Bryan Burrough - Forget the Alamo: The Rise and Fall of an American Myth

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I have said that Texas is a state of mind, but I think it is more than that. It is a mystique closely approximating a religion.

John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley: In Search of America

The story of the Alamo is simple, right? Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, William Barret Travis, and a bunch of their friends come to Texas to start new lives, suddenly realize they are being oppressed by the Mexican dictator Santa Anna, and rush off to do battle with him at an old Spanish mission in San Antonio. They are outnumbered but fight valiantly and die to a man, buying Sam Houston enough time to defeat Santa Anna at the Battle of San Jacinto. As almost any Texan will tell you, their sacrifice turned the Alamo into the cradle of Texas liberty.

The problem is that much of what you think you know about the Alamo is wrong. What you just read? Thats the Alamo myth, the legend. The actual story, well, its a lot more complicated.

These days there are essentially two schools of thought about the Alamo and what it means. A playful way to contrast them is through the stories of the two British rock stars most closely associated with all this. The first would be Phil Collins, who began his career drumming for the band Genesis and, as a solo singer, has sold millions of albums. Collins happens to be the worlds greatest collector of Alamo artifacts. He owns Sam Houstons Bowie knife, a belt said to have been worn by Travis, and a shot pouch Crockett is said to have turned over to a Mexican soldier before dying. Not to mention Alamo-sourced cannonballs, maps, letters, muskets, powder flasks, bullets, swords, and even human teeth.

Like many aficionados of a certain age, Collins caught the Alamo bug as a boy watching Fess Parkers Davy Crockett on the small screen and John Waynes on the big. He named his Jack Russell terrier Travis. He was once told that in a previous life, hed been a courier dashing in and out of the old mission in the days before Santa Annas soldiers stormed it. Collins wants to believe. He has hundreds of old Alamo photos, many flecked with small balls of white light. He believes these are orbs, globs of paranormal energy. In London, the tabloids pretty much think hes lost his mind. The Daily Mail called him one drumstick shy of a pair.

In Texas, though, where he has donated his collection as the core of a grand new museum planned for San Antonio, Collins is a giant among men. He represents the apotheosis of Alamo traditionalism, which is to say, he is deeply invested in the sanctity of the Texas shrine and its legends of heroism. He is the ultimate true believer.

If you position Phil Collins on one side of the Alamo seesaw, the other would be occupied by Ozzy Osbourne. Ozzy passed into Alamo lore on a Friday afternoon, February 19, 1982. At approximately 2:50 p.m., as San Antonio children were heading home from school, a thirty-three-year-old man wobbled unsteadily into Alamo Plaza. He was wearing a torn green evening gown and sneakers. In his hand he carried a bottle of Courvoisier.

Ozzy was having a rough day. He and his bandmates, scheduled to perform a set including their hits Crazy Train and Paranoid at the San Antonio Convention Center that night, were squabbling. His girlfriend, Sharon, was carping again about his drinking, which typically began when he rose in the morning, as it had on this day. In an effort to confine his drunken idylls to their hotel suite, Sharon had taken to hiding his clothes, hence the gown, which was hers.

Later, Ozzy would be hazy as to where he was heading that day. What he remembered clearly, though, was an overwhelming need to relieve himself. Frustrated by his inability to locate a suitable loo, he decided to do as inebriated rock stars have done since the dawn of time. He sidled up to what appeared to be a little-used section of wall, parted his dress, and proceeded, with a great sigh, to do his business. Suddenly he heard a voice behind him: