Robert Dennis McCullough

Robert Dennis McCullough

August 15, 1941 ~ May 14, 2026

 Robert Dennis (“Denny”) McCullough passed away suddenly on the evening of May 14, leaving behind a daughter and son-in-law who still expect to pull up in front of his house and hear the unmistakable sound of either his steel guitar or one of his many beloved electric guitars being played at a volume that could probably be heard two blocks over if the wind was right.

 If you were to look up either “country musician” or “old hippie” in the book of stereotypes, you would surely see his picture there. He looked every bit the country musician long before that became a costume for other people. He always had longish hair, a beard, snap-button western shirts, western-cut slacks, sometimes a cowboy hat, and boots on stage.

 Music was never just something he did; it was who he was. He loved steel, bass, electric, and acoustic guitars — if it had strings, he could make it sing.

 Despite having a hole in his eardrum and being nearly deaf for much of his life, he somehow still possessed perfect pitch. He was also a better singer than he ever gave himself credit for, though his true passion always belonged to the guitar.

 I know this is not how obituaries generally go, but as his daughter, I am going to chronicle his story as best I can from my perspective.

 He first married Tennia Peach after they met through the owners of the Master’s Drive-In in Big Spring, Texas, in 1963. They shared a love of music and played in a band together — Dad on bass or guitar and Mom singing. Though their marriage only lasted a few years, they both told me at different times that the best thing to come out of their union was me (Jennifer).

 After their divorce, Dad left Big Spring with a guitar and a restless spirit, spending years playing music across the country. He played at the Grand Ole Opry, backed countless touring musicians, did session work, and played for soldiers during numerous USO tours in far-flung places around the world.

 He later married his second wife, Delores, and settled for several years outside Nashville, Tennessee. Though that marriage eventually ended, they remained on good terms and stayed in touch through the years.

 As life sometimes does, it eventually came full circle for Dad. He moved back to Big Spring in 1985 and decided to buy the Brass Nail Club — the iconic Texas dance hall and supper club — with his friend and bandmate, Shelton Castle.

 The “Nail,” as it was affectionately known, was the place to go for roughly 10 years. Folks came from miles around to hear Dad’s “Heart of Texas Band” and dance the night away.

 During those years, Dad rarely deviated from his daily routine, which went something like this: wake up around 11 a.m., fire up the Dodge van (along with the first joint of the day), stop at Taco Villa for a meat burrito, then head to Comanche Trail Golf Course for the daily money game. On the way home, he’d stop at one of his favorite Mexican food restaurants, shower up, and head to the club to start the first set at 9 p.m. He’d play music until 2 a.m., stop at Herman’s Restaurant for breakfast with the gang, head home, and then do it all over again the next day.

 Truthfully, he probably wouldn’t have changed a thing. Though I do believe that if he had been a wealthy man, he would have built a house on a golf course just to save himself the drive.

 After closing the club in the early ’90s, the band continued to play all over West Texas before eventually going their separate ways. Dad played in several groups around West Texas for a few more years before deciding in 1999 to pick up stakes and move to Weatherford to be near me and see what the Metroplex music scene was all about.

 He eventually settled into a humble little house about three miles up the road from me and my husband, Marshall.

 I guess since he was changing geography, he also decided to change the name he went by in music circles to “Bob Denny.” He never told me why, so don’t ask.

 He played in several bands around the Metroplex, including gigs at Pearl’s in the Fort Worth Stockyards and countless other places too numerous to mention.

 As age eventually caught up with him in his late 70s and hauling equipment became too much of a chore, he mostly stayed home, recorded music in his little studio, and generally played for his own amazement.

 Over the last several months of his life, Dad lived with me and Marshall due to his declining health.

 Some of my favorite recent memories of him are the quiet ones. Any time the temperature climbed above 70 degrees, you could usually find him sitting outside in a lawn chair with a glass of sweet tea, watching birds, trees, clouds, and whatever else nature decided to put on display that day. On colder days, when I didn’t immediately see him outside and started to worry, I would eventually spot him sitting inside his old 1991 Dodge van, listening to the radio and simply watching the world go by.

 It’s funny the things that stick with us. One of Dad’s favorite sayings — and now one of mine — was: “It’s better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.” Sage advice, to be sure.

 Dad lived a solitary life entirely on his own terms. He loved deeply, played loudly, smoked legendary amounts of weed, chased music and golf with equal devotion, and found peace in simple things — a guitar in his hands, a beautiful golf course, a warm day outside, or a quiet view of trees moving in the wind.

 The world is quieter now without him in it, but the joy he brought to so many through his music will echo in our memories until we all meet again.

  A memorial service is pending, please check back for more information. 

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