March 19, 1998: An Art opening and concert was scheduled for that day, and my biggest concern was keeping the reclusive Daniel Johnston, beloved Texan Singing Cult Figure, alive until then. Brandon Jemeyson, leader of the smart-ass skiffle ensemble the Sutcliffes, was driving the band van as we drifted past the last 7-11, past the last McDonald's, the last Wendy's, past the iconic articulations of capitalism, beyond the neon numbers glow of  self-replicating corporate culture, into the singular backwoods blackness  toward a lone star who sat waiting on his porch for his rescue from the lonely surrealistic outpost in a forgotten hill country town.

I first met Daniel 15 years ago when I was a graduate student in Austin, where Daniel was a well-known entrepreneur-self-promoter, making tapes of his songs and selling them anyway he could, in bars and restaurants, to strangers on the street; and in his own signature guileless way, he actually did a remarkable job of distributing his songs. These homemade tapes are the basis of the underground Daniel Johnston legend. I've since met many people much younger than I in New York and other Northern states far removed from Austin, Texas, who first came across these tapes in college and then sought out his few indie and major label releases. And judging from the devotion these fans  have shown, Daniel's  songs are just as precious to people 15 years my junior who have never met Daniel as they have been to me. There is a fragile and sincere power in the strange warbling voice and the pure emotional depiction of the wonders of God and comic book heroes, puppy love and loneliness, West Virginia mountains and dark Texas nights. In this vast and jumbled soundscape of a country, people far and wide have shared a deep personal connection with a mysterious, simple man who, because of either bipolar disorder or genius, or both, has channeled a sparkling American id into haunting, jaunty, unforgettable music.   

Brandon and I had been down this road before. We had driven down to record "Still Life" for my POPaganda CD a couple years earlier and witnessed Daniel at the lowest point in his life, when medication could not control his depression but instead left him slightly out of sync with reality. We had intended to bring him back to Dallas for a gig, but he was sadly unable to travel. We recorded "Still Life" in his garage and made the lonely trek back without him, playing the tape for company. When we played the song for Brandon's girlfriend Kathy, she broke down in tears. Even in Daniel's downest days, he has always had the ability to communicate the contents of his soul. That's his rare genius. But a couple years ago, his soul was in bad shape. We hoped and believed now, from recent telephone conversations, that he was on the upswing.

Sure enough, he was waiting for us on the front porch. It was too late to tackle the six-hour drive back to Dallas, so Daniel's parents invited us to stay over. And again we found ourselves in the garage studio, watching Daniel settle in at the piano, hoping for the best. That night he blew us away, upbeat and limber, in fine form, with an entire album's worth of new material, possibly his best ever. I still couldn't quite allow myself to believe it, and as we settled into the guest rooms for a well-needed night's sleep, I prayed we'd be able to get him to Dallas this time, that this magic new medication he was on wasn't just a dream, that he was really back from the abyss once and for all, back in the land of the all-night jam, music, art, and laughter. I was periodically awakened by Daniel's coughing fits and rustlings about the house throughout the night. By dawn I was sure he'd be in no shape to travel.

I was wrong. Daniel awoke easily, and his parents served us a wonderful pancake breakfast. After that we finally hit the road for Dallas. We listened to Brandon's "Let It Be" tape over and over, and Daniel and Brandon exchanged stories from their studio sessions and  talked a lot about the Beatles and their recording techniques. I just relaxed and listened in, glad that Brandon had come along and had a shared interest in the Beatles.

In Dallas Brandon rounded up the Sutcliffes for a quick rehearsal in his apartment. It was going smoothly, so I started videotaping, thinking this may be the only footage we got out of Daniel's trip. I still wasn't sure he'd be up for the whole event, gallery opening and concert. The band seemed a little bewildered by Daniel, but followed his instructions to great result. I presented Daniel with a Charlie Brown tee-shirt my mother had made for him and donned the matching one she'd made for me. Kathy was quite amused and took Daniel and me out to dinner while the band went to the club to set up.

It was raining heavily as we drove to the gallery, and I was sure no one would show up. Dallas always has such great weather that it doesn't take much to keep people home. We arrived early at Angstrom gallery and were greeted by David Quadrini, the  charismatic director. To my surprise, already there were 15 people, and 20 of Daniel's  drawings had been sold. I guided Daniel around the gallery to see the art. The show consisted of 20 oil paintings I had done that were inspired by Daniel's drawings. Some were more derivative than others; some were juxtapositions of mine and Daniel's stock figures. Daniel seemed shocked and impressed. This was the first time he'd actually seen the work, and I don't think he'd really understood the concept when I first proposed the idea of a collaborative show with him months back. Excited and eager to be part of the world, Daniel had agreed to participate in something he hadn't quite been able to visualize. I was thrilled that now  that he could see what I had been talking about, he thought the whole show was splendid. As an added bonus, Daniel had made about 50 small drawings at my request, and these were being sold hand over fist during the opening. Daniel, who hadn't handled money in many years, would leave Dallas the next day with nearly a thousand dollars in his pocket. For most of the opening he stood in front of the gallery chain-smoking cigarettes and joking with fans. I hung around outside also and pulled him back under the awning every so often when he would begin to drift into the pouring rain.

After a couple hours I made an announcement that Daniel would be performing at the Bar of Soap, two doors down. The Sutcliffes heard me and scrambled to get it together. The band was crammed into a corner by the front door, and Brandon was caught in a snake's nest of black wire. He looked at me and pleaded, "I need a half-hour!" But what could I do? It was too late. The hourglass had been flipped, and the huge gallery crowd was frantically sifting through the bottleneck of the front door. In minutes the small club was overflowing with people, on the tables, trampling over the wires,  crowded in with the band. Those who hadn't managed to get inside stood in the pouring rain looking in through the windows.

Daniel took his place at the center of the band. A bewildered Brandon looked around hopelessly at the situation, shrugged his shoulders, and shouted out "1-2-3-4!" And off they went into a medley of Daniel's greatest hits. It was so packed that people were literally nose to nose with the band, with Daniel. I was hoping it wouldn't freak him out, but he was in rare form, bantering easily with the crowd between numbers, feeding off their energy, their love. The crowd was riveted on him, his strange hypnotic voice that tore at the soul, as the quivering inner child of rock 'n roll lit up a dark bar on a dismal rainy night somewhere in Dallas, somewhere in America, somewhere in time, and a group of Dallasites that were lucky enough to see this firsthand will forever be witnesses to the second coming of Daniel Johnston. I was there and I'll never forget it. The legend turns a new page.

A week later Daniel played a showcase in Austin for SXSW to a packed house. Brandon and I were there, cheering him on. We're going to bring the Daniel Johnston/Ron English art show to New York this fall, an exciting prospect for everyone. Daniel has just completed an album and is going to be singing the role of Baby Jesus in my upcoming compilation CD "Revelations 2000." Life on the edge of an old century is looking up for Daniel, and when I think of him these days, I picture him in his Charlie Brown shirt on his front porch, guitar in hand, waiting for the tour bus to come barreling over the country road and whisk him off to the next town in the next century to play songs of new life and love, songs that will always be relevant and real and warble the heart of the matter.