Remembering Todd Snider

The first time I ever heard Todd Snider, it was 1999 on KNBT, when “Ballad of the Devil's Backbone Tavern” came tumbling out of the speakers like some half drunk gospel hymn meant for the backroads. The whole world felt wide open back then, but nothing cracked it open wider than hearing that off kilter voice layer a story on my busted car radio. It was the sound of a man who understood the holy trifecta of laughter, heartache, and trouble. He also somehow knew how to bottle it in three chords and truth-ish storytelling.

And that’s the thing about Todd:

You never quite knew where the fantasy ended and the truth started...and that was the magic.

I remember standing at Cheatham Street Warehouse, packed in tight, when he debuted “Waco Moon” just days after Eddy Shaver passed. Kent Finlay approvingly watching from his stage right haunt and Todd stood there, vulnerably talking about loss the only way he knew how. He spun it into a song so real it felt like it was bleeding right there on the floorboards. You could hear the ache. Scratch that, you could feel the ache.

Before the Americana boom. Before “storyteller” became a marketing catchphrase for TikTok influencers. Before any of us were smart enough to truly know what all this was about, Todd was already doing the thing.

Gary Allan put a national shine on him with “Alright Guy,” but Todd never chased that spotlight. He aimed it wherever he damn well pleased.

Ragweed would preach the Todd Snider gospel via a faithful cover of "I Believe You".

"Beer Run" became a Napster/Limewire staple. And every person that fell down the wormhole of his wiseass songwriting climbed down to the bottom and grabbed a lyric here or a story there that became their own personal favorite.

“Play a Train Song” became a college guitar pull staple from Lubbock to College Station.

He was an acolyte of John Prine, carrying that mischievous, philosophical spark forward.

He loved Jerry Jeff like a compass loves north.

He held Kent Finlay in reverence the way a preacher holds scripture.

And he roamed the world as a kindred spirit to Townes, walking the knife’s edge between brilliance and fragility, never pretending it was easy.

Townes was a ghost by the time I came of age, but Todd walked in our midst. He'd pop in on a random Tuesday night at Cheatham one week and then be headlining Gruene Hall the next. In any capacity, he was always a rock star in a stand up comedian shell with a poet's heart, hippie's soul and a college professor's intellect.

Todd Snider could walk onstage with nothing but a guitar and own a room so completely you forgot there were chairs, walls, or a ceiling.

Put a rock band behind him and he could set the place on fire.

He told jokes like parables.

He told truths like confessions.

He made you feel like you were in on the secret.

And maybe you were.

Maybe that’s why he mattered so much to people like us.

The last time I saw Todd perform was in Key West at Mile 0 Fest. It was 2019 and it was in a tiny Key West theater. There were names with bigger font size on the poster playing at the same time on that laid back afternoon off Duval Street. But, the real ones knew where to be. I got there 45 minutes early and it was already one in one out. Lucky enough for me, Greg Henry saved me a spot and I slid in place in plenty of time to see Todd stroll out and own the stage like only he could. Despite the troubles of recent times, that moment remains my favorite Todd memory and how I will remember him. It was the best and healthiest I'd ever seen him.

We love Texas Music and all of the various offshoots because it’s human.

We love Todd Snider because he reminded us it’s also beautifully broken, hilarious, dangerous, soulful and free.

Every sideways grin.

Every rabbit hole monologue.

Every half true tale that somehow explained the entire universe.

There will never be another Todd Snider.

But the world is a better, kinder, stranger and funnier place because he wandered through it barefoot with a guitar and dared us all to follow his lead. He was one of one and there will be another like him. Rest in peace Todd.

Rest easy, Todd.

You were most definitely an alright guy and we’ll be singing your songs and botching your stories and punchlines as long as there are beer runs, barrooms, backroads, and believers. Your influence lives on in folks like Drew Kennedy, John Baumann, Race Ricketts and so many more. "Life's too short to worry, life's too long to wait and it's too short to not love everybody and life is too long to hate." - Todd Snider