Austin Allsup understands hard work.

Five hours past a standard workday, he’s on his hands and knees placing a one-inch-by-one-inch square of glass tile in the bathroom of a home he may never visit again. Wiping sweat from his brow, he smiles that large, boyish grin—the grin that has put him in more trouble than it’s been able to get him out of in his short life. A life that adds one year tomorrow, making him 23 years old and a Capricorn.

He’s not smiling because tomorrow is his birthday; he’s smiling because tomorrow is his 188th gig. And because he is about to release a live album. And because he’s a musician.

“Working hard doesn’t hurt me. My day is coming,” Allsup says. “And it’s all good.”

So goes the life of a talented and greatly undiscovered musician. Early to rise every weekday to work laying tile or hardwood floors, writing songs late into the evening, and gathering the energy to play every weekend on the main stage for hundreds of loyal fans.

None of his fans are more loyal than Mike Leatherwood, a Fort Worth firefighter and Austin’s boss in the tile and floor business. Leatherwood has been very good to Austin, allowing him time off to travel to different cities and states throughout the country. Allsup says that the Leatherwood has also been a good influence, something his life had lacked for a long time.

Allsup grew up in Little Rock. He smiles a little at that thought too, then he flames a Marlboro Light and begins to talk. His words are slow and deliberate. He looks through his long, blond hair as he paints his portrait. His stories are far beyond what a typical kid, roughly the age of a college grad, would tell. He takes a drag and starts talking.

With a 91-mile-per-hour fastball, Allsup’s life was cut out to be a starting pitcher at the University of Arkansas. The right-handed hurler was being looked at by several schools, but his idea was to play for the home town Razorbacks, get a degree, and be successful. At 17, his mom and stepdad divorced, sending his plans in a new direction. His father stepped in for guidance and Austin’s world was about to change. Austin’s dad is Tommy Allsup, a man who can tell a fascinating story or two of his own accord.

The story has been told 100 times more than the population of Owasso, Oklahoma — Tommy’s birthplace. Still, there is an icy chill that follows the account of February 3, 1959, as cold and calculating as that night in Clear Lake, Iowa. Tommy was playing guitar for a band named The Crickets. His legendary band members Waylon Jennings and Buddy Holly were part of the “Winter Dance Party Tour,” which scheduled a 24-city course over three weeks. Actually, the Surf Ballroom in this small Iowa town wasn’t even an original stop. The promoters were trying to fill an open date. Holly, who legend says was tired of the long, cold bus rides, chartered a $36-per-person single-engine Beechcraft Bonanza. The plane was big enough to hold three passengers and a pilot. When J.P. Richardson, known throughout the United States as The Big Bopper, asked Waylon Jennings for his seat, the future country music icon quietly stepped aside. The Big Bopper had developed a case of the flu (which was erroneously attributed to Ritchie Valens in the film La Bamba) and didn’t feel like he could travel the length of a bus trip.

Valens had always wanted to take a plane trip and asked Tommy if he would give up his seat. “I’ll flip you for it,” Tommy replied. A local radio deejay tossed a coin and Tommy ended up on the bus. That coin saved his life.

“I’m—we’re only here because of a coin flip,” Austin said relaying the story, as Tommy stands at the bar, listening intently. “That’s a pretty powerful piece of history to live with.” The plane carrying Holly, Richardson, Valens, and the pilot crashed shortly after takeoff, killing everyone on board.

Austin went to DFW Airport to pick up Tommy, just days before gig number 188. His dad had been in Los Angeles at a national music expo, playing guitar with the likes of Sheryl Crow and U2 frontman Bono. This is a far cry from stepping on stage at the White Water Tavern in Little Rock, as Austin had years ago. The joint, roughly the size of a standard sardine can, holds just 75 people and has a stage that is eye-level with every person that’s packed in.

“It’s a good thing I’m tall,” Austin said. “Otherwise, that show would really suck.”

If nothing else, his dad has taught Austin how to be level headed. Austin didn’t pick up a guitar until he was 17 and didn’t play his first solo gig until June of 2005. Sure, he sang along with Bob Wills, Elvis, Led Zeppelin, and Pearl Jam, but that was mostly in the shower or during the down time while participating in his church’s choir. Being the son of a legend didn’t make him an instant star on stage.

“I should give everyone their money back that was at my first show,” he laughed in a half-serious tone. “I think I just stood there and sang.”

Even though he had been through a semester at Southlake Music College, he still didn’t have the edge to keep people coming back. Finally, Tommy pulled his son out and told him that good ol’ dad could teach him what he needed to know. Tommy handed out pointer after pointer, slowly guiding his blood protégé to a stage presence. Once Austin learned that, his show evolved.

It’s Saturday night in November, but it’s not quite the ass-clinching cold that north Texas has experienced in the past. Austin is standing outside of Woody’s Tavern, a lively sports bar near I-20 and Bryant Irvin in Fort Worth, and he lights a cigarette. He stands alone. Maybe to gather his thoughts, go over his routine or maybe it’s just because sometimes he’s better by himself. Little does he know that roughly a month after this recording, he will become “disengaged” from his fiancée and will again have to balance a career and a personal life. At 6’4” and 190 lbs. with his long blonde hair and engaging smile, it doesn’t seem to pose an issue. Plus, he’s still in his early 20s. He’s going to be just fine in the singles market.

But tonight, his focus is on the show. There are over 400 people, including his dad, in the audience and he has to nail this one.

“My live show is five times more rockin’ than a regular album, “Allsup says with confidence, mixed with just a tad bit of nervousness. “It’s all about putting on a good show. That’s what I’m going to do.”

His crowd is definitely a melting pot of all types of individuals. There are college-aged students and hippies and folks who were well into their 20s when they heard The Crickets for the first time. One couple, age unidentified, drove 2-1/2 hours to see the show. Woody’s Tavern may be a far cry from playing The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, but Austin’s getting geared up just thinking about it. The light shines in his eyes just a little more with each passing moment and he feels his altar ego coming out.

“I’m not going to sing some stupid-ass song that doesn’t have any meaning to me,” he says, almost defensively. “I want my music to have a trueness and passion to it that people will recognize. Without that, I’m just another musician.”

It’s showtime. Austin steps on stage with a sweat-soaked bandana pushing his hair out of his eyes and a Rolling Stones t-shirt. Some patrons are playing pool in the back of the building; others are blowing smoke into the air and still others watch in amazement as Kansas State continues to dominate the then #4-ranked Texas Longhorns on the Wildcats home field in Manhattan.

“I hope these people are here to watch me,” he says. “If not, they will be by the end of the night.” He fires up his guitar and the show begins.

After his first song, all of the pool players have their cues by their sides and all but two people, both in Kansas State sweatshirts, have stopped to watch him. The Wildcats eventually won the game 45-42, but that duo missed a helluva show.

After a handful of songs, Tommy works his way up to the stage and the father-son guitar jam begins. “He’s the most talented guitarist I’ve ever seen,” Austin says. “Sometimes I catch myself just watching him play when I’m supposed to be playing.”

The crowd has been captivated, which is exactly what Austin wanted in the first place. He slides up next to Lyn Roth, a guitarist brought in for the live album, and they punish their guitar strings. Two TCU students are standing near the stage, listening to Austin’s rendition of a Pearl Jam hit when one girl looks at the other.

“Who is this guy?”

“I don’t know, but he’s hot.” They both laugh and continue to sing along. They will later approach him and ask for an autograph and maybe a phone number. But Austin would never admit the second part.

“It’s on my shoulders to provide everything,” Austin said, noting that he recently dismissed his manager and is now handling all aspects of the band’s endeavors. Drummer Josh Clark, bass guitarist Reuben Salazar, and guitarist Ron Gada help when they can but Austin is the lifeblood of the group. Austin pauses for a minute, takes the final drag off his cigarette, puts out the dead soldier and his eyes light up again.

“Check this out.”

He rolls up the sleeve covering his left arm to reveal an intricate cross-shaped tattoo with the initials of his grandfather, Kenneth Crowson. Crowson contracted a rare form of lung disease and died at the age of 68. Austin would later write a song about him, titled “Grandpa.” He reflects on the hard work, dedication, and honesty that his grandpa taught him.

Austin understands that every weekend, he has to wake up (many times hungover from the night before), refuel with Gatorade and assorted snack foods, and get his head on right.

“I live life to the fullest,” Austin said. “But, I also know that I have to be the one to push us to the next level.”

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