The Event: Cowboy Songs and Quiet Courage in Austin
On August 12, the lights dimmed at the Paramount Theatre in Austin, and the first quiet notes of a guitar echoed through the room. This wasn’t just another night of music — it was a night of meaning.
“Song in the Storm” had gathered two of Texas’s most respected performers — Lyle Lovett and Michael Martin Murphey — not for celebration, but for healing.
Just weeks earlier, devastating floods swept through the Hill Country, taking with them homes, ranches, and livelihoods. Many in the audience had driven from towns like Hunt, Ingram, and Junction — not for escape, but for comfort.
And that’s what they found.
Lovett’s opening set was warm, introspective, and quietly powerful. He offered gratitude, humility, and small moments of humor — but the tone shifted when Murphey entered.
Known for his love of cowboy songs and wide-open spaces, Murphey surprised everyone with his next choice. There were no fiddles, no harmonicas. Just a piano and a song that came not from the plains, but from the stage.
And then, he sang: “Maybe This Time.”
The Song: “Maybe This Time” – A Ballad for Those Who’ve Been Knocked Down Before
Originally introduced in the 1966 musical Cabaret and popularized by Liza Minnelli, “Maybe This Time” isn’t traditionally Texan. It doesn’t speak of ranches or rodeos — it speaks of second chances. Of someone who’s lost again and again, but dares to hope… just once more.
“Maybe this time, I’ll be lucky…
Maybe this time, he’ll stay…”
When Michael Martin Murphey began to sing it, something in the room changed. The gentle tremble in his voice made the words feel lived-in, real. This wasn’t a theatrical performance — it was a quiet confession.
For an audience that had lost so much, the song wasn’t just moving — it was cathartic.
People in that room knew what it meant to try again.
To return to flooded homes. To walk through mud-soaked memories. To apply for aid that might not come. And yet… to still believe, even if quietly:
“Maybe this time… it’ll be different.”
Murphey didn’t belt the final chorus. He whispered it.
And in that whisper was the pain of the past — and the stubborn, gentle hope of a future.
He looked out over the crowd, many holding hands, many wiping their eyes, and simply said, “For those of you who’ve been knocked down — I hope this really is your time.”
No encore. No flourish.
Just applause that sounded less like celebration and more like thanks.