“I thought Mr. Harte had a black Cadillac,” I told Hunter. “This one was cream-colored. I put the sign on it because it was in my parking space.”

Hunter was as collected as he could possibly be.

“Mr. Harte has five Cadillacs,” Hunter said. “One is black, one is white, one is blue, one is red, and this one is cream-colored. In the future, I think you had best not damage another Cadillac in the Standard-Times lot.”

Hunter didn’t know it at the time that old man Harte had never fired an employee for drinking or booze related mischief. George Kunkel would go on knee-walking, commode-hugging benders, only to return to his copy desk job withlittle or no repercussion. I never heard of Houston Harte drinking alcohol or being drunk, but his tolerance for booze-blitzed employees such as Kunkel and sports writer Blondie Cross was a topic of much discussion in high places and some not so high.

Blondie Cross covered high school football for the San Angelo Standard-Times, and anyone who knows anything about West Texas knows that high school football is king. Blondie Cross was a big, puffy albino-looking man with red skin and cloudy eyes. He wrote a Standard-Times sports column for years, and half of West Texas believed Cross had supernatural powers when it came to football game predictions. If Blondie predicted a team would win, that team almost always won, and the Standard-Time hierarchy ignored or tolerated Cross’s penchant for whisky.

First one and then another young reporter would be dispatched across West Texas to fetch Blondie and bring him home. The bosses all knew the score. My first Blondie Cross assignment found me driving to Eldorado where Blondie had supposedly had weather-related car trouble.
I found Cross’s car in a dry wash with water up to what we called the running boards in those days. The car had stalled but Cross was doing well.

He was sitting on top of the car as boiled as an owl.

My second child, Steven Howard Kindrick, was born August 27, 1958 in San Angelo’s Shannon Hospital. It was shortly after Steve’s birth that the word got out. Harte-Hanks was buying the San Antonio Express-News.

This, to me, was the bigtime. Houston Harte, we all knew, had long yearned for a flagship daily newspaper in a metropolitan setting.This was it and I was determined to go with them. I had little trouble making the transition. Ed Hunter recommended me, and I was subsequently hired by Express and News executive editor Charles O. Kilpatrick.

My salary: $100 a week in 1960. I had arrived.

<www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1340043527&__tn__=%2CdC-R-R&eid=ARDZF_jz6SBTy6-aiL9ybhzQ3tLtZ9g9gNZLuMuZBCaHSycQ2U4UM1GsKceDa3oxsqHypadi03Z3qXgR&hc_ref=ARTUeUoUIpjhrbbZORFDskPPJQT5CKxpVM2fePlY-GNtx…> 16 mins · <www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1340043527#> This is about Lacy McAndrew Brinson, my favorite female singer/songwriter who with husband Mike has written a hot new song about my late circuit-riding preacher friend George W. Cooper.
The song, which will be produced in a Nashville recording project by Dean Miller, son of country music legend Roger Miller, is titled Moonshine Revival.
Lacy is carrying me as a co-writer of the song because she says the tune was inspired by my story of Rev. George Cooper which appeared in my book The Best of Sam Kindrick–Secret Life and Hard Times of a Cedar Chopper.
“Your story inspired me to write the song,” says Lacy, who works as a federal attorney when not performing and writing songs. “I have loved your writing since we met, and the story of George Cooper was my inspiration for a song. My grandfather was a circuit-riding preacher in the South.”
I have always leaned toward the writers. That’s what first attracted me to Willie, his lyrics. Lacy is a special young lady who writes and performs with her own material. There are too many human jukeboxes around, those performers who scream into a skull orchard microphone with the material of others.
Here is Lacy’s intro for the project: Moonshine Revival -Lacy Brinson McAndrew, Mike McAndrew (©2019)
*based on a true story about Rev. George W. Cooper *adapted from “Rowdy Reverend” by Sam Kindrick (The best of Sam Kindrick, 1973)
In addition to the chapter on George Cooper in my book, I wrote a short booklet for George which he hawked on his clear channel radio programs which emanated from the Texa-Mexico border.
George <www.facebook.com/george.briscoe.967?__tn__=%2CdK-R-R&eid=ARCwzqcInAbS98YCx4qudSdr46jstIGAvX-Rxd-hIApjW4NbGNAlacoH-kgibV-tHdVXLXmPGyzFUh-W&fref=mentions> was the father of Billy Cooper, my longtime friend and a member of Willie Nelsons road crew for years. George came out of High Point, North Carolina and Lacy’s voice has a High Point ring to it.
Jim Chesnut introduced me to Lacy Brinson in 2017, and it was Chesnut, a former Nashville recording artist, who wrote the first Action Magazine cover story on Lacy. And after this, we had Lacy on the last Sam Kindrick music promotion at Texas Pride Barbecue.
The record project with Dean Miller producing will include Moonshine Revival and two other Lacy Brinson songs.
“I am excited about it, Lacy said. “We will see how things turn out.”
They should turn out good. Lacy has an honest country music delivery with a voice that sparkles like spring water running through a moonshine still.
Moonshine Revival has hit written all over it.