Pages: 1 2 3 4 5

« BACK

Fromholz had given no interviews since the stroke, until he agreed to talk to Fort Worth Weekly. "He's one of the most private persons I know," said his sister, Angela Blair. "He hardly ever does interviews, and I was surprised that he did this one. I think he felt ... it was time for people to know. You say 'stroke' and you picture someone crippled who can't say a word. He wanted people to know that he would be back. There's not a doubt in my mind that he will be back stronger than he ever was."

Stronger than ever, but perhaps a different man than the one who went to sleep on the night of April 18.

April 19, Easter eve, was all mapped out. Fromholz was planning to get up at his usual 10 a.m., drink coffee, putter around his sister's house in Bosque County until early afternoon, and then drive 260 miles to Kerrville for a gig that night.

The next week he was expected in Stephenville to perform his distinctive repertoire of songs while scattershooting his sharp wit at Larry Joe Taylor's Texas Music Festival. Beyond that, his schedule was packed. A Texas Music resurgence had returned Fromholz to the spotlight he enjoyed in the 1970s as a pioneering member of the Outlaw movement led by Willie Nelson and a shaggy bunch of Austin-based singer-songwriters.

Since 2001 he's released two new c.d.'s -- Live at Anderson Fair and A Guest in Your Heart -- and a retrospective, The Anthology: 1969-1991. This year he re-released on c.d. the obscure but fascinating 1985 recording Cow Jazz and is preparing to re-release on c.d. two notable earlier albums, Frummox: Here to There and Rumor in My Own Time. A solid base of longtime fans and a growing number of young listeners enjoy his unique style of singing, songwriting, and storytelling. In March he had sold out MacHenry's Upstairs and the Reata Restaurant rooftop in Fort Worth, and his last two appearances at Bass Performance Hall garnered enthusiastic reviews.

So life was good. Fromholz, 58, remained healthy and active despite a longtime penchant for beer, tequila, cigarettes, and carousing. For the past 23 years, in addition to the town gigs, he had also served as river guide, horse trail guide, and campfire sage for private adventure outfitters Far Flung Adventures and Texas River Expeditions.

But from the moment Fromholz opened his eyes on Easter Eve morning, his well-planned schedule was down the tubes and his active future in jeopardy. A robber had entered his bedroom the night before and stolen part of his life. "A stroke is a thief," Fromholz said. "It steals your identity and your ego and self-confidence and all that stuff."

When he awoke that morning he was unable to speak. "I got up to drink coffee, and all I could do was mumble; I couldn't talk," he said. "My sister said my face was drooping and my [left] hand was curled up. I didn't feel bad or have a headache. It was kind of weird."

Blair and a friend tried to take him to the doctor but Fromholz resisted. "He'd shake his head no," she recalled. "We'd gotten Steven in the living room in a chair and I was getting hysterical. My friend told him, 'I'm afraid Angela is going to have a stroke if you don't go to the hospital.' Steven agreed to go to the hospital because he was worried about me. I guess this was just scary to him."

Fromholz doesn't recall being scared, just confused. "I was in denial," he said. "It couldn't happen to me. But it could and it did and it sucks big time! Strokes are weird things. Never have one -- skip it, you wouldn't like it."

His doctor at the Houston Veterans Affairs Medical Center "said it could take a year to get fully over it," Fromholz said. "It was a big stroke. They say I'm a miracle. A lot of people have my stroke and never walk again, or they die."

Three months later, his speech still slurs a bit, he tires easily, and he hasn't found the confidence to play his guitar and sing at the same time, even in the solitude of his own home. But in four hours of interviewing over two days, he was alert, witty, mending, and determined to return as good as new.

Affability has always been Fromholz' trademark. Many of his songs, such as "Dimmy Jean's Poor Puke Sauce Linkages," contain humor and irony, his stage patter is hilarious, and he's approachable offstage. But he typically doesn't reveal much of himself or his feelings beyond his music. A tough Texan with rural roots and four decades of road experience, he keeps his cards close to the vest and hesitates to get deep or show vulnerability. Particularly now, at one of the most vulnerable periods in his life.

"C'mon in," Fromholz said in his clipped manner. He was standing in the doorway of his Sugar Land home on the outskirts of Houston, barefoot, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and looking tired. Inside, the modest and comfortable brick home bore few traces of his music career, other than two platinum records framed and hanging on the living room wall. The backyard, seen through a sliding glass door, was lush with St. Augustine grass and a gigantic old willow tree.

I was a little worried. During our phone conversation the previous day, Fromholz had been abrupt and void of humor. Now here he was in person, still terse and without a trace of his trademark drollness. I wondered if the stroke had stolen his wit or made it difficult to verbalize.

We sat down on facing couches with a tape recorder between us, and I looked for a way to break the ice. "Well, I guess we should start this interview with the logical question," I said. "Did you ever sleep with Rita Coolidge?"

NEXT »

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5