Midgets routinely reappear in my life like a dream sequence from a David Lynch TV show, so I wasn't surprised when I got an email Monday from Laurie, a friend of mine in California.

She told me Slaid Cleaves was cutting it up on radio station KPFA in Berkeley last Sunday during a broadcast of "America's Back 40 - the hicks from Coast to Coast!" She also said my name had been bandied about on the show.

For those who haven't been paying attention, Slaid is an Austin, Texas singer-songwriter who's been getting a lot of national recognition these days, even though he's signed to Rounder Records.

I joke, Rounder Records, because I like to ridicule.

Apparently the show's host, Mary Tilson, asked him at some point (and I'm paraphrasing) "What's the deal with these liner notes for your Wishbone CD and who the hell is this Mike Jasper guy who wrote them?"

See how it is? Midgets and public radio stations, two evil little subcultures bent on my utter demise. I've never once asked either group to be a part of my life, but they refuse to go away. I look to my right, a midget. I look to my left, a public radio microphone in my face.

I'll tell you the deal about those liner notes. I told the truth. That is, I told my version of the truth. You see, I liked Slaid from day one and always thought he was talented, but I didn't think he was the next big thing. Too folkie for me, including his last record, Broke Down. But this new album, Wishbones, brings balls to the production and vitality to the voice. He's not Springsteen yet, but he can whip Lyle Lovett's country ass. (And if I had a boat. I'd aim it at Lyle Lovett. And his little pony, too.)

Besides, I had warned Slaid up front. If you ask me to write liner notes, you definitely get me. The upside? I'll hit deadline and write something unique. The downside? It probably won't be what you expected and you'll wish you had given me an earlier deadline.

Fortunately, Slaid and I are on the same CD insert page, even though we both wonder -- who the hell reads liner notes anymore? They're usually written by an oily sycophant who has something to gain financially from the success of the artist, and then printed in small, unreadable 8-point type. Do people actually get stoned with a magnifying glass in hand?

Again, who reads the liner notes? Well, if you choose to read to the end of this column, you'll be one of those who reads liner notes, since I've included them below. And if you like what you read, you should go out and buy Slaid's Wishbone album and see if Rounder Records edited the spooge out of me.

Before I get to said notes, let me finish the way I started and add yet another slice of non sequitur, just so you know I'm not shirking my responsibilities as an Internet columnist.

Ralph Nader's a fuckin' egotistical idiot. And he might be a midget.

Liner notes for Wishbones, Slaid Cleaves latest CD

I have seen the future of Americana music and its name is...

Stop. That's not me. If you're looking for the usual purple prose found on album covers, forget about it.

Look. All I can do is tell you the truth about Slaid Cleaves as I see it and the truth is this: despite being his friend for a dozen years, I was one of his harder-won fans. Why? Because I always thought there was more to him than he was willing to reveal. Slaid's not just a folkie, you know. And Americana? What does that mean? I've got to defer to my Austin musical big brothers, Steve Fromholz and Rusty Weir, and call so-called Americana music by its real name - the folkin' rockin' blues. Slaid didn't always play that style of music, but he sure does now -- with all the energy, passion and soul demanded by the genre.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Cleaves and I first met at Austin's Chicago House in 1991 through a mutual friend, Mark Viator, who was backing him on guitar at the time. To say I was less than totally impressed is an understatement. I took one look at him and thought, "Well, he's a pretty boy with those rosy cheeks and piercing eyes, so that'll get him some gigs. But one good Texas shower and he's gonna wash back to Podunk, Maine." Well, the rains came down hard for a couple of years, but Slaid still stuck it out in Austin.

It's not like I didn't see any talent there. He has a great voice and can certainly turn a phrase. But I thought he needed more rhythm, more energy and a better brand of boot. I had no problem telling him that, either.

One night, he was playing Kent Finlay s songwriter showcase on Sixth Street, and I saw a glimpse of what he could become. On one song, he stridently belted out the vocals and strummed his father's old Gibson confidently and aggressively. When he finished the set, I went up to him and said, "That's what I'm talking about. Ballad's are fine, but you can let loose like that once in a while too." He gave me that sly Slaid smile and said, "Aw, I just did that because I saw you over by the bar. That was purely for your benefit." And with that, he went back to his folkie ways.

Not that it wasn't working out for him. One night, he and Viator bolted into the now-defunct Austin Outhouse and Viator ran over to my table. "We just got back from Kerrville," he said breathless with excitement. "Slaid won the New Folk contest." All right, then, folkie he is. That Kerrville success was followed by more Austin recognition. He was asked to do the Woody Guthrie tribute, then the Lead Belly tribute, followed by gigs at all the right clubs - La Zona Rosa, Saxon Pub and the Broken Spoke. He was leaving a dust trail for all of us other Austin singer-songwriters, including me. One night, I had dinner with music critic John Conquest and asked him what I could do to get some recognition in this town. "Well, if I were you, I'd stand next to Slaid Cleaves."

So I did (I ain't no fool). When he had his CD release for Life's Other Side at the Saxon Pub, I was there along with the entire family. Not my family, or Slaid's either, but Susan Maxey's family, an Austin singer who sometimes backed him up. Seems the Maxey family had adopted Slaid, especially the late, great Uncle Jack, who had plans to make the singer-songwriter's conversion from Maine-stream to Texan complete. "I've got a mission for you, a challenge. I want you to meet me New Year's Day at Barton Springs for a swim." Slaid took him up on the challenge and braved the 40-degree plunge into the springs. That was quickly followed by a shot of tequila and a jaunt to the state capitol building where Uncle Jack swore in Slaid as an official citizen of the Republic of Texas.

I'm not one to believe in omens, but it seems to me Slaid's career catapulted once Uncle Jack made him an official Texan. Soon thereafter, he was signed to Rounder/Philo and took his show on the road to the East Coast, South, Midwest and eventually the West Coast. Slaid began working with producer Gurf Morlix, and the pair delivered first 1997's No Angel Knows and then hit their stride on his breakthrough album Broke Down.

The title song started getting airplay in Austin and around the nation, which led to more touring. But the pivotal moment of the Broke Down tour came during the 2000 South-By-Southwest music festival performance at the Broken Spoke. Along with Gurf on guitar and Ivan Brown on bass, drummer Michael Bannister sat in with the band and Slaid's sound was reborn. When Gurf came to my table after Slaid's set, I collared him. "That sounded great. Rhythm, energy, charisma. That's the sound he should have." Gurf agreed. "I'm working with him on that."

Well, Gurf worked with him all right and this album, Wishbones, is the result. This is the real deal, an album true to Austin's folkin' rockin' blues that could and should make Slaid Cleaves a household word far beyond the borders of the Lone Star State. It's the album I always knew he had lurking within him: it's got rhythm, it's got energy, it's got passion, it's got conviction, it's got a stone-cold hit song (co-written with Texas songwriting legend Ray Wylie Hubbard) and yet it still leaves plenty of room for Slaid's lyrical vision. Hard drinking down-and-outers live in this album alongside hard-luck brawlers who always manage to get up from the canvas. Uncle Jack lives on in this album too, and he's got the entire city of Austin, and beyond, to romp around in - from the Carousel Lounge to the Broken Spoke to the hill country to the wide flat plains. It's Stephen Foster sans the racism, Bobby Dylan sans the sarcasm, and Bruce Springsteen sans the stadium poses.

Could I lay it on any thicker? Absolutely. I have seen the future of the folkin' rockin' blues and its name is Slaid Cleaves.

That said, he could still use a better brand of boot.