Sweat drips off Nancy “Shaggy” Moore’s face as she lifts the front leg of a horse, coaxes the animal into bending it at the knee, clamps it between her own legs, and drives a nail through the hoof. “I went to horseshoe school for six weeks in the mid-nineties. One girl in a class with nineteen guys—tell me I didn’t like that,” she says with a laugh. “I’m such a perfectionist, though. I wanted to be the best, but it took me eight hours to do two shoes. Three weeks in, my body started to give out. It was hot, and twenty coal fires burned while we shoed all day. I said, ‘My God, I can’t do this.’ But here I am, ten years later, shoeing a horse in Richardson. That’s one of the little life lessons you learn: It has to get that bad sometimes before you can do it.” It’s a lesson that Shaggy, the focal—and vocal—point of the mid-eighties Dallas punk scene, has learned over the past sixteen years. When Texas Monthly contributing editor David Seeley wrote “The Shaggy Club” in May 1985, she was the seventeen-year-old host of Saturday’s midnight-to-four-in-the-morning “Pajama Party” on KNON, Dallas’ listener-supported radio station. In addition to playing the most purposefully obnoxious music yet devised by the teenage mind, the girl known as Shaggy to her fans put listeners on the air to vent about their parents, dispensed her own advice, read from the Bible, interviewed musicians, and spread the word about the punk scene—all with her irresistible, utterly unself-conscious mix of solemnity and hilarity. She lived the life too, fighting with her parents before moving out of their house, dropping out of high school, joining a band, and struggling to bring a smidgen of order to an ever-changing cast of friends who shared her North Dallas rental named, after nobody in particular, the Bill House.
Today, the 34-year-old still known as Shaggy to longtime friends but as Nancy to newer ones, has brought order to her own life. She has her first “real job,” as she puts it, with The Guide, the entertainment magazine of the Dallas Morning News. She lives in the North Dallas house she grew up in and takes care of her mother, Frances. She also performs her own excellent Americana-flavored songs around town. Except for the recent breakup of a relationship she says she’ll probably never get over, she’s pleased with this life. “At seventeen, I was ‘the voice of my generation,’” she declares. “But at thirty, I found my voice.”
She found it by studying opera at Texas Woman’s University, in Denton. “There is a thing about singing, as with writing, that you have to find your own voice and let it live, let it come out. That’s the only way to be believable—to ‘be real.’ Once you trust your own voice, you learn to like your own voice and love yourself,” she explains. Her journey, though, has been nothing if not circuitous. “I am so happy to have been a part of such a cool, fun time in music, where you could get angry and still have fun. If you listen to those songs from 1976 to 1986, the melody lines are happy, triumphant and jubilant, all while venting frustration and anger. What a great outlet for a kid!” she says. She also explored country and blues, especially the Texas varieties, while staying with KNON full-time until 1991. She played bass in the mid-eighties for spunky country-rockers Lost Highway,