This part of Texas is smack in the middle of lots of interesting things. Just travel 300 miles in any direction and you'll find them. Music it seems makes for a great escape from the isolation and loneliness that stirs when you are stranded on the Cap Rock. Twangy guitars, loveworn voices and melodies fetched from the heart become the touchstones of survival for a few who aspire to something more.

Such is the story of Rusty Reid, who counted the dusty days and star-flecked nights while listening to jangling jukebox pop and banging away on a 1930s-vintage Gibson that belonged to a singing-cowboy uncle. Rusty finally left the scrubland behind for college in far-away Houston, a realm as verdant and wet as West Texas is parched and brown. In the Bayou City, Rusty honed his songwriting craft, all the while absorbing a kaleidoscope of musical influences.

His Houston days were interrupted by short stints in Nashville and Los Angeles for songwriting dalliances, including an interlude with Peer-Southern Music as a staff writer, but there was no big deal. So it was back to the bayou to finish up school, and write and play more music. For years the songs flowed, the guitars blazed, buckets of shrimp and oysters were consumed, girls were loved, hurricanes came and went, puppies were born (sometimes during the hurricane), and a fun time was had by all.

Rusty, circa 1983, Houston

But after a decade on the Gulf Coast, the Siren song of L.A. called again, and Rusty checked in, once more, to Hotel California. Though he met with success on certain fronts in Los Angeles as a magazine writer and editor, the music business was not one of them.

It was a time of deep introspection, soul searching, ego-demolition and crushing personal sagas, including two divorces. Yet, the L.A. years were full of wonder and discovery as well, including a trip around the world, the formulation of a new philosophy, the emergence of a new self, and the sampling of interesting new partners. Life was overflowing with lessons and experiences, with little time or space left for music.

Something else was wrong. For Rusty, L.A. was fun and interesting, but it wasn't home. Nor was Texas any longer. The trip around the world conjured thoughts of just what, and where, could be a real home, a place where all the senses and sensibilities could be optimized.

Rusty knew he had found such a place the first time he laid eyes on the emerald panorama and white-crested spires that encircle the Puget Sound. His Celtic genes seemed to perk in an environment resplendent with big trees, mountains and temperate wetness. Water was everywhere. In the Sound, in lakes and ponds and rivers, and, of course, coming down from heaven above. Perched on the boundary between mountain and saltwater lay Seattle, like Houston and L.A., a boomtown, a city of the future, a city of music.

Rusty, 2000, Seattle

In the Seattle area, Rusty is back to music, working out of his "Rockcoonworks" studio. So another direction begins for Rusty Reid. Northwest by Southwest. One "Earthquake City" traded for another. There are questions still. What is the sound made when Texas twang is mixed with L.A. pop then swirled with Northwest garage? Can a Lost Texxan make it in the land of grunge? Is it really better late than never?

We shall see.