The Roky Erickson Interview (2008)

In my 18 years as a freelance music journalist, I’ve interviewed some big name music artists. Before nearly every interview, I feel a quick rush of excitement as I sit down with people like Peter Frampton, Zakk Wylde, Henry Rollins and Merle Haggard.

After my most recent interview, I have to take back my proclamation to my wife that I “never get nervous” when talking to a musician, because I did get nervous before interviewing Roky Erickson, a founding member of 13th Floor Elevators, and one of the most enigmatic and mysterious figures in rock music history and American 1960s counter-culture.

The first few times I heard of Roky Erickson occurred when I was a teenager growing up in Southeast Texas. I was 15, and had just “discovered” classic rock and all the other amazing metal, folk and blues artists of the 1960s and 70s. I was an outcast at school with my long hair, John Lennon glasses and penchant for wearing T-shirts featuring bands none of my peers had ever heard of.

Whatever guiding force that brings friends to us in this life was looking out for me when a kid named Brian Fontenot came into my life. Brian was as much of an outcast as I was. His hair was longer than mine, he wore a big bulky Army jacket and black leather combat boots, and he had a reputation for getting in trouble and dabbling in pot. Brian loved classic rock as much as I did, and his favorite band was Pink Floyd. He spoke of Gilmour, Waters, Wright and Mason often, but it was Syd Barrett’s name he spoke of with a reverence and awe usually reserved for religious saints and vaulted world leaders.

From what Brian told me, Syd was a musical genius of epic proportions, and Syd was also one of the most famous and earliest victims of the “better to burn out than to fade away” credo Neil Young so famously warbled in his anthemic, “Hey, Hey, My, My.” Brian regaled me with grandiose tales of Syd’s rock & roll excesses: the LSD-fueled drug binges, and the time Syd played a show with some sort of grease or wax in his hair (which melted under the hot psychedelic light show, causing a freak-out in the drug-addled audience who thought Barrett’s face was melting). Brian talked a lot about Syd’s mental problems and stints in the asylum, generously peppering those tales with other casualties like Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison and Lennon that litter the rock and roll history books.

It was in those many lunchtime Vintage Rock conversations where the name Roky Erickson kept popping up. His name — and the 13th Floor Elevators — were still extremely obscure in my rapidly expanding catalog of classic rock bands and artists. Brian’s head always hung low, and his voice grew sad and somber, every time he mentioned Roky’s name.

Five long years went by until I would again hear the name Roky Erickson. I got married right out of high school, and fortunately, for me, my new in-laws were huge fans of all of the music I was still desperately trying to absorb and comprehend. My father-in-law, Mike (now former in-law), was particularly enamored with classic rock artists from Texas like ZZ Top, Johnny and Edgar Winter, Bloodrock, and Austin’s own Roky Erickson and the 13th Floor Elevators.

Mike — like my friend Brian before him — spoke of Roky sadly, and often in the past tense, almost like Roky had died. For a long time, I figured Roky was dead. Last anyone had heard, he was fresh out of Texas’ notorious Rusk State Hospital, and was (according to who told the tale) homeless, a deranged vagabond, a drooling lobotomy victim, or worse.

It would be another decade before Roky’s name would filter through my ears again in a roundabout rock and roll manner. I had just come off a pair of interviews with Peter Frampton — one for Music & Sound Retailer magazine, the second for Vintage Rock.com — and I was offered a pair of reserved seats and a photo pass for Peter’s upcoming stop in Houston, Texas — not far from the little podunk town I call home. As much as I would have loved to see Peter and to gaze upon his classic black Gibson Les Paul, I was unable to make it to the show. I placed an ad on a local classified website, and arranged to transfer my guest list tickets to someone that really wanted to see Peter Frampton perform.

The new ticket owner’s name was Will, and in our many conversations leading up to the show, he mentioned that he had done some video recording and editing work for a couple of rock music legends. Ian McLagan of The Small Faces was the first name he listed. Roky Erickson — that mythical, mysterious long-lost rock genius I’d heard about over the years — was the second name.

“I wouldn’t mind hooking you up with reps for both of those guys, if you’re interested in interviews,” Will wrote me.

I’m always on the look out for a new rock music interview subject, so I replied to go for it, and a few days later, Will got back to me with contact information for both Ian and Roky. I decided to set about learning more about Roky before setting up an interview, so I did what all resourceful writer geeks do — I googled Roky’s name, then hit up Wikipedia and later stumbled onto Roky’s official Web site.

On Roky’s home page, a familiar jangly, frantic guitar chord rang out. It was “You’re Gonna Miss Me,” a song I remembered from childhood growing up in Texas. I never knew the name of the group or the song they played; it was just one of those childhood songs that stuck in the back of my head, kind of like the old Houston Oilers football team theme song.

I listened to Roky’s music as I read about his troubled past and everything he had endured. From drugs to being locked up and basically tortured into oblivion in one of the nation’s most infamous mental institutions, I quickly grew to appreciate Roky not only for his music, but also on a human level.

The more I read about Roky, the more I pitied him, and the more I worried about the interview. I called Will up and we talked about Roky for a while. Will has seen many of Roky’s recent performances in Austin and has spoken to him on many occasions.

“I’ve been pleasantly surprised with Roky over the last five years,” Will told me. “Every time we talk, he seems more lucid than the time before.”

Lucid. That’s never been a concern of mine before an interview. I began to wonder and worry: Is Roky even capable of holding a conversation, or recalling past events? Will he follow what I’m saying and asking, or will it be a struggle to get even the most basic of information out of him?

Will, and later Darren (Roky’s manager), both assured me that Roky could hold his own during an interview, but they urged me to keep the questions short and to the point, and to keep the length of the entire interview under 15 minutes. Darren finally found a day and time for Roky and I to hook up, and as the interview neared, I grew more nervous by the minute. I’ve talked to people far more famous — some with reputations for being hard to interview or even downright hostile to journalists — but this one with Roky had me really worried.

Like my friend Will before me, I was pleasantly surprised by Roky’s demeanor and his ability to carry on like a chatterbox. One thing at first did catch me off guard… I knew he was born and raised in Texas like me, but I didn’t expect him to sound like he was a Texan.

“HeLLOOOOO,” Roky bellowed out as we met, almost like we were two long-lost friends reuniting after years apart. “How you doin’, Carl?”

I sized Roky up in a few quick seconds, and worked up the nerve to ask my first question.

“Roky, you haven’t had the easiest road, both in music and in your personal life… How are you doing now both personally and professionally?”

Roky’s eyes were very deep and soulful, and also joyful and terribly sad, all at the same time. Looking at him, I could see pain and regret and a tragic past etched into every wrinkle in his skin. I also saw hints of a wicked sense of humor. In his boisterous voice and personality, I knew that I was witnessing a man that was enjoying a renaissance in his personal and professional life with every twinkle in his eyes.

“I’m doin’ real good. I just been takin’ it easy, doin’ a lotta practicing, you know, but I’ve been enjoying my gigs that Darren’s got for me. Goin’ real good, real good. Have a lot of fun doing it. Gibson gave me a guitar, and I’ve been usin’ it, and they gave me an amp too.”

Before asking Roky my next question, I had a feeling it might be a bit tougher for him to handle it. He’d have to reach far back in his memory for the answer.

“Looking back on the music of the 13th Floor Elevators, how proud are you of the band and the music you made back then?”

“How proud am I? How proud am I? Or how do I think of it… Well I like it,” Roky simply stated, then dropping some names at random that I didn’t recognize as he rambled off on a tangent about a recent interview that didn’t pertain even remotely to my question.

“Roky, do you think the music of the 13th Floor Elevators still holds up today?”

“They haven’t played in a long time, but the album’s are still out there…” and his voice then trailed off to silence.

As we sat there chatting, a sense of ease began to wash over me, especially the few times Roky repeatedly said, “Oh, I’m really enjoying talking to you. I can go on.” And go on we did. We talked and laughed as I kept trying to think of who he reminded me of… then it hit me — Roky looks and talks just like a pair of uncles I grew up with. One of the uncles is named Ronnie, and he’s a truck driver from Kentucky. Roky’s graying, flowing head of hair and thick Texan drawl were dead-on for my uncle Ronnie.

The other uncle Roky reminded me of is my uncle Dexter, also Texas born and bred. Dexter’s dead now, having passed away about five years ago from some mysterious combination of poor health, dangerous living and years of alcohol and drugs coursing through his body. As a kid growing up, I only saw Dexter about twice a year, typically in the summer and again at Christmas. As I neared my teen years, Dexter’s hair grew long and gray. His teeth started turning long and gray too, and his eyes grew wide and kinda crazy looking.

It was around that time that I started referring to Dexter in my head as “Crazy Uncle Dexter.” It was also about that time that Dexter came home from work one day and caught his wife in bed with two men. Dexter whipped out a sawed-off shotgun, and instead of turning the gun on the two morally questionable men (or his adulterous wife), Dexter shot himself. The first blast took off his right leg just above the knee. The second blast took off a fair portion of Dexter’s temple and skull.

He didn’t die from the awkward but nearly effective suicide attempt. Instead, Dexter was hospitalized in Rusk State Hospital, the very same facility that Roky spent the darkest years of his life.

“Roky, what got you through the hard times you went through in the late 60s and early 70s?”

“I just wrote a lot, you know. I was in Rusk. In the 60s, I was playing a lot of clubs and in San Francisco a lot, you know,” Roky said, seemingly unable to fully answer the question, or possibly artfully dodging his way around my probing query.

“Roky, do you have any regrets about that period of your life… anything you’d do differently?”

“No. I had a good time. It was a little bit mysterious. There was a lotta people doing drugs out there, you know, on Haight Ashbury Street out there in California. That was kinda strange, you know. We pulled through it — it was a big band kinda thing; they had lots of big bands playing.”

I noticed Roky tended to drift off quickly with his answers, the first few words being relevant, and the latter part… well, most of the time it either didn’t make sense, or didn’t fit the question.

“With your music in the 70s and 80s, do you think it was misunderstood, or under appreciated?”

Roky answered the question well as he talked about playing American Bandstand and Larry Cane’s show. My question, however, focused on a period that was easily a decade after 13th Floor Elevators’ appearances on those shows. I re-phrased the question, specifically mentioning his music between 1975 and the late 1980s.

“I like it a lot… that was with the Aliens, right?”

I let Roky know that I had one, maybe two more questions, and he replied, “Awwright. I’m havin’ a good time.”

I asked about the 1990 tribute album, Where The Pyramid Meets The Eye, and he replied, again, briefly and simply, “I really liked it a lot.” Prodding him a bit further, he recalled the album featured contributions by ZZ Top, proclaiming, “I loved that record. I’d like to hear it again some time.”

“Roky, how have you managed in the last few years to not only survive, but to live well and perform again, with schizophrenia?”

“Oh, ahhh, you know like… I went to MHMR [Mental Health/Mental Retardation, a Texas-based mental health program, defunct since 2004]. They said that was it (schizophrenia). I have this friend named John Reading who said he didn’t believe I was. I see him every two weeks.”

I assumed John was a physician and then asked the question again in a slightly different way.

“Oh, I do awwright, you know,” Roky said. “It doesn’t bother me. I been doin’ awwright. I do my shows and I get offstage and I’ll sign autographs and then go out to eat.”

I then asked Roky what he thought of the recent documentary movie, You’re Gonna Miss Me, released in 2005.

“I like it. It’s a little mysterious, you know. Hadn’t watched it in a long time.”

“Was it hard to watch, knowing that was your life on the screen?”

“Not really, just kinda strange, you know. They showed pictures of Rusk, and I didn’t know if it was Rusk or not.”

“Roky, I bet you don’t like to think about that place?”

“I tell ya… I have to think about it in good feelings, you know. Like my thoughts about it need parental guidance.”

“How rewarding is it for you to be recording and touring again?”

“It’s really rewarding, and I’m havin’ a good time. The trips are kinda long and we have to stand around in airports a lot sometimes… takes us a while to get where we’re going.”

Roky took the opportunity to mention that he enjoys watching movies a lot, singling out recent psychological thrillers like Disturbia and Bug. Roky also shared that if he hadn’t gotten into music, that he would have enjoyed a career as an artist.

“Roky, if you never made another album or played another show, what would you want people to remember about you?”

“I think I will continue, I know I will. In fact, I have a song that will be on the TV show Men in Trees, the show with Sally Field on it.”

“Roky, I have to admit I was kinda nervous interviewing you today, but you sound kinda like me, a good ole’ Texas boy.”

“Well awwright, I enjoyed it too.”

Roky then wandered off on another tangent about National Lampoon and Austin City Limits, and then asked me where I’m from.

“Good luck with your life and music, Roky.”

“You too, Carl. It feels like I’ve talked to you before. Maybe we can do this again some time. Awwright brother. Thank you, thank you.”

And that was it. Roky was off to do his own thing and enjoy the rest of his afternoon, perhaps to lose himself in another scary movie in his DVD collection.

As I’m sitting here writing this, that pounding opening of the 13th Floor Elevators’ hit “You’re Gonna Miss Me” keeps swirling through my head and sinking in my heart, and it dawns on me…

The better part of the first decades of Roky’s life played out like a real-life psychological thriller, very much like one of the movies he mentioned. If his memory were intact and razor sharp, any time Roky wanted to, he could rewind his mental reel and re-live the ups and downs and every creepy twist and turn as his life spiraled downward. Maybe that’s why he loves fictional scary movies so much, because the one he lived was all too real.

Some higher power stepped in a few years ago to pull Roky up from the depths of mental darkness. Perhaps it was Sumner, his benevolent brother, or maybe it was the hand of God, or the healing power in music. Whatever force reached down to lift Roky Erickson up to help set his life’s path back on the right track is irrelevant.

What does matter is that Roky is recovering. This fractured, tortured musical genius is smiling and playing shows and enjoying every moment of his much deserved mental renewal and musical output. The only thing that matters now is the present and the future, and the rebuilding of his life and his legacy.

We will miss you, Roky, when you’re gone. We did miss you for far too many years. If you ever get to feeling low again, please remember the words you wrote:

Living is a necessity
Please do not die.

Welcome back, Roky.