The Star-Crossed Life and Times of Michael “Max” Nofziger:  Part 2

          Max Nofziger’s first week in Austin was mind-expanding.  Upon his arrival the evening of July 5, 1973, Max accompanied his newfound friend Larry the hitchhiker to his apartment in Clarksville, just north of where Sweetish Hill Bakery now stands.  A big Harley-Davidson was parked inside Larry’s first floor living room; the other apartment décor only added to the biker/bachelor ambiance.

          The two travelers cleaned up and chilled out, shortly making their way to Mother Earth, a music venue then located at 10^th and Lamar in the spot recently occupied by Cheapo Discs but perhaps best known as the long-time site of Whole Foods Market.  According to Max, Mother Earth was a mystical place. Its continuous light show was amazing, especially the flashing dance floor.  The band Too Smooth was playing excellent rock and roll, and Max was soon enjoying himself completely.

          Later that night, Max and Larry trekked across the Lamar Town Lake bridge to the Split Rail, a ramshackle Texas-style roadhouse on South Lamar between Riverside Drive and Barton Springs Road, a bit north of the present-day Jack-in-the-Box.  Inside the club, Max was treated to a show by Freda and the Firedogs, otherwise known as Marcia Ball in her Cosmic Cowgirl incarnation, wearing a cowboy hat and belting out progressive country-rock tunes. 

Awesomely Good Vibrations

          The Split Rail was full of both hippies and the sorts of folks Max knew only as rednecks.  All were sitting jammed together and slugging mass quantities of beer.  Max was instantly on his guard.  His life experience told him that this intermingling of ideologies and alcohol was a recipe for disaster.  The only redneck-types he’d ever crossed paths with were like the ones who’d threatened him out on I-10 earlier that day.  Elsewhere across the country, especially in the South, hippies and rednecks were clashing dangerously and often.

          That night at the Split Rail, Max was concerned enough at the potential for violence that he actually sat next to the door for the quickest possible exit when all hell, he was certain, was bound to break loose.  But no fights occurred.  In fact, as Max relaxed, it slowly dawned on him that not only was no tension building in the club, but also this cross-section of Austinites appeared to be digging each other’s company as much as they were grooving on the music.  He didn’t see a single sloppy drunk — a puzzling and unprecedented development for Max.  The more beer the crowd consumed, the mellower the overall vibe.  Max was pleasantly astonished.

          Today Max describes the experience this way, “The music brought the people together.  Austin was clearly a special place.  This kind of tolerance was unusual, but it was beyond tolerance.  It was magic.”  He means magic not in the sense of a supernatural spell having been cast upon the crowd.  It was a feeling that the people themselves were generating, not unconsciously but deliberately and with panache.

Max recalls the ideology-transcending local phenomenon with earnestness and enthusiasm infectious enough to melt the most hardened cynic.  He isn’t kidding, and he isn’t lost in la-la land.  Max reminds us of the awesome force of Austin’s unique collective consciousness and strength. How sweetly quaint, but how critical that we summon this latent power if we are to affect any serious change.

          We used to call it “the magic of agreement.”  We used to place all our bets on our belief in it.  Max has not forgotten.  He continues to call it to mind and to call the rest of us to this higher standard.  He expects us to still care and to act on our convictions rather than roll our eyes and make witty wisecracks when things don’t go our way.  How badly we need Max and his reminders.  His refreshing demeanor is almost Buddha-like when he looks you in the eye and he knows that you know exactly what he means.  He overlooks personal skepticism and rekindles old activist fires.  This writer couldn’t again face the man without first re-committing to his causes, which are our causes, after all, or they dang sure ought to be.

          It was in the Split Rail where Max saw his first long-hairs wearing cowboy hats.  He had found himself smack in the heartland of Michael Murphy’s Cosmic Cowboy uprising.  Today he recites these Murphy lyrics as indicative of those early-70s Austin times:  “I just wanna be a Cosmic Cowboy . . . Lone Star sippin’ and skinny-dippin’ . . . steel guitars and bars . . .” Indeed.

Paradise Found

          The following day, Max and Larry hitchhiked to Barton Creek and climbed down to a pristine spot upstream from Barton Springs Pool.  Naturally, they took along a six-pack of Lone Star beer.  The water in the creek was cool and crystal clear, not yet spoiled by the urban growth which would soon spring up all around it.

          Max spent that day hanging out in and around the water.  That’s when it struck Max that he had landed in “Paradise.”  He felt instantly connected to Barton Creek and quickly developed a fierce determination to protect this stellar resource from encroachment and pollution.  Max behaves fiercely about protecting Barton Creek to this day.  Saving Our Springs is obviously still worth struggling for, and Max says he’s ready and decidedly able to continue fighting this good fight, as he has done now for nearly thirty years.

          Max’s first stay in Austin lasted about a week, during which he also discovered Armadillo World Headquarters, plenty of good food establishments, and yet more exciting musical entertainment.  He also happily realized that he wanted to make Austin his home.  He was head-over-heels in love with the town.  This was the place he’d been searching for without being sure it existed.  Imagine the thrill.

          By mid-July 1973, Max had abandoned his plans to go to L.A. and had already returned to his birthplace of Archbold, Ohio.  He immediately started working 17 hours per day at two different factories in order to save enough money to move himself and his possessions to Austin — an unexpected but exhilarating about-face in the direction of his young life.

          One may question Max’s contention that he was destined to live in Austin and might instead as easily believe that he arrived on a random vector of chaotic energy.  What matters most, however, is not what a man believes, but what he does. Luckily for us, Max Nofziger did make Austin his home, and he carries on the crusade to preserve the community’s cultural and environmental integrity even today, sustained by a vision of what he found here long ago. 

          Next week, log on to read about Max’s first few years as a resident of Austin when he became a flower-vendor icon with big dreams . . .