It’s 2:00 P.M. at the twenty-fifth annual Roy Orbison Festival in Wink, Texas, and everyone is wilting in the afternoon heat. There are maybe two dozen people here at festival central, a parking lot on Wink’s main street. A food truck sells brisket burritos and giant plastic cups of lemonade; a few vendors are set up under portable tents, hawking patterned sundresses, hand-painted wooden crosses, cheap jewelry. I say some small-talk words about the weather to a man selling belly-button rings and anti-Obama bumper stickers. “I don’t mind it,” he says placidly, his hands on his belly. “Don’t mind the cold, neither.” The ground is littered with the remnants of an epic silly string battle. Someone’s got a boom box turned up as loud as it will go, tuned to a top-forty country station out of Pecos. Other than his name on a stack of official t-shirts, there’s no evidence that the Roy Orbison Festival has anything to do with Roy Orbison at all.