19 September 25 - OctOber 1, 2025 dallasobserver.com DALLAS OBSERVER Classified | MusiC | dish | Culture | unfair Park | Contents Where the Heart Is How Songwriters’ Social became a Deep Ellum Haven for musicians to be themselves. BY BAYLIE VIKE T he Songwriters’ Social is an un- derground open mic that makes its home at Adair’s Saloon in the heart of Deep Ellum. It is a sometimes sleepy, sometimes lively gallery of music-driven souls perform- ing for each other and whatever awkward networking group or drunken local wanders their way into the venue. Co-founders Justin Pickard and Jacob Price Zazz tell the Observer about this home they have cultivated at Adair’s Saloon through the open mic. “Home is about peo- ple,” Pickard says. “This is about people, empathy and making them feel welcome.” Two weeks before Labor Day weekend, a solid group of up-and-coming musicians gathers: a teenager playing a fiddle and a guitar, singing in a low, old-Hollywood voice something about heartbreak, a man named John with a spunky personality and a croco- dile cowboy hat and head-to-toe leather to match and a regular lone wolf type named Matt Cesar playing a hollow-bodied electric to name a few. The first was a young woman in town for a bluegrass festival. She captured the atten- tion of Adair’s dingy room, riddled with Sharpie marks, stickers and light-up beer signs. She made the crowd stop eating their burgers and pause their conversation as she offered up something new that she had cre- ated. That is the draw of the Songwriters’ Social: It’s for people workshopping their ideas in front of a live audience. “We got the name with the help of the owner [of Adair’s], Joel Morales,” Pickard says on this night while sipping a soda. He says he was enthusiastic about the idea from the beginning. “We called it a social because we saw the need for a location for musicians to connect with each other, not just per- form.” That, and the fact that it is a place pri- marily for original work, sets it apart from other open mics in the area. It is for every- one, they tell us, but there are a few who hit the stage to do covers, too. Pickard is a little bit satiric and eccentric in a cool guy kind of way. He has a distinct cackle, often laughing at his own jokes be- fore the audience has a chance to catch up, as he introduces the Songwriters’ Social. He’s got soul that you might not notice from his comedic blank stare across the table dur- ing our interview, but it is evident on stage as he performs first to warm up the room, sing- ing a song about someone who is like a tor- nado, coaxing the audience to feel something deeper with each lilt of his voice. Zazz, in turn, enriches every room he is in long before he mounts the stage. Later during the Songwriters’ Social, he’s ambling through conversations with regulars with a drawl vol- ume only slightly above the voice of the per- formers, growing quiet as certain acts come on, respecting the microphone and clapping emphatically for all. Both Pickard and Zazz are poets, as one can easily gather from the heart of their music. Zazz looks the part, with long hair and a pensive gaze coming out from underneath a trucker hat printed with some sort of hippie music event or festival, which changes each time we see him. He car- ries a resounding presence with him, which bleeds over into his band members who share his passion and flows through the room as he invites the crowd to explore what he calls “cowpunk americana.” Music was a part of both Pickard and Zazz’s lives since child- hood. “I grew up glued to the piano,” Zazz re- calls. “And my parents always encouraged me.” He didn’t come from a musical back- ground, he says, but quickly began building that community for himself through bands. He studied classical music in college, com- posing chamber pieces, never considering a plan B for any of it. “That is advice I would give to anyone,” he says. “Never have a plan B. If you have a plan B, you’ll always take it, and you will always stay stuck. And you have to redefine what success means.” Pickard echoes this sentiment. “I always knew this would be my career. It never oc- curred to me that I would be anything else,” he says. “Everyone is so obsessed with trying to ‘make it’ and be professional. Just be good at it—make good art. Don’t try to be famous.” He similarly got his start on a different in- strument (bass) before switching to guitar as he desired to write songs and become “a run-of-the-mill douchebag guitar player,” he says with a laugh. The first song he played on bass was “Smoke on the Water.” “The first song I wrote [on guitar], however, went a little like this,” he continues, humming a boisterous tune only a precocious teenager could write. It was the first of many. The first band he fronted, Side- kick Mafia, toured for 12 years before he em- barked on a solo venture called Justin Pickard and the Thunderbird Winos. The pair met while Zazz was running sound at Pickard’s first open mic, which ended with them form- ing a natural friendship that would result in two additional open mic endeavors, the latest of which has been at Adair’s. “The first night here was killer,” Zazz says. “We blew the doors off this place; 25- 30 musicians signed up.” “All through word-of-mouth and the help of a friend, Shauna Faulhaber,” Pickard adds. And the momentum hasn’t stopped. On this Tuesday night, it is quiet, and musicians are able to play four to five songs. But on the regular, it is capped at two to three songs due to the popularity of this event, even as it is largely unfamiliar to Dallasites who don’t fre- quent Deep Ellum. Every act gets applause, including resounding “whoops” from musi- cians who notice something fresh, as one gui- tarist plays with two capos at once. It is a safe space for people to try new things. Alice P. Zazz, who plays fiddle with Zazz’s band, re- calls forgetting the words to her song a few weeks prior while experimenting with a banjo. “It’s all fun,” she shrugs. “This is a good place to do that.” Crocodile-hat-wearing John comes here for the blues. “Don’t fool your- self!” he bursts. “There is no ‘north of IH-30 blues’ or ‘south of IH-30 blues’. All there is is the blues. There are different styles of soul, but they are all the same to me.” This great equalizer is apparent here, as musicians croon over the crunchy noise of Pickard’s amp that sounds as if it were a hand-me-down from Nirvana, but is much older. It gives the sound teeth, in a way, as each person, with different styles and experience levels, steps up, plugs in, and breathes new life into it. Pickard and Zazz’s careers have not been completely without hardship. “Poverty, al- coholism and strain on personal relation- ships,” they both agreed. The challenges didn’t stop there. “Inconsistent gigs and not knowing where your next dollar will come from,” Pickard adds. He got sober 12 years ago, and says it was the best thing that hap- pened for his music. “Music is not about partying,” he says. “Either you’re about it or you’re not.” But despite these challenges, and even as they cite music as a hobby first and a career second, giving us sarcastic ad- vice on why not to do it, both explain that a career in music is worth it to them. Their passion for the craft has overcome any reser- vations or personal challenges. “Music,” Zazz says, describing the natu- ral tendency to create, “is just a human thing. Go be yourself.” Justin Pickard and Jacob Price Zazz will be performing on Saturday, Oct. 4, at Snake- toberfest XI at Intrinsic Smokehouse & Brew- ery, 509 W State Street, Garland. Tickets are available at intrinsicbrewery.square.site. ▼ Music Baylie Vike Justin Pickard, with regulars Mark Deffebach and Alice P. Zazz, warms up the stage at the Songwriters’ Social at Adair’s Saloon. “THE FIRST NIGHT HERE WAS KILLER. WE BLEW THE DOORS OFF. ... 25-30 MUSICIANS SIGNED UP.” –JACOB PRICE ZAZZ
