He called his guitar Constance said she was truer than most
A 1968 D35 with cracks and spots worn as thin as a ghost
Traveled with her along the open road never knowing where he was bound
A yodelin’ buckaroo singin’ his songs from town to town

He played like Libba Cotton, couldn’t steal a lick
Upside down and backwards, his fingers moved so sure and quick
Brushed and slapped a rhythm out on his flat-top drum
Kept a bass line moving with his fingers, picked the melody with his thumb

When Larry’s guitar filled up the room freight trains rolled by
And coyotes howled at a big full moon
You could feel the magic that his Grandpa weaved
Smell Texas flowers in the air
On Larry’s guitar you could hitch a ride to anywhere

Came from a long line of railroad men, small Illinois town
Like his Dad before him that town couldn’t hold him down
He climbed on board the main-line, felt the rumbling beneath his feet
When he sang “The City of New Orleans” his own memories kept the beat

He told me once he met Guy Clark, down at the Scoots Inn
He said, “I asked him to listen to some of my tunes
We sat down in the back room
If you ask me what happened next in that late night Austin bar
Guy Clark hit the lucky sevens
He got to listen to Larry’s guitar

Hello, Thank you so much for visiting! I hope that you will come out to enjoy a show. I sincerely appreciate your interest in live music!