There was a time, not so long ago—after World War II but before Willie moved to Austin—that most Texans would have shared a common, if working, definition of “honky-tonk.” But nowadays, many seem to have the wrong idea about what qualifies (and there are some, typically of the recently arrived variety, for whom the word might as well be Swahili). Part of what makes the term so tricky to nail down is the fact that there are certain ineffable qualities that a true honky-tonk must possess. Some historic venues lose it over time, and some brand-new joints have it from day one. So before we go any further, let’s set some guidelines.
A honky-tonk is not a dance hall. Many of our most beloved dance halls were built by German and Czech settlers in the second half of the nineteenth century. They are often beautiful structures, originally constructed to host social clubs and other family-friendly affairs. Honky-tonks, by contrast, tend to have roots as shallow as tumbleweeds’. Few can trace their history back more than a few decades, and only a handful of stalwarts have been around for more than fifty years. In fact, a honky-tonk is seldom erected at all. It tends to spring to life when an empty filling station or abandoned store is repurposed. As such, the honky-tonk does not boast the elegant architectural qualities of a dance hall. The ceilings are low, the walls cinder block and windowless, the lighting is neon, and the dance floor, when not sticky tile or concrete, is likely made of wood salvaged from an old high school gym. Nor is a honky-tonk the focal point of civic life. It is most often found on the outskirts of town, where it serves the periphery of society. And a honky-tonk is certainly no place to take small children.
A honky-tonk is not a restaurant. The fare is typically limited to the kind you’d find at a Little League concession stand: Frito pie, nachos, nuts, and various fried or pickled items. A few places serve fine burgers from their grease-laden flattops. And you might come across passable steak (chicken-fried or grilled) on certain nights. But if you ever see blue cheese on the menu, friend, you’re not in a honky-tonk. (On the other hand, if you smell blue cheese near the men’s room, you might be.)
A honky-tonk is not a country-themed nightclub. Such country discos are widespread among the state’s big cities and were founded on the honky-tonk’s core principles—namely, booze, country music, dancing, and hooking up—but the parallels pretty much end there. For one thing, these cavernous warehouses operate almost exclusively at night and on the weekends. This runs contrary to the operating hours of a honky-tonk, which should welcome customers at least five days a week and open before folks get off work. Whereas each honky-tonk offers some sense of the owner’s personality (if only in the array of taxidermy displayed), the nightclub is a more impersonal experience.
While groups like Texas Dance Hall Preservation have taken laudable steps to save our state’s handsome dance halls, the dingy, rough-hewn honky-tonk hasn’t inspired the same kind of conservation efforts. As a result, the honky-tonk is now endangered. But those that remain continue to serve an important role in their communities: they are the place where a person can unspool a troubled mind, pursue or nurture romance, drown their sorrows, or shake their limbs to a country song.
This spring, I traveled some three thousand miles in search of the state’s best honky-tonks. As expected, most were hole-in-the-wall joints with little to admire aesthetically. Many had yet to meet smoking bans, and a couple featured the inevitable hothead fuming over some perceived slight at the pool table. But the vast majority are mostly welcoming places—so long as you don’t get too out of line or come in proselytizing for veganism. I reckon that parts of this list might not sit well with some readers and others will be baffled by what’s left off. I’m happy to have the debate, so long as it’s over Lone Stars—in a honky-tonk, of course.
Arkey Blue’s Silver Dollar
Established: 1968
Basics: Cash only. Smoking permitted. $5 cover charge on Saturdays and holiday weekends.
Drink: Lone Star (longneck). Sells setups. Wine: Barefoot.
Food: Bags of chips, popcorn for $1—salty and a bit stale (in other words, good).
Sign: “Cowboys—No shirt, no service. Cowgirls—No shirt, free beer.”
Pro Tip: Don’t wear your rough-out suede boots. The sawdust will stick to them.
To enter this honky-tonk heaven, you must go down. Down a wooden staircase behind a red metal door on the main street of Bandera, down into the cool darkness beneath the town’s general store. A local woman will greet you at the bottom of the stairs. You’ll give her $5 and she’ll hand you a ticket to this neon kingdom. Your eyes will need a moment to adjust to the dim light, at which point you’ll take in your surroundings: The ceiling is low and made of red pressed tin. There’s a small stage to your right, and the bar beckons at the far end of the room. The air smells of popcorn, beer, and tobacco. The dance floor is blanketed with sawdust.
Arkey Juenke, the owner, was a young songwriter and guitar picker when a record producer took to calling him Blue, because of his tendency to write and sing sad songs. The name stuck. Arkey opened the Silver Dollar in 1968, and ever since Arkey Blue and the Blue Cowboys have been playing tear-in-your-beer tunes every Saturday night. In the afternoon, a regularly scheduled jam session draws a crowd of dancers. After they finish and before Arkey’s eight o’clock set begins, many of the dancers go home, eat dinner, take a nap, throw on fresh duds, and return just as the Blue Cowboys take the stage.
On the Saturday evening I was there, a good chunk of the crowd was made up of old-school cowboy types in Wranglers and straw hats, but one brave soul ventured downstairs wearing a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops. Many of the men’s faces were ruddy from the sun or from drink and lined by wrinkles as deep as cotton furrows. The women dripped with turquoise and sterling silver, and wore blouses emblazoned with Old Glory to mark the Memorial Day weekend. Those who didn’t already know one another made fast friends at the long tables covered in red-and-white-checkered cloths.
Promptly at eight, Arkey and his quintet launched into their set of honky-tonk classics. They burned through “Ramblin’ Fever,” and the steel guitar wailed on “There Stands the Glass.” As the night waltzed on, one of the dancers took a break and slid into the booth across from me. She introduced herself: Denise Lartin, 62 years old, originally from Queens, and now a proud Bandera resident. I asked how she had ended up here. “I got addicted to two-stepping,” she told me in the thickest New York accent I’ve heard outside of the movies. She had googled “cowboys” and discovered Bandera, which touts itself as the Cowboy Capital of the World. “I had gone to Utah and Arizona before coming here,” she said, “but there weren’t no cowboy bars. Not like here. You can go dancing every night of the week.”
Shortly before midnight, Arkey and his Blue Cowboys began to wrap their set. Denise and her boyfriend decided to head down Main Street to a country bar. Before they ascended the stairs, I asked Denise if she planned to stick around Bandera. “Oh, I’m here forever,” she said. “Texas, there’s nothing like it.”
A honky-tonk is not a dance hall. Many of our most beloved dance halls were built by German and Czech settlers in the second half of the nineteenth century. They are often beautiful structures, originally constructed to host social clubs and other family-friendly affairs. Honky-tonks, by contrast, tend to have roots as shallow as tumbleweeds’. Few can trace their history back more than a few decades, and only a handful of stalwarts have been around for more than fifty years. In fact, a honky-tonk is seldom erected at all. It tends to spring to life when an empty filling station or abandoned store is repurposed. As such, the honky-tonk does not boast the elegant architectural qualities of a dance hall. The ceilings are low, the walls cinder block and windowless, the lighting is neon, and the dance floor, when not sticky tile or concrete, is likely made of wood salvaged from an old high school gym. Nor is a honky-tonk the focal point of civic life. It is most often found on the outskirts of town, where it serves the periphery of society. And a honky-tonk is certainly no place to take small children.A honky-tonk is not a restaurant. The fare is typically limited to the kind you’d find at a Little League concession stand: Frito pie, nachos, nuts, and various fried or pickled items. A few places serve fine burgers from their grease-laden flattops. And you might come across passable steak (chicken-fried or grilled) on certain nights. But if you ever see blue cheese on the menu, friend, you’re not in a honky-tonk. (On the other hand, if you smell blue cheese near the men’s room, you might be.)
A honky-tonk is not a country-themed nightclub. Such country discos are widespread among the state’s big cities and were founded on the honky-tonk’s core principles—namely, booze, country music, dancing, and hooking up—but the parallels pretty much end there. For one thing, these cavernous warehouses operate almost exclusively at night and on the weekends. This runs contrary to the operating hours of a honky-tonk, which should welcome customers at least five days a week and open before folks get off work. Whereas each honky-tonk offers some sense of the owner’s personality (if only in the array of taxidermy displayed), the nightclub is a more impersonal experience.
While groups like Texas Dance Hall Preservation have taken laudable steps to save our state’s handsome dance halls, the dingy, rough-hewn honky-tonk hasn’t inspired the same kind of conservation efforts. As a result, the honky-tonk is now endangered. But those that remain continue to serve an important role in their communities: they are the place where a person can unspool a troubled mind, pursue or nurture romance, drown their sorrows, or shake their limbs to a country song.
This spring, I traveled some three thousand miles in search of the state’s best honky-tonks. As expected, most were hole-in-the-wall joints with little to admire aesthetically. Many had yet to meet smoking bans, and a couple featured the inevitable hothead fuming over some perceived slight at the pool table. But the vast majority are mostly welcoming places—so long as you don’t get too out of line or come in proselytizing for veganism. I reckon that parts of this list might not sit well with some readers and others will be baffled by what’s left off. I’m happy to have the debate, so long as it’s over Lone Stars—in a honky-tonk, of course.
Arkey Blue’s Silver Dollar
Established: 1968
Basics: Cash only. Smoking permitted. $5 cover charge on Saturdays and holiday weekends.
Drink: Lone Star (longneck). Sells setups. Wine: Barefoot.
Food: Bags of chips, popcorn for $1—salty and a bit stale (in other words, good).
Sign: “Cowboys—No shirt, no service. Cowgirls—No shirt, free beer.”
Pro Tip: Don’t wear your rough-out suede boots. The sawdust will stick to them.
To enter this honky-tonk heaven, you must go down. Down a wooden staircase behind a red metal door on the main street of Bandera, down into the cool darkness beneath the town’s general store. A local woman will greet you at the bottom of the stairs. You’ll give her $5 and she’ll hand you a ticket to this neon kingdom. Your eyes will need a moment to adjust to the dim light, at which point you’ll take in your surroundings: The ceiling is low and made of red pressed tin. There’s a small stage to your right, and the bar beckons at the far end of the room. The air smells of popcorn, beer, and tobacco. The dance floor is blanketed with sawdust.
Arkey Juenke, the owner, was a young songwriter and guitar picker when a record producer took to calling him Blue, because of his tendency to write and sing sad songs. The name stuck. Arkey opened the Silver Dollar in 1968, and ever since Arkey Blue and the Blue Cowboys have been playing tear-in-your-beer tunes every Saturday night. In the afternoon, a regularly scheduled jam session draws a crowd of dancers. After they finish and before Arkey’s eight o’clock set begins, many of the dancers go home, eat dinner, take a nap, throw on fresh duds, and return just as the Blue Cowboys take the stage.
On the Saturday evening I was there, a good chunk of the crowd was made up of old-school cowboy types in Wranglers and straw hats, but one brave soul ventured downstairs wearing a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops. Many of the men’s faces were ruddy from the sun or from drink and lined by wrinkles as deep as cotton furrows. The women dripped with turquoise and sterling silver, and wore blouses emblazoned with Old Glory to mark the Memorial Day weekend. Those who didn’t already know one another made fast friends at the long tables covered in red-and-white-checkered cloths.
Promptly at eight, Arkey and his quintet launched into their set of honky-tonk classics. They burned through “Ramblin’ Fever,” and the steel guitar wailed on “There Stands the Glass.” As the night waltzed on, one of the dancers took a break and slid into the booth across from me. She introduced herself: Denise Lartin, 62 years old, originally from Queens, and now a proud Bandera resident. I asked how she had ended up here. “I got addicted to two-stepping,” she told me in the thickest New York accent I’ve heard outside of the movies. She had googled “cowboys” and discovered Bandera, which touts itself as the Cowboy Capital of the World. “I had gone to Utah and Arizona before coming here,” she said, “but there weren’t no cowboy bars. Not like here. You can go dancing every night of the week.”
Shortly before midnight, Arkey and his Blue Cowboys began to wrap their set. Denise and her boyfriend decided to head down Main Street to a country bar. Before they ascended the stairs, I asked Denise if she planned to stick around Bandera. “Oh, I’m here forever,” she said. “Texas, there’s nothing like it.”
by Christian Wallace, Texas Monthly | Read more:
Image: Leann Mueller
