Evan Johns

 I’m at the age where I have too many dead friends. Luckily, most of them left a lot behind.

I’ve been listening to my old buddy Evan Johns all day. Evan would tell you - confidently - that he was “the next big thing for years". I’m not sure I’d go that far, but for some of us, he was always a big thing.

I’ve got more Evan stories than I should—and it’s a miracle I remember as many as I do. If you knew Evan and his devotion to adult libations, that’ll make sense.

I first heard about him when he was playing with the LeRoi Brothers. He added some much-needed oomph (in my opinion). A few years later I found Trash, Twang & Thunder by 4 Big Guitars From Texas - Grammy-nominated, no less - in a cut-out bin for $1.99. Then came Evan Johns & the H-Bombs, ordered mail-order from Jungle Records back when that still felt like magic. This was the rock and roll I wanted to hear: rockabilly, R&R, punk, surf, blues, country—all mashed together the way I’d been hearing it in my head for years.

At Checkered Records in Canton, Ohio, I was telling George - the proprietor and a walking music encyclopedia - about this Evan Johns cat. He handed me Rolling Through the Night and casually mentioned that Jello Biafra loved Evan so much he put out a record by him. To this day, it’s probably the best thing Evan ever recorded.

Evan was prolific. Through the ’90s and 2000s he recorded constantly. When his health started failing, he was burning CDs at home and selling them on eBay—usually for twenty bucks a pop.

The music world is smaller than people think. In 1991, I was summoned to a gig by Dom from The Decade. Laurence Beall & the Sultans were in town, and Dom thought I should be there. Laurence asked me to sit in on a song; I ended up playing the rest of the night. During the usual band-swap Q&A, I mentioned that my band covered Evan’s “Rolling Through the Night.” Turns out Laurence knew Evan well—they’d even written together—so we played one of their songs on the spot. Laurence and I have been friends for nearly 35 years now, thanks entirely to Evan.

A few months later, I met Evan himself—also at The Decade. He was an hour late for his own gig, having passed out in his van. All night long he apologized in that ragged Virginia drawl: “Ya gotta excuse me… I’m just sooooo tired.” Then he proceeded to tear the roof off the place. We had a few beers after the show. I’d brought my old Telecaster, Agatha, with me. Evan pulled out a penknife and carved his “autograph” into her. He’s the only person I ever would’ve allowed to do that—because he was clearly out of his mind.

After that came the occasional drunken phone calls. I’m not convinced he ever knew who he was calling. When I heard he was having health problems from drinking, I wasn’t surprised. I’d seen this movie before.

In 1995, a bunch of us went to Indiana for a rockabilly festival—Ronnie Dawson, Tim Polecat, the Frantic Flattops, nonstop music and nonstop partying. I wandered into an early evening set by my friends The Belmont Playboys and discovered they were backing Evan Johns. Not only was he gigging - he was on fire. Afterward, he pulled me aside. He was planning a 10–15 city tour and wanted my band as his backing group.

We met in the hotel lounge to talk details. Evan bought the first round. I asked how his health was—I wasn’t eager to tour with a ticking time bomb. He assured me he was fine. When the bass player went to order another round, Evan waved him off and said the line that doomed the whole thing:

“Put your money away. You’re drinking with Evan Johns now.”

And drink we did. I don’t think the bass player or I sobered up for two days. I can’t say Evan ever did. Soon the phone calls started - promoters asking, “How’s Evan? Is he drinking?” One by one, the dates fell apart. The tour never happened.

Later on, I became friends with Billy Poore while he was working on Rockabilly: A 40-Year Journey. Turns out Billy and Evan were old friends too. According to Billy, they once had a nearly twelve-hour phone call. Billy was maybe the only human I ever met who could out-talk Evan. I used to leave Billy voicemails doing a dead-on Evan impression. He’d call back furious. Good times.

Evan married again, moved to Canada, drank himself into a coma, got sober, got divorced, came back to the States, and started the cycle all over again. He burned plenty of bridges, but those of us who understood him stuck around. He eventually landed in Austin again. This time, the magic wasn’t there. His drinking had caught up to his health—and his playing.

We lost touch for a few years until he ended up at Skyline Terrace, a supportive housing program in Austin. When we reconnected, he sounded better than he had in years. He was still recording at home, still selling CDs online. His liver was gone, though. He believed he’d get a transplant. The truth was, that was never going to happen.

We lost Evan in 2017.

I still miss that crazy old sumbitch. I’m grateful I still have his music—and his name carved into one of my guitars. Those of us who knew him still trade stories. Across Europe, Teddy Boys and Rockers listen to his songs, often without knowing it. I spent time in Wales years ago and heard Crazy Cavan covering Evan’s material—songs that became part of that scene’s canon. Just this morning I heard two different versions of “Taking Care of My Home.”

Long live the memory of Evan Johns—the H-Bomb his own bad self!