CARTER BUSCHARDT: ROCK ‘N’ ROLL REBEL

Carter Buschardt

By Paul Heckmann

In the heart of Texas, where the blues run deep and the amps crank high, Carter Buschardt carved out a life that’s equal parts grit, glory, and groove. Born in Dallas in 1951, this drummer-turned-music-lifer sat down with me to spill the beans on his journey from garage bands to rubbing shoulders with legends like Stevie Ray Vaughan and Johnny Winter. With a career spanning roller rinks, underground clubs, and near-misses with stardom, Buschardt’s story is a testament to the raw energy of the ’60s and ’70s Texas rock scene. Buckle up—this ain’t your grandma’s bedtime tale.

Sneaking Into the Scene: Early Days and Forbidden Venues

Growing up in Dallas’s Webb Chapel neighborhood, young Carter was bitten by the music bug early. “I began performing at age 14-15 as a singer,” he recalls, his voice laced with nostalgia. Saving up paper-route cash for a Shure Electro-Voice 664 microphone, he soon traded vocals for sticks when his band’s drummer floundered. “We had a crappy drummer, and I kept having to show him how to play, so I just switched to drums.”

By 16, Buschardt was sneaking out for late-night adventures at The Cellar, a notorious spot across from a radio station (he can’t quite recall if it was KLIF or KBOX). “There I am, this high school kid, sitting there playing in front of naked women,” he laughs. The club was ruled by bikers—”the biker mafia, so to speak”—and featured a light system signaling when to keep jamming if trouble brewed upstairs. Fights? Sure. But for a wide-eyed teen, it was pure adrenaline.

High school at Thomas Jefferson (class of ’69) led to a brief stint at El Centro Junior College, majoring in radio/TV broadcasting—perhaps influenced by his cousin Bud Buschardt, a WFAA and KLIF staple. But spinning records wasn’t the dream. “I realized I wanted to actually play the music rather than spinning records of other people’s music,” Buschardt says. So, he hit the road, drums in tow.

No Dallas tale is complete without Louann’s, the iconic club where underage kids like Buschardt bent the rules. “I was too young to get into Louann’s, although I snuck in there quite often,” he admits with a grin. Armed with a fake ID and a “don’t act guilty” attitude, his first visit was a game-changer: catching Jeff Beck in 1968. “The sound wasn’t all that great, but it was awesome—like The Beatles for me.” Paul Revere and the Raiders followed, their revolutionary outfits leaving a lasting impression.

Louann’s owner, Ann, ran a tight ship—no bumping and grinding inside. “She’d just come out there and break it up,” Buschardt remembers. Outside in The Garden? That’s where the real dancing happened. Bands even cut songs short at her request if lyrics got too risqué. “It was a different time, man,” he muses.

Band-Hopping Blues: From Garage to Glory

Buschardt’s band resume reads like a Texas rock who’s who. Starting with Noblemen and The Fantastics, he graduated to Flag, a hard-rock outfit opening for The Who in 1970 at Dallas Memorial Auditorium. “We played mostly at The Cellar in Dallas and Vulcan Gas Company in Austin,” he says. They even shared the stage with Bubble Puppy—he’s got the 1970 poster to prove it.

Bullwinkle followed, a tight cover band gigging at spots like The Fog and Soul City. Notable? Their singer was John O’Daniels, later of Point Blank fame. “He and I remained friends until he passed away not long ago.”

Then came Blackbird, an “awesome band” with Jack Morgan on guitar, Tom Wagoner (later Ric Webb) on bass, and Christian Plique on vocals—who’d originally formed Blackbird with Stevie Ray Vaughan. “Mostly original versions of very old blues tunes,” Buschardt explains.

A name change to Thunderbird ensued after a motel-key brainstorm in Waco. Gigging at Club Abraxas—a rough-and-tumble hotspot that hosted ZZ Top—they packed the house in ’73-’74. “If you were around back then and you knew Club Abraxas, you knew exactly what was going on and who ran the town,” he says with a knowing wink.

Moving to Austin in the early ’70s put Buschardt in the thick of it. “Stevie used to jam with us all the time. We were like the big dog down there—Mother Earth.” But when Jimmie Vaughan snagged “Fabulous Thunderbirds,” another rebrand hit.

Krackerjack was the pinnacle. With roots tied to Tommy Shannon (later Stevie’s bassist) and John Turner from Johnny Winter’s crew, this incarnation featured Buschardt, Morgan, Webb, and vocalist Bruce “Lil Brucie.” “Probably the best band lineup-wise and musically, by far,” he boasts. All originals, crunching Delta blues with a driving beat—they opened for Taj Mahal at The Agora in ’75-’76 and drew crowds in Austin. “We were poised for the ‘big time,’ but it just wasn’t to be.”

Drug issues derailed a tour with Mahal. “Our singer Bruce fell asleep standing at the mike—he passed out,” Buschardt recounts ruefully. Stardom slipped away amid competition from Stevie, ZZ Top, and others.

Undeterred, Buschardt and Morgan formed Rosco (named after fishing lures at Bachman Lake). “A great group, some fantastic musicians, but we didn’t get the record deals.” Cover bands like Brat and Dicky & The Valentinos followed, mixing ska and reggae. The Cartoons, with JoJo Gunne’s Jimmy Randall, aimed for a deal but fizzled.

A stint with Toby Beau—one-hit wonders of “My Angel Baby”—paid well but felt like “a musical prostitute.” Living in Austin, Buschardt hit a wall: “I woke up one morning going, ‘I’m starting to do drugs again.’ I said, ‘I’m done.'”

After nearly 20 years, he walked away. “If it’s supposed to be, it’s supposed to be.”

Life After the Lights: Comedy, Family, and Real Estate

Music’s curtain call didn’t end Buschardt’s spotlight chase. In the early ’80s, he met Glenna Hand—a Braniff flight attendant featured in Playboy and a Playboy Club worker—at a Stevie Ray record release. They married, had a daughter in ’87, but split soon after.

An improv audition landed him in Comedy Sports, a Second City offshoot. “Lifetime smartass and all-around funny guy,” he quips—voted wittiest in high school. Commercials followed, including a Rodney D. Young spot as one of the “3 Amigos.”

Relocating to Kansas City for Glenna’s job, Buschardt formed “Out On A Limb,” scoring a PBS special and nearly auditioning for Whose Line Is It Anyway? Tragedy struck when a partner died of a brain tumor.

By 42, “real life” beckoned: real estate, which he’s still selling today. “It was a great ride. Man, I didn’t have to work a real job for 30 years.”

Reflecting on lost bandmates—”probably 75% of them are gone”—Buschardt’s philosophical: “Hopefully they’re playing in the big band upstairs. Save me a slot. I’ll be up there soon.”

From sneaking into Louann’s to jamming with Stevie, Carter Buschardt embodies Texas rock’s untamed spirit. In an era of raw riffs and rebel hearts, he drummed through it all—and lived to tell the tale.

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