by Jessi Colter
Sharon was right. Waylon had spotted me and—just like that—was gesturing for me to join him. I was hesitant but he was insistent.
“Come on up,” he said, “or I’m not gonna sing another note.”
So I went.
“This little gal sure can sing,” he told the crowd. “Wait till you hear her.” Then, whispering in my ear, he asked, “You know ‘It Ain’t Me, Babe’?”
“The Bob Dylan song?”
“That’s the one.”
I loved Dylan—still do—and was glad he’d chosen that particular number, an easy song to sing.
I guess I held my own because the crowd responded with loud cheers. It turned out to be the last song of his set.
During the intermission, he stayed close to me and said, “Heard you and Duane split up.”
“You heard right,” I said.
“Well, then, how’d you like to run off with me?”
The statement startled me, frightened me, and, I have to confess, delighted me. It took me a second or two to rebound.
“Call me in six months,” I said.
“Why six months?”
“I’m still recovering from my last marriage.”
“That makes two of us. The next move is yours,” Waylon added before saying good-bye.
On the way home Sharon was aflutter.
“You’re going out with him, aren’t you?” she said.
“No.”
“But he asked you, didn’t he?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“So what’s the problem?” my sister wanted to know.
“I just got out of one difficult relationship and I’m not about to dive into another difficult one.”
“Why do you call him difficult?”
“You were the one who called him wild.”
“All these entertainers like fast living. That’s what makes them so goshdarn fascinating. Don’t care what you say, Mirriam, I think you’re interested.”
I didn’t want to admit it then, but Sharon was right. I was deeply interested but also deeply apprehensive. The more people in Phoenix talked about Waylon, the more incorrigible he appeared. It wasn’t only the long list of women he had supposedly seduced (or who had seduced him), it was also his reputation for being high on high-potency pep pills.
And yet . . .
I sensed something in this man that I couldn’t ignore. I saw him as a fellow adventurer, a man unafraid of uncharted territory, someone willing to go anywhere and do anything in pursuit of some ever-elusive truth.
I couldn’t get him off my mind. And just when I thought I had, I happened to turn on the TV and there he was. Unlike the night I saw him at JD’s, he looked awful. He had lost considerable weight and, in his weird Nehru jacket, gave the impression of a man in pain. His face was gaunt and his eyes vacant. I couldn’t help but worry about him. And, even more pointedly, I couldn’t help thinking a thought that alarmed me:
He needs me.
I say the thought alarmed me because I questioned its validity. Who was I to help him? Who was I to presume he needed help?
I nonetheless acted on my instinct. I wrote him a letter in which I said that come Christmas season, which was still a few months away, I would be in Phoenix and if he was playing JD’s I’d like to see him.
His answer came within days. He wanted to see me.
When the day arrived, I dressed up to look my best and, for comfort’s sake, brought along my brother Johnny. Good thing, because Waylon left word to see him before the show at his suite at the Caravan Hotel. Highly apprehensive, I didn’t want to arrive alone.
In his autobiography, Waylon recalled that he was shirtless when he greeted me. He said the room was in shambles, filled with smoke, his band in the middle of a hot poker game. My own memories are not all that clear. I suppose that my excitement at seeing Waylon again clouded the details. In any event, I’m certain that I was not shocked. I had seen disheveled musicians in messy hotel rooms before. I do remember that, with my brother seated between us, Waylon and I had a surprisingly intimate conversation.
I later learned that when Waylon liked someone, he couldn’t help but speak intimately. Sincerity flowed out of him. He had no filter. He wasn’t cagey or vague or duplicitous. Waylon Jennings was straight-ahead, a man who spoke his mind. He liked to laugh and laughed easily and often. He was a tease but used teasing as an expression of affection. If he was fond of you, he’d tease you. If he wasn’t, he’d ignore you. But you couldn’t ignore him. He was too bombastic to be ignored, too charismatic, too filled with fun and good-hearted mischief. Most of all, he was energy personified, supercharged, propulsive energy bottled up into a man whose chief outlet was dynamic music.
“I have to be making music,” he was quick to tell me. “If I’m not singing it, I’m writing it. If I’m not writing it, I’m putting it together. And if I’m not putting it together, I’m going crazy. Music is what keeps me from going crazy.”
About his personal life, he couldn’t have been plainer. “I’ve gone through my three marriages like Grant going through Richmond.”
Three marriages, I thought to myself, and he’s only thirty-one.
My apprehension was still great, but my curiosity was even greater. My feelings were deeply conflicted: fear and attraction, caution and impetuosity. Being with Waylon was like being in a vortex over which I had no control. My head was spinning.
My head was spinning even faster when, after our talk in his hotel suite, I went to the show where the power of his music smashed the last remnants of my doubts. Yes, I wanted to see this man again—this man whose phenomenal two-hour set included wildly unique versions of songs by Roy Orbison, Willie Nelson, Mel Tillis, the Beatles, Buck Owens, and the Beach Boys. By the time the show was over, I was drained.
I wasn’t sure what would happen next. But whatever it was, I couldn’t wait.
Chapter 10
LOVE OF THE COMMON PEOPLE
BETWEEN OUR TALK AT THE CARAVAN HOTEL AND OUR FIRST encounter—a week or so later—I had time to consider the circumstances. Despite his reputation, Waylon had been a perfect gentleman, respectful to both my brother and me. I didn’t detect the slightest sign of sexual aggression or overassertiveness. He was highly animated, but hardly predatory. He made me feel safe. And yet he could read my hesitancy.
“I know you’ve heard lots of bad stuff about me,” he said, “but if I told you I actually considered studying for the ministry, would that help my case?”
“Wouldn’t hurt. But you obviously changed your mind. What happened?”
“Long story. But something I could explain on our first date. What do you say?”
I said yes.
On that first date he invited me to another of his shows. He came by my folks’ house and charmed them both. Waylon could charm anyone.
When we got into the car, he asked, “Mind if I call you Runt?”
“I can think of a few more flattering names.”
“It’s just that you’re so little, and besides, ‘Mirriam’ sounds too formal.”
“Well, let’s dispense with formalities. Where are we going, by the way?”
“A long drive. You mind?”
“Depends on the destination.”
“Tuba City.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t you want to know why we’re driving there?”
“I’m guessing ’cause the Navajos like your music. Tuba City is located in the Navajo Nation.”
“Good guess. Ever since I put out that record called Love of the Common People, the Indians have really taken to my music. You heard that record?”
“I haven’t.”
“You need to.”
“Do I really need to know all your records?”
“Don’t see why not,” he said with an endearingly devilish grin before asking, “Have you really been to Tuba City?”
“I’m an Arizona girl,” I said. “I know my state.”
I knew Tuba City, sitting
in the Painted Desert on the western edge of the Navajo territory, as an area of stark and breathtaking beauty.
“I figured that this long drive,” said Waylon, “will give us some time to chat.”
“And if I run out of things to say?” I asked.
“Not to worry. I’ll fill in the blanks.”
Waylon did that—and then some. With unflinching candor, he spoke about the hardships of growing up in Littlefield, a tiny dot on the map of West Texas, thirty miles outside of Lubbock.
“Littlefield is on the caprock,” he said, “right at the foot of the Great Plains as they stretch through Denver all the way north to Canada. Its elevation is about four thousand feet, but it’s so flat your dog could run off and you could watch him go for three days.”
He talked about growing up the oldest of four boys, dirt poor, and spending much of his childhood working the fields.
“Hard work—bone-crushing, skin-bleeding hard work—is all I’ve ever known,” he said.
“Were your folks churchgoing people?” I asked.
“Church of God in Christ. Strict fundamentalists. The gospel I heard preached was all fire and brimstone and the certainty of going straight to hell if you didn’t walk the straight and narrow. It was the gospel of fear that was stuffed down my throat. ’Fraid I don’t have good feelings about that church. Of all the religions I’ve run into, I do believe the Church of Christ has it wronger than most.”
“Why do you say that?”
“’Cause of what they taught me about God.”
“And what’s that?”
“According to what I learned in the Church of Christ, God is one angry dude who gave us this instruction book that’s hard to understand. But that doesn’t matter because, whether you understand it or not, you’d better obey every word. If you don’t, you’ll burn up in a lake of fire for all eternity. Yes, ma’am, that’s what I was taught. So you can see why I don’t love the church.”
“If you feel that way, what made you want to study for the ministry?”
“Mama wanted one of her boys to be a preacher. I suppose I was trying to please her.”
“But didn’t get too far.”
“Didn’t get too far with any of my schooling.”
“But you kept going to church,” I said.
“Not for too long. Couldn’t take it. What about you? You said your mom was a preacher. Wouldn’t imagine being a preacher’s kid you had much fun.”
“You’re wrong. I liked it.”
“You did?”
“Sure did.”
“You’re gonna have to explain why.”
I went on to speak about the beauty of Mother’s church, about how love, and not fear, was the message. But I also admitted that I’d left my faith several years back. Waylon wanted to know why.
“Not sure. I guess it’s because I’ve been busy exploring other ways of looking at the world.”
“And what did you find?”
“Only that I need to keep exploring,” I said.
“Makes sense to me. I’m not sure the exploring stops until the day we die.”
“Which may be the day that the real exploring just begins.”
“I like how you think,” he said with a broad smile.
A little later up the road a horse came out of nowhere and Waylon, who turned the wheel just in time to avoid the animal, started laughing.
“What’s so doggone funny?” I wanted to know.
“The peaceful look on that horse’s face. He wasn’t scared in the least. These animals know how to live. It’s thinking that makes humans nuts.”
“Do you include yourself in that group of nutty humans?” I asked.
“I’m the leader of that group.”
As the leader of his music group, the Waylors, Waylon held that audience of Native Americans spellbound. It was a magical night.
Unlike the raucous crowd at JD’s, this was an audience that showed restraint—a restraint born out of respect and reverence. The Navajos seemed to connect to the deepest part of Waylon’s soul. There was a sadness in his songs I hadn’t heard before. These people, his devoted fans, were moved by an ever-present tear in his voice, a sense of loss and pain that sat in the center of his songs. They loved him.
“The Navajos call it the long walk,” said Waylon on the drive back to Mesa. “They were forced off their land into exile. The government marched them to eastern New Mexico and tried turning them into farmers and traders, contrary to their hunting and shepherding ways. Took years for America to admit its mistake and send them home to this land they call the Wondrous Place. Anyway, they make me feel like I belong.”
“I felt a sadness in your voice tonight I hadn’t heard before.”
“Probably ’cause I was thinking about my daddy. I lost him earlier this year.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“He was only fifty-one. Bad ticker. Beautiful man. Most decent man I’ve ever known. And the hardest worker to boot.”
“What did he do for a living?” I asked as we drove through the dark, moonlit desert on our way back to Mesa.
“What didn’t he do? At one time or another, he worked the fields, ran a creamery, owned a produce store, had a gas station, and drove a fuel truck. Never did make much money but none of us starved. Never will forget the time he went to Hobbs, New Mexico, to do construction work and a piece of lumber fell on him. Daddy got out of the hospital in a back brace and headed right out to the cotton fields. ‘Why are you doing that?’ Mama asked him. ‘’Cause it’s cotton-picking time, and I can’t afford not to.’”
“He must have been proud of you.”
“He was. He loved music and appreciated musicians. He played guitar in that thumb-and-finger plucking style used by Jimmie Rodgers and Mother Maybelle Carter. His idol was Bill Monroe. On a clear night, messing with the booster cables, he’d hook up the radio so we could pull in the Louisiana Hayride or the Grand Ole Opry. That’s when I first heard Hank Williams sing ‘Lost Highway.’ Even had a premonition about Hank. I was in the general store in Littlefield and ‘I’ll Never Get Out of Here Alive’ came over the radio. I thought to myself, Wouldn’t it be weird if he died? Well, he did. That very day. New Year’s Day, 1953. He was twenty-nine. I was fifteen. And it tore me up, almost like my daddy had died.”
“Duane told me that you were with Buddy Holly on the night that he died,” I said. “That must have been so hard for you.”
“Still is,” Waylon acknowledged. “Buddy was one of the first to believe in me. He put me in his band on bass even though I really didn’t know the bass. Talk about being scared! But I hung in ’cause I knew Buddy was a genius. He was everything I loved—rock and roll and country and western and rhythm and blues, all packed into one incredible artist. When I was a deejay in Lubbock, Buddy’s hometown, he was my idol. To go on tour with him was a dream come true. And then that godawful night . . .”
Waylon was struck silent. Seconds ticked by.
“You don’t need to talk about it . . .”
“I do need to talk about it. For years I couldn’t. For years it haunted me. For years I felt guilty. Later I learned they even have a name for it—survivor’s guilt. For years I was messed up behind the memory. The memory is as clear today as it was on February 3, 1959. You gotta remember—he was only twenty-two, I was twenty-one. We were at that age when you think you’re gonna live forever.”
Waylon went on to describe the fateful tour that featured Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper, J. P. Richardson. They were traveling on an old bus with a broken heater. After their show in Clear Lake, Iowa, they were due to drive all night to Moorhead, Minnesota. That’s when Buddy decided to charter a small plane that seated only three passengers. The original plan was that Waylon and guitarist Tommy Allsup would fly with Buddy. But the Big Bopper, down with the flu, was reluctant to ride on the freezing bus and asked Waylon to relinquish his seat. Out of compassion, bighearted Waylon agreed. Ritchie Valens also preferred to fly and, a
fter winning a coin toss with Allsup, secured the third seat.
At the end of the night, Buddy said to Waylon, “Heard you’re not flying with me tonight. You chicken out?”
“Are you kidding? I ain’t scared of flying. Just trying to be a good guy and let the Big Bopper take my seat.”
“Well,” said Buddy, “I hope your bus freezes up again.”
“And I hope your ol’ plane crashes.”
Buddy, Ritchie, and the Big Bopper flew into a raging storm while Waylon and Allsup rode the all-night bus. Waylon said that he slept like a baby. He didn’t learn about the plane crash until he arrived in Moorhead the next morning. Back in his hometown of Littlefield, his parents heard a news report that Buddy Holly and his band were all dead. For nearly a whole day they thought they’d lost their son.
“Such a tragic story,” I said.
“I can’t tell you how many years I thought that, in some twisted way, I’d caused it. Sometimes I still have nightmares about it. And Buddy—I can’t tell you how much I loved that guy, how much he meant to me. He wrote some of the greatest songs of the century before he was twenty-one. Can you imagine what he would have written if he’d lived even to middle age? It’s such a loss.”
“Yet we haven’t lost his music. His music sounds better than ever. It’ll never get stale, just as Buddy will stay forever young,” I said.
“Tell me about the music you loved when you were young,” said Waylon. “What’s the first music that caught your fancy?”
“Music I learned in Mother’s church. Music I played. Music I sang.”
“But music that didn’t stick with you,” said Waylon.
“I wouldn’t say that. I loved the music. Still do.”
“Maybe that music is just on pause,” said Waylon.
“That’s a nice way of putting it.”
“I’m trying to show you I’m a nice guy.”
“Your dad must have been a nice guy. You were talking about him before you brought up Buddy. Tell me more about your father.”
“Most important thing about Daddy is that it was him, not the church, who taught me right from wrong. It was him who protected me. Once, a stud named Strawberry, a huge beefy boxer and the local Golden Gloves heavyweight champ, was about to beat up my little brother Tommy. Seems as though Tommy had fought with Strawberry’s little brother. Daddy found out and stepped in between Strawberry and Tommy. ‘You don’t want to mess with me,’ said Strawberry. ‘I’m undefeated.’ ‘You may be undefeated,’ said Daddy, ‘but lay one hand on my son and I’ll break you in half.’ That stone-cold-killer look Daddy gave Strawberry has stayed with me all my life. Strawberry just turned around and walked away. That’s when I realized my dad was the best protection any boy could ever have.”