Robert Earl Keen.

The one who told the truth like it was just small talk on the porch.

He grew up in Houston, just like I did. Made music with Lyle Lovett in college, and turned stories into songs that felt like memory. His voice? Not smooth. Not polished. Just honest. Like your uncle who leans back in a creaky chair and says something so real you have to sit with it for a second.

He and I both went to Texas A&M. So yeah, this one’s personal. This one feels like home.

"The Front Porch Song" was the blueprint. It was always going to start and end there. That sense of place, of folding time like laundry, fresh and familiar. I’m in love with a live version of this song - “The Live Album” if you feel like looking it up. There’s a moment: "Oh no, some non-Aggie fans," he says, with a laugh and irreverence. As if this is the first time he’s been underestimated. Please, he’s an Aggie. It’s not judgment. It’s just recognition. That wink across generations of backyards, beers, and knowing where you’re from.

In ‘Feelin’ Good Again,’ he captures that rare, unpolished joy - the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re not trying so hard. But there’s something ghostly in it too. Like maybe those old friends at the bar aren’t just people, but echoes. Maybe the bar itself is a memory. And in that golden second, it’s not just that he’s feeling good again - it’s that the past is sitting down beside him, not to haunt him, but to toast to the fact that he made it.

Then he gives us "The Road Goes on Forever" - a ballad disguised as a freight train. He knew how to build a story that pulls you in, turns the light off, and doesn’t let you go until you’ve hit the last chord. Those characters live in your bones now. You root for them even when you know they’re doomed. Especially then.

And "Merry Christmas from the Family" - God, the mess of it. The beer, the blood, the unspoken things. A holiday card soaked in truth. You can’t not laugh, and you can’t not see your own people in it.

He knew Texas. He knew how to wrap imperfection in melody. He knew luck was showing up and doing the work. He wasn’t flashy. He was faithful - to the story, to the road, to the ones who sang along.

He’s retired from touring now. But not from echoing. Not from the jukebox in your dad’s garage or the sunlit memory of your own small town bar.

Robert Earl Keen didn’t just write songs. He archived the ache. He didn’t shout to be heard. He opened the screen door, said, "Hey," and let the silence carry the rest.

Poster on the wall: Robert Earl Keen.

For every Aggie who knows the value of a front porch.
For every Texan who’s heard truth in a laugh.
For everyone who’s ever folded a memory into a melody and called it home.

“Give ‘em something to talk about on their way to Luby’s”