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Doing a solo gig at Dallas' Poor David's Pub in 1987.

The office walls are decorated with framed albums spanning Walker's career, from his short-lived psychedelic hippie stint with Circus Maximus in 1967, when he was gaunt and wore a fuzzy soul patch under his bottom lip; to 1968's debut solo effort, the classic Mr. Bojangles, when he looked like the roustabout street singer that he genuinely was; to the stoned and drunken cowboy of the 1970s Ridin' High era that gained him fame and nearly killed him; and on to the rejuvenated and more grounded Gypsy Songman period of the 1980s and onward.

Austin was comfortably quaint when Walker moved there in 1971, and his national notoriety and widespread fan base helped spur attention and growth that would later make the city hard for some to bear. Walker has praised Austin in song and conversation for years, but he had given his heart to New Orleans after hitchhiking there in 1961 and living as a street singer in the French Quarter. He and Susan bought a house in the Quarter several years ago, and they like to flee Austin and soak up New Orleans' eccentric scene. "The way Austin has changed now, I really like New Orleans," he says. "There are only two cities that are really different, and that's San Francisco and New Orleans."

Another favorite city is Fort Worth. He holds the record for most performances at Billy Bob's Texas and once drew 3,500 fans for a solo gig -- becoming the only entertainer to perform solo at the sprawling honkytonk. "Fort Worth is starting to look like one of the most unique cities in Texas," he says. "I'm a big fan of the Bass family, Lee and Ramona. They've been real nice to us and they've taken us to their ranch out by the King Ranch area, someplace down there -- who knows? -- for a couple of private parties, and they've had us at the (Fort Worth) Zoo, and they've supported us quite a bit. I think they've been really responsible for a lot of Fort Worth's renovation and charm."

Billy Bob's is a common stop, but he enjoys the acoustic intimacy of Bass Performance Hall. He liked playing at Caravan of Dreams before it closed, but "it was a little too small," he said. For Walker's 2003 solo run, he is seeking places that hold 500-700 people paying $25 or $30 each, with table service -- warm and personal venues but large enough to pay for his services. "That's part of what I'm trying to explore," he says. "I'm poking around to see what's going on."

Walker leans forward, then back, then forward again, in constant motion as he sits at his desk. He's always had a restless nature, but he's also got a hurting back. A disc problem forced him to play with a neck brace at his 60th birthday party last March in Austin, an annual bash that draws thousands and provides funds for his nonprofit foundation that supports education in the arts.

Walker's back is still hurting, but he's recovering. He is wearing an untucked, button-down shirt, faded blue jeans, tennis shoes, and a hat that covers a tanned scalp and thinning gray hair. He appears healthy, although the years are evident on his face.

The desk is cluttered with half-written songs on scraps of paper, guitar picks (for those interested: Dunlop vinyl, mostly medium gauge), and literature about his latest hobby -- photography. He recently acquired a digital camera and is finding outlets for that passion. His computer screen's wallpaper shows pictures he took earlier that day of homes in his neighborhood, a charming old subdivision near downtown Austin.

The phone rings again, and Walker snatches it up. He listens for a moment and then says, "That Pat Green sure is an asshole," and looks across the desk at his interviewer, who is recording the conversation.

"I'm doing an interview," Walker says into the phone and laughs. His eyes twinkle and the creases deepen and stretch the length of his face. It's the famous Jerry Jeff smile, the one that can be rare offstage with strangers but erupts so readily when he's under the spotlights singing "Getting By," "London Homesick Blues," "Sangria Wine," or any of his vast catalogue of barn-burning foot-stompers.

It's Pat Green on the phone, calling to update Jerry Jeff on a gig that night in San Angelo. Green is sharing the bill with Walker's son, Django, who followed his dad's bootsteps into the Texas honkytonk scene and is creating his own following. "Django's on stage doing a sound check now?" Walker says into the phone. "It's a big outdoor stage? Tell him he needs to put some of that guitar in his monitor because he's going to need it tonight -- he's got a new amp and a new rig. Yep. Well, every time I tell him something he says, 'I'm not you, Dad.' Yeah, he's 21, he's a man now."

Walker talks to Green a while longer and then hangs up and returns his attention to the interview. The phone soon rings again, but this time Walker unplugs the cord. "Susan can answer it," he says.

Talking to Walker can be as unsettling as it is interesting. The sheer largeness of his persona can both create walls and tear them down. Fans, acquaintances, and friends alternately describe Walker as outgoing, sullen, intelligent, ornery, generous, and petty. "He can be an asshole," more than one person said during interviews for this article. Walker shows glimpses of all these traits during a two-hour interview. He dismisses questions he doesn't like and shows irritation when he is interrupted or misunderstood. He also laughs and jokes when he's enjoying a particular topic of conversation; he beams when he discusses his two grown children, Django and Jessie Jane; and he gives his interviewer more time than was promised, even after complaining about being tired and wanting to grab some dinner and take a rest before driving 45 miles to Gruene for his 9 p.m. gig.

By the time the inquisition ends, he has presented himself as a man who does and says whatever he wants and doesn't much give a damn what people think -- a man hard to dislike or disrespect.

"Jerry Jeff is very comfortable with where he is," Green told the Weekly a few days later. "He still giggles, and he still has that fire in him. See him get mad about something, it's fun to watch."

Texas Music artists who become favorites of the college frat-boy crowd are ensured raucous shows and beer-guzzling, money-spending crowds that please promoters and accountants. Walker filled the role in the 1970s, Robert Earl Keen in the 1990s, and Green currently. But that college cult status can also enslave, making some artists feel like a Good Time Charlie jukebox, a dancing monkey. "What happens is you get these college kids following you on these bar gigs, and 'The Road Goes on Forever,' and everything is at a volume where there are no ballads; there is no subtle writing," said Walker, who, unlike many artists, is not afraid to discuss the sometimes strained relationships between performers and fans.

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