by Jessi Colter
Mother, who knew me better than anyone, understood that I was going through a transition where I couldn’t be reached. And she was right. Her ego was such that she understood the limitations of her power to persuade. For a minister this is a rare recognition.
A nonbeliever. Is that what I had become? To see those words in black and white is unnerving, but they do apply. At the start of my twenties, I entered what would prove to be a long period of agnosticism. Whatever faith I had as a child and teenager fell away before an onslaught of skepticism about the pertinence of the Scriptures to my new life.
New Age thinking in its various forms called to me in books and lectures, many by the apostles of Ayn Rand and Nathaniel Branden.
I do not fault or blame Duane. He never manipulated or cajoled me toward his philosophical leanings. I was a willing follower. I liked all the intellectual intercourse, the long discussions into the nature of logic and reason with people who boasted graduate degrees and spoke with enchanting eloquence. As I write now, I am tempted to call these same people pseudo-intellectuals—and that includes me. But at the time my critical acumen was nonexistent. I was happy to go along for the ride.
There were delightful evenings at home. Many were the times we’d sit together—Duane sipping Scotch, me sipping wine—while listening to the records of the great Spanish guitarist Andrés Segovia playing the fugues of Bach or the preludes of Chopin. Ever the devoted mentor, Duane did more than introduce me to the wonders of classical music. He was also quick to point out popular performers he considered worthy of attention.
One of those performers was Waylon Jennings.
Chapter 8
CRY SOFTLY
MY SOLACE WAS THE PIANO AT WHICH, FOR HOURS ON END, I’D play, sing, and compose. Some of the songs were disposable, but others were good. The good ones were the deep ones, the ones that emanated from the depths of my secret heart.
What secrets did my heart contain?
The biggest secret was my dissatisfaction with a marriage that never grew into anything more than a meaningful friendship. That indefinable element called romance remained elusive. Fondness, yes. Respect, yes. Musical stimulation, intellectual stimulation, social stimulation—yes, yes, yes. But no, I could not say in the silence of my heart that I was in love with my husband. And the inability to make that claim weighed heavily on my days and nights.
It could be morning when Jennifer was napping or evening after I’d prepared dinner and put her to sleep. But at least five or six times during the week I’d go to the keyboard and allow the feelings coursing through me to find expression.
It was satisfying to know that some of my songs had been recorded by Dottie West and Nancy Sinatra, but I wasn’t then—and am not now—the kind of writer who consciously composes songs for others to sing. By nature, I’m an autobiographical writer. I write out of my feelings. Even more specifically, I write out of what I’m feeling at the very moment that I’m writing. I write in the now. I write in reaction to whatever spirit is passing through me. I try not to scrutinize, judge, or suppress that spirit. My job is simply to give that spirit form.
I wrote the song “Cry Softly” during this period when music was the only means I used to express my sorrow. Otherwise, I was my usual upbeat self. A happy person all my life, I maintained my happy disposition. I wasn’t one to cry the blues to family or friends. Instead, those blues were contained in my song that said, “Cry softly, move slowly—away from the man standing there.” Because the stories in songs are cryptically rendered, I didn’t have to name names. I could convey true feelings without revealing the specifics of my true-life situation.
Even when Duane listened to these songs, many of which were sad, I’m not sure he got it. I’m not sure he heard the genuine discontent that was motivating my music. We didn’t discuss our relationship. We didn’t seek counsel of any sort. Given the presence of so many psychologists in our circle, you might think that peculiar. Why not seek their help? The answer is that I saw those people as friends. I’d have been embarrassed to sit in their offices and speak of intimate personal problems. Neither Duane nor I was raised to seek psychiatric help.
My husband had to see, however, that I had begun distancing myself from him. Duane, who was dealing with a number of professional frustrations, began to grow jealous. Over time, his jealousy grew to excessive proportions. Duane had nothing to be jealous about. I had no suitors. There were no flirtations. I stayed true to him and my duties as a wife and mother. If you had asked me how I intended to stay in what I saw as a loveless marriage, I could not have answered. Instead, I would have simply gone to the piano to write another sad song.
In 1966, Duane brought home an album by Waylon Jennings, his first on RCA, entitled Folk-Country. The cover carried a color photograph of a strikingly handsome man with dark, wavy, slicked-back hair. He wore a white shirt and a sharp gray-and-brown suede jacket. In his arms he held an acoustic guitar.
“RCA is calling him ‘folk country’ to cash in on the folkie craze,” said Duane, “but Waylon really doesn’t fit into any category. He’s really just a rocker. He rocks between country and rock and roll. But he’s also a great ballad singer. I think he’s one of the best young artists out there. Give it a listen.”
I did, and I immediately agreed with Duane. I loved how Waylon’s melodies had a way of weaving in minor chords. I loved how the first single off the record—“That’s the Chance I’ll Have to Take”—opened with the lines, “Troubles and a worried mind, it seems that’s all I’ve known, but now I’ll leave all that behind. . . .” I loved his muscular voice and his insistent rhythms when he sang songs like “What Makes a Man Wander.” I could feel his wandering soul. His music was filled with mystery.
I read the album notes that said only six years earlier he had been working as a deejay at a radio station in Lubbock, Texas, before country singer Bobby Bare had introduced him to Chet Atkins, the same Chet Atkins who was listed as producer of this record.
“Waylon’s been living in Phoenix,” said Duane.
“He has?”
“He’s been working at that huge two-story club called JD’s.”
“I know JD’s,” I said. “It’s between Tempe and Scottsdale, not far from Arizona State.”
“Those college kids are crazy for him. He’s become a local hero. Next time we go home to visit your folks, we’ll go by and tell him hello. You might even want to play him some of your songs.”
Although neither Duane nor I would admit it, our marriage was slowly unraveling. But who wants to admit failure, especially failure at something as important as your primary relationship? As the tensions between us intensified, our communication broke down. The lack of passion took its toll. Rather than talk about it, we brooded. And rather than seek to understand the source of the brooding, we remained silent. Resentments built. Anxieties deepened.
I wouldn’t have said so then, but the abandonment of my faith was a huge contribution to my unhappiness. Not that I believe a return to Christianity would have salvaged my marriage. Nothing could have saved it. It was a mistake—my mistake—from the start. But the replacement of my faith with a battery of half-beliefs that centered on self as salvation provided little comfort. My mind might have been stimulated, but my soul remained starved for a love that esoteric metaphysical theories couldn’t provide. And yet philosophically I continued to stray. I put my Bible aside. I had no interest in attending church. And concerning God, well, God was part of my childhood. Now I was grown.
And now, to take a break from what had become our stagnated life in Los Angeles, we went back to Phoenix for a visit. My mother could tell that I was hurting, but she also detected that I was in no mood to discuss any deficiencies in my life. Rather than probe the reasons behind my discontent, she turned her attention on Jennifer, whom she lavished with love.
A few days after we arrived, Duane mentioned that Waylon Jennings was presently in Phoenix working at Audio Recorders.
“You know that so
ng you just wrote, the one called ‘Living Proof’?” said Duane. “You might want to demo it while we’re here. You and Waylon could sing it as a duet.”
I liked the idea. I loved Waylon’s singing style and thought that our voices might blend well together.
When we walked into the studio, Waylon greeted us warmly. He was a big, gregarious guy with an easy grin and a ready wit. I felt as if I’d known him for years. This was the ruggedly good-looking, clean-shaven Waylon, his wavy hair slicked back and his eyes full of fire. Though he had a booming, larger-than-life personality, he showed Duane great respect. You could sense the high regard these men had for each other.
Waylon was in the middle of recording a cover of the Beatles’s “Norwegian Wood.”
“Interesting song for a country artist,” I whispered to Duane.
“I told you that he’s more than country,” said Duane. “You can’t put this guy in a box. His music is all over the place.”
Yet his music was incredibly concentrated. His version of “Norwegian Wood” that would appear on his Nashville Rebel album that same year—1966—was haunting. Waylon sang with utter confidence. He approached the story boldly. You would have thought that John Lennon and Paul McCartney had custom-written the song to be sung by a wanderlust character like Waylon. I was mesmerized.
He worked quickly and efficiently, critiquing his vocals with cold objectivity. When he had a take he liked, he turned to Duane and said, “Well, let’s hear that song your missus wrote.”
I went to the piano and played the song one time through.
“Wow,” said Waylon. “That little lady can really sing.”
“And write,” added Duane.
“Good song,” Waylon continued. “Who sings the first verse—you or me?”
“Why don’t you start off,” I suggested.
“Don’t mind if I do. But you ain’t gonna reach the microphone without something to stand on. Lemme move this box over here.”
Waylon sang:
Once we were so in love
We found the joy true love’s made of
I changed my mind, I set you free
How could I make such a mistake
I’ll never see
Then, standing on the box, I sang:
I went my way, I lived with pain
I found your faith for love in vain
You came back, I turned away
I live each day regretting the way
We destroyed yesterday
“Whoa!” Waylon held up his hand to stop the engineer. “She’s drowning me out. She’s got more volume than me. I’d better move that box a few feet back from the mic.”
With me repositioned, together we sang:
So here we are,
Living proof of what two fools in love can do
Someday we will,
But it’s too late
We’re living proof
There’s nothing left of our yesterday
The harmony came naturally. During the playback, Waylon was grinning ear to ear.
“Have any other songs?” he asked.
“A bunch,” I said, “but not ready to play for you tonight. You’ve got your album to record.”
“Well, don’t forget me when you start shopping those songs around.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
He and Duane had a good, hearty handshake before we walked out. While I was leaving, I turned around to see if Waylon was looking at me. He was. Our eyes met and if eyes could talk, Lord only knows what they would have said at that moment.
I look back now at the story of that song and wonder what was going through my mind when I sang it with Waylon. At the time, we were both married. Later I’d learn that he was as unhappy in his marriage as I was in mine, but there was no lengthy personal talk during that first encounter, only singing. Ironically, the song was about a marriage gone bad, living with pain, and dealing with the results of a ruined relationship. I was not consciously telling the story of my own marriage. But writers, especially ones like me, are always unknowingly dipping into the dark recesses of their minds for material.
My subconscious contained a lot more sadness than my surface personality—the ebullient demeanor I’ve had since childhood—was willing to reveal. My surface personality wanted the world to see that everything was all right, that as a wife, mother, and songwriter, I was making do.
But I was hurting inside. I’m not sure how much my flirtation with Ayn Rand’s theories of self-obsession had affected me. I now know that it didn’t help. It also didn’t help that, given my state of disbelief, I chose not to turn to God for comfort. Instead, I suffered silently.
There came a time when it no longer made sense to keep suffering. A decision had to be made. Clearly, I couldn’t see myself staying in a marriage characterized not only by the absence of romantic love but by an alarming increase in acrimony. Drained of compassion, I could no longer abide Duane’s jealousy. Nor could I go through the paces—and the pretense—of a normal life. I was tired of feeling trapped in the golden ghetto of Beverly Hills, tired of the manicured man-made landscape of Southern California, tired of hiding my hopelessness. Rather than risk an escalation of bad feelings between Duane and me, I decided to cut the cord.
Emotionally, divorce is an ugly business. How can it be otherwise? Divorce is an admission no one wants to make. Divorce can also provoke bad behavior—rage and revenge. Knowing that and loving our daughter as we did, Duane and I made an effort to avoid rancor and to stay civil. I credit him for doing just that. Since I was not interested in anything but the most modest of settlements, there were no arguments over money. All I required was some child support for Jennifer.
Through the years, Duane and I remained on cordial terms. He adored our daughter and remained in her life. During the pre-divorce separation period, I took Jennifer and shared an apartment with Shelley Fabares, who had left Lou Adler. We lived there for a short while until my brother Johnny flew out from Arizona. He helped pack us up and drove us home in my ’64 Mustang. I say “home” because, try as I might, Los Angeles never felt like home.
I still saw Mesa as my home and yet, after this long and difficult absence, wondered what it would be like to return to the fold of my family. I had left when I was eighteen. Now I was twenty-four. Now I was a divorcee and the mother of a small child. What lay ahead?
Part Two
THE LIGHTNING
Chapter 9
WAYLON AT JD’S
BEFORE WAYLON, I SAW MYSELF LIVING ON A CLOUD.
After Waylon, lightning struck—and kept striking for thirty-three years.
I first felt the lightning in 1968 when my sister Sharon suggested that we go see Waylon at JD’s, the outsized two-story nightclub where he’d been the big star since 1964.
I was back home. Jennifer and I were living with my folks who welcomed me home with open arms. They had no questions about why or how my marriage had ended. They understood me well enough to sense how unhappy I had been. And they trusted me enough to know that I would never take divorce lightly. They saw that my decision came after years of struggle.
Religion was not discussed. Here, too, Mother’s sensitivity told her that words would be in vain. She never demanded that I attend her church. She left me to my own spiritual devices, or lack thereof. Between us were unspoken volumes of dialogue about the true nature of God. Were that dialogue spoken, we both feared the results. Neither of us wanted to bring acrimony to our relationship. Thus, on matters of the spirit, the silence endured.
My sister Sharon reentered my story in her typically irrepressible way. Just as she was the one who initially urged me to meet Duane, she was one of the key catalysts in getting me out of the house to see Waylon.
“I’ve heard him many times,” she said. “I’ve even met him before JD’s when he used to play at Wild Bill’s. That’s when I heard all about his wild side. But who cares? I’m telling you, Mirriam, this Waylon Jennings is one of the best singers, one of the
best entertainers out there. Since he’s already sung a song with you, I’m sure he’d love to see you again. What do you say?”
What could I say? I remembered the look that he and I had exchanged when I left the studio a year ago. I said yes.
Waylon was the king of Phoenix and JD’s was his castle. His fans were fiercely loyal. He and his band, the Waylors, had become the stuff of legend. When his first RCA album Folk-Country came out, he curtailed his permanent residence at JD’s in favor of touring to support the record. So when he did return to JD’s for an occasional one-nighter, it was seen as a super-special occasion.
The night when Sharon and I went to see him was one such occasion. By that point I’d been to hundreds of live shows, both as performer and as fan. But I had never seen a scene like Waylon at JD’s. The club, at 825 North Scottsdale Road, was a madhouse of music. There was a rocking band downstairs while on the second-story dance floor, big enough for twelve hundred screaming fans, Waylon had them packed in like sardines.
Waylon still maintained the clean-shaven look I’d seen a year earlier. He wore a western-style white shirt with black trim.
“Handsome devil, ain’t he?” Sharon said as we moved toward the bandstand.
I couldn’t argue with that. He looked great and sounded even better. The music was jolting, intoxicating, irresistible. He played everything from Chuck Berry’s “Memphis, Tennessee” to Bob Dylan’s “Girl from the North Country” to Johnny Cash’s “The Restless Kid” to his own “Just to Satisfy You.” He sang with a natural and unrelenting force that gained momentum over his long set. The high-voltage energy generated by the crowd and the electric music made me feel as if I were floating on air.
“Look,” said Sharon at one point, “he’s pointing at you. He’s wanting you to come up onstage.”