At an open-air event space beside a craft brewery in east Fort Worth, a hip indie-rock guitarist introduces the leading Democratic candidate for Texas governor. “Who’s excited to see Beto?” he asks from the stage, pronouncing the Spanish moniker “Bay-toe.” In the spread-out crowd of a few hundred, a handful proclaim their excitement. The guitarist then asks if the crowd has heard of Foss, a defunct lo-fi punk group. “That was Beto’s band back in El Paso,” he clarifies, before admiringly describing an old photo of said band in which O’Rourke wore a dress. “But, yeah, this next one’s for you, Beto.”
I’m tempted to check the date on my phone. Might I, somewhere on my drive up from Austin, have passed through a portal to 2018?
More attendees trickle in. Many are being shuttled from a downtown parking area, safely past a couple square blocks of homeless camps, to arrive at the brewery. As the December sun sets, a campaign staffer announces O’Rourke will speak later than planned. The first band retires and is replaced by a DJ, who leads with top 40 standbys and hip-hop airhorns. The response is polite; then, he strikes gold. “Just a small town girl,” the song begins, and the crowd tightens. Millennial and middle-aged alike, in black Beto t-shirts, begin to sing. Fifteen minutes later, the DJ throws caution to the wind and plays the song a second time. If there’s one thing this crowd doesn’t want to stop, it’s believing.
