Lone Star beer signs shine dimly from the walls; at the far end of the barn-like building a row of cowboys, urban and otherwise, lean against the bar, barely visible through the thick haze of cigarette smoke. This is Texas honky-tonkin' at its quintessential best. The huge expanse of dance floor is jammed to the edges with a churning sea of cowboy hats, the dancers softly swooshing as they glide past the bandstand. There's a loud crowd of redneck truck drivers, mechanics, oil-field workers, and honest-to-goodness cowboys, and a large turnout of foxy Texas ladies with those long, long legs that come all the way up to here.

We finish our fourth song amidst an amalgam of applause and clanking glasses. The bass player, who fronts the group, (front men sing, emcee the show, collect money, and ward off squirrels, among 6,947 other things) squints through the murk, searching for our boss, a well-know country singer with a long list of top ten records to his credit.

"One more, guys," he calls. The drummer clicks his sticks and I kick off the next tune, a thumping 4/4 shuffle guaranteed to fill up any dance floor in Texas. Being a steel guitar player, I always love playing this kind of song, so I really get into the charm of the moment, hitting all the hot licks I think I know as the singer warbles about someone with crazy arms.

We always have a good time when we play Austin - or is this Amarillo? I don't remember, but I do know that last night we played Billy Bob's, the biggest night club in the world in Fort Worth. Anyway, we're somewhere in Texas in the middle of a two-week tour, and the motels and bars can get confusing after a while. Last night after the gig, for instance, I went to room 216 at the Holiday Inn, but the key wouldn't fit. I finally realized that I was supposed to be in room 301 - 216 had been last night. And the other key in my pocket, 365, from two nights ago, didn't help much.

A desk clerk in New Mexico once gave me the key to a room that had already been taken for the night and I walked in on two guys smoking a joint. Quite a surprise, despite the commercials. One of Ernest Tubbs' Texas Troubadours was awakened in the middle of the night by someone with the key to his room, but he didn't mind at all; the intruder turned out to be Mickey Mantle. We can assume that Mick was similarly delighted at meeting a Texas Troubadour.

By the end of the song our boss has appeared at the bar and the front man introduces him to the anxious crowd. He prances across the dance floor, waving at the audience, and hops up on the stage. Tottering just a little, he says in to the microphone, "If I can get these SOBs to turn down I'll sing y'all a song." He fixes us with a baleful Jack Daniel's stare and we kick off one of his big hits, the one we always start the show with.

"Hold it!" he hollers into the mike. "I don't wanna do that one."

We stop the music, one at a time, and sit there looking dumb. The guitar player lights a cigarette and we all grab a sip from our drink. We're not really supposed to drink or smoke on stage, but he probably won't be able to tell what we're doing tonight.

We finally get the music started and stumble through the set, starting and stopping his hit songs in mid-chorus (or even worse, mid-hot lick), changing keys in strange places, and just generally being creative. Sometimes a few people will ask for their money back, and sometimes someone will take umbrage at one of his wisecracks and want to fight, but a lot of them seem to enjoy seeing a famous person act goofy in public. They're probably thinking, "that's just the way I get on Saturday night." Identification.

Finally the set is over and the star mingles with his fans, shaking hands and insulting them on his way back to the bus. We drag out the T-shirts and records and do a brisk little business for a few minutes (the band gets 20% of the revenues), signing autographs and answering questions. "Do you know Johnny Cash" "Where y'all go from here?" "Do you really live on that bus?" "Remember me? I met you at Gilley's in 1975." "What's your room number, honey?"

The house band gets ready to start their set, so we go to the bar for a cold one or two. Drinks are on the house tonight, which is a nice change from the penurious club owners we've had to put up with lately. Actually, this is a pretty good night, what with the house band to share the night's work, and their P.A. to use. Our sound equipment sits out on the bus, a place we like to keep it as much as possible.

The piano player ("No, hon. I'm not married.") sneaks off to the bus with a leggy friend and the rest of us retire to the game room for some pool and Pac-Man. "Hey, so-and-so's bass player got 200,000 on there last week!"

When the house band finishes their set it's our turn again, and we manage to get through most of our second show before the boss gets too ridiculous. Once we get the guitars loaded it'll be Miller time. Actually, it's been Miller time all night.

The next gig, tomorrow night, is 500 miles away so we have to spend the night traveling. Our bus is a 40-foot Silver Eagle complete with couch, table, and chairs up front, eight bunks in the middle, and a stateroom for the boss in the back. For up to, and some times past, $200,000 you get all this and a lot more - stereo, microwave, TV, video cassette. It makes the road a lot easier to handle than it used to be years ago when everyone traveled in a station wagon pulling a trailer.

Once we get the boss hustled off to bed we cook up some nachos (with the hot jalapeno peppers) and ask the piano player for details of his evening's activities, knowing he would never lie to his pickin' buddies.

Later, after everyone has gone to bed. I'm drinking one more beer, watching the dark Texas plains slip by our speeding bus. Occasionally a cluster of lights relieves the inky blackness on either side of the seemingly endless ribbon of concrete. There's not much traffic out, and the CB crackles only sporadically as our driver exchanges Smokey reports with oncoming 18-wheelers. It almost feels like this is my bus, like I can tell him where to take me . . . Well, we've got to stop to pick and grin a couple more times and then we can go to the house.