by Jessi Colter
Dear Jessi, the newness of life, which Waylon and I are experiencing, was promised us in Romans 8:13, “If you live by the flesh, you shall die, but if, through the spirit, you mortify the deeds of the body, you shall live.” Mortify means to make dead. For us and our death-dealing habits, there had to be death. He who said, “I am the way, the truth and the life” has triumphed in that through your prayers and all our perseverance, we have made dead the old man in us and now we have become heirs to the promise of life through Him. I ask you to take note of where Waylon and I are now. We are milk-fed babies in the spirit. Even with my background and this being my second time around, I am in no higher spiritual plane than Waylon, possibly, not as high, because he is in the joy of first discovery of spiritual truths. I thank you for your prayers, but I ask you to continue to pray along with Dulcie and others for our wisdom and discretion. For in God’s battles, even as in the U.S. Marines, discretion is still the better part of valor. Pray for our wisdom and know that I hold you in highest esteem and love you as a sister in Him. You have ministered to my spiritual needs as no man or woman has done in a long, long time. Last night your home was filled, overflowing with His bountiful love—and that it was directed at me makes me tremble. Thank you and God bless you, your brother, John.
Johnny referred to Dulcie Zaccheus, a wonderful woman from India and extraordinary Christian prayer warrior, who had ministered to him in his hour of need. Dulcie was small but mighty, no taller than five feet, with sparkling brown eyes and an absolutely serene demeanor. She was a rock of unbreakable faith. Dulcie had also made a great impression on Waylon—not enough for him to accept the Lord but enough for him to recognize the sincerity of her spiritual passion.
When it came to Waylon’s salvation, I had to remember that old adage—just when you think you’ve been patient enough is when you require even more patience. I had, in fact, been patient in allowing Waylon to achieve sobriety in his way, not mine. But now that he was sober, my heart cried for him to open his eyes to the glory of God. Now that he was no longer high on mind-bending drugs, no longer hyper and unhinged, no longer going days without sleep, wouldn’t Waylon’s newfound clarity lead him directly to the loving bosom of Christ?
The answer, in short, was no. Not now. Not yet. I could force the issue—and I wanted to do just that. I could force-feed him Scripture and claim that it was prayer—my prayers and the prayers of others—that saw him through. I could read him the spiritual riot act. I could evangelize and proselytize till I turned blue in the face. I could do all this in the name of a loving God, but in the end, it wouldn’t be a loving act. It would be an act born out of my own impatience, an act to assert my own insistence, my own ego, my own demand that Waylon receive Jesus according to my intractable plan.
With all that in mind, I decided to forgo planning Waylon’s miraculous conversion and instead do something well within my limited capacity: plan another party.
Not that parties don’t have a spiritual dimension. I believe they do. Parties—at least the ones I like to plan—can galvanize a community in the name of friendship. A good party can make meaningful connections and foster loving fellowship. Parties are also an opportunity to express creativity. I find it more meaningful when the party is organized around a creative theme. And when it came to creativity, the ambitious event I organized in December 1984 was a rousing success. I called it a Discovery Party.
The idea was to turn Southern Comfort into a showcase for clothing designers, illustrators, fine artists, and sculptors, who—in my opinion—deserved wider recognition. They deserved to be discovered. The unifying theme was the American West. I’ve long loved seeing images of the West—the landscape of my childhood—integrated in designs of all kinds. As a string quartet from Vanderbilt’s Blair School of Music played chamber music, dozens of guests roamed through our house over the course of two days. I told Waylon that he could escape if he wanted to—his presence wasn’t mandatory—but was delighted when, along with the other guests, he wandered from room to room to enjoy the various artistic impressions of the American West.
Waylon liked the spotlight. Most entertainers do. But he was also extremely generous in allowing the spotlight to fall on someone besides himself. Such was the case when I suggested we give a party to honor Chet Atkins.
“Beautiful idea,” said Waylon. “Let’s make it a really special night.”
My motivation was to let Chet know that we both cherished him. In the wake of the Outlaw movement, the press had labeled Chet a super-conservative, a company man who’d roped in the renegades trying to break free.
Chet had been one of my earliest champions—the A&R executive who got my songs covered by Dottie West, Hank Locklin, and Don Gibson. He encouraged me to change my name. Chet was also the man who, on Bobby Bare’s recommendation, brought Waylon to Nashville and signed him to RCA. Sure, Chet fretted about the drug habits of Waylon, Roger Miller, and Don Gibson. He told them—and rightfully so—that they were injuring themselves and the music. And sure, there were legitimate artistic differences between Chet and his artists. But at no time did anyone who worked with Chet disrespect his prowess as a producer or his virtuosity as a musician.
With all this in mind, Roger Miller and Don Gibson were the first guests I invited to a small dinner party for Chet and his witty wife, Leona.
The guests of honor were first to arrive.
“Chet’s so magical,” I told Leona in private. “Every time I’ve recorded with him it’s been a thrill.”
“You want him?” asked Leona. “You can have him.”
In her quiet way, Leona had a wickedly wry sense of humor.
I wish I’d captured the evening on video. Highlights included Roger telling Don how he stole “Don Gibson licks” in writing “Lock, Stock and Teardrops,” followed by Waylon’s riveting rendition of the song; Roger singing Don’s “Sweet Dreams” and “Old Lonesome Me”; Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits—a group Chet was currently recording—singing exquisite songs of his own; and finally, Don rendering a chillingly soulful version of his immortal “I Can’t Stop Loving You.”
It was an evening of hearty laughter, haunting music, and, most important, great healing. Each of us, in our own way, was able to express our gratitude to Chet Atkins and let him know that we dearly loved him.
Ironically, the party for Chet came not long after Waylon left the label—RCA—that Chet had led for so many years. It was without hard feelings or regrets that Waylon switched to MCA where he had good rapport with producer Jimmy Bowen, a fellow Texan, described by my husband as a man who approached country music with a “sense of sharp-creased style.” Jimmy had been working at “Hillbilly Central”—Waylon’s handle for Glaser Sound Studios—where he’d produced everyone from Mel Tillis to Hank Jr.
He and Waylon did two fascinating albums together—Will the Wolf Survive? and Hangin’ Tough. In Waylon’s judgment, though, neither record captured his newly sober soul. He thought he sounded rough and a little uncertain. He didn’t like the timbre of his voice. The truth is that when Waylon quit drugs, he didn’t quit cigarettes. In fact, his smoking increased and took a serious toll on his singing voice. It would take Waylon a while to find his footing as someone no longer dependent on chemical stimulants.
This transition period wasn’t easy. Waylon worried that he’d lost his magical touch. Of course he hadn’t. Every day I reassured him. And, for comfort, he’d ask me to go to the piano and sing a song I’d written for him years before, the same song that, when high as a kite, George Jones would insist I sing for him.
I will dry the tears I see in your eyes
And I feel the pain that you bring
If ever your heart should live free and wild
Darlin’, darlin’, it’s yours
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking for pain
But I must watch the sun set on you
If ever your heart should walk in the night
Darlin’, darlin’, it’s yours
A
fter I sang the song, he’d ask me to come sit close to him on the couch. He didn’t have to say what was on his mind. I knew. He worried whether it was drugs that had boosted his creativity. I didn’t share that worry. I knew that the source of creativity was far deeper than some man-made stimulant. I resisted the always-present temptation to preach, so instead simply said, “It’s a gift you were given that can never be taken away.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, with the innocence of a child.
“As sure as I love you—and that’s as sure as sure can be.”
The one present Waylon gave himself for giving up drugs required my participation. It happened during a winter trip to Arizona. Waylon had told me the backstory. As a kid in Littlefield, he had seen Jaybird Johnson, the local bootlegger, waltz into the local car dealer and pull three thousand dollars from his girlfriend’s bra to buy a Cadillac.
“I promised myself,” said Waylon, “that one day I was gonna do the same darn thing. Well, baby, that day is here.”
So sure enough, we marched into the Caddie dealer in Phoenix where Waylon spotted a gold Seville with a customized stretched-out body. The salesman said there were only five like it in all the world.
Waylon nodded his head, waited a beat, and then said, “I’ll take it.”
The salesman was all smiles. But as he began directing us to his office to start the paperwork, Waylon stopped him.
“No need for a bunch of paperwork. Gonna pay cash.”
And just like that, he reached into my bra where he’d stuffed a stash of bills that he handed to the wide-eyed salesman.
I was embarrassed to the core and turned every possible shade of red. The embarrassment deepened when Waylon saw fit to playfully pinch my butt.
But why not—I thought to myself—who am I to get in the way of his boyhood fantasy?
Embarrassed or not, I was happy for my man.
My happiness grew when I witnessed another gift of sobriety—Waylon taking command of his organization. In the haze of the drug days, he had neglected the business side. His accountant-manager Neil Reshen, for example, had been given free rein. Upon closer scrutiny, Waylon discovered that not all Neil’s dealings were on the up-and-up and the man had to be let go. Then there was the unacceptable behavior of some of his band members who were acting as though, in their supporting role, their stardom was as great as Waylon’s. Like Neil, they’d been getting away with a lot. Waylon put a stop to all this and assumed a strong leadership role. Finally, he had the clarity to assume full responsibility for every aspect of his professional life. At long last he was in charge.
Chapter 25
UNEXPECTED BIRTH
JOHNNY CASH HAD INVITED WAYLON, WILLIE, AND KRIS Kristofferson to appear on his annual Christmas television program. This particular year—1984—he decided to tape the show in Montreux, Switzerland. At the press conference to promote the show, a reporter asked the four assembled stars, “Why Montreux?”
Waylon was quick with a quip.
“Because this is where the baby Jesus was born,” he said.
As they went on to tape the show, I felt a strange sensation, there in the magnificent setting of the snowcapped Swiss Alps, that although these four men were the most rugged of rugged individualists, they fit together in a way that one seemed to complete another. Or, as Waylon put it, “This funny-looking quartet was born, again like the baby Jesus, out of an immaculate conception.”
The concept itself probably sprang from Chips Moman’s fertile musical mind. Johnny had hired Chips as his soundman in Montreux. Back in Nashville, Chips was also producing tracks on Willie and John when Kris and Waylon happened to visit the studio. That’s when Chips mentioned a tune called “The Highwayman” that he had taught them back in Switzerland. All four guys liked the song.
“So let’s cut it,” Chips said.
Amazingly, not one of these nonconformists chose to nonconform. They were happy to go along for the ride.
As it turned out, “The Highwayman,” an epic composition by Jimmy Webb, struck a powerful chord in each of the four artists. The song was high drama and deep mythology. Waylon played the part of a dam builder, Kris a sailor, Johnny a starship commander, and Willie the highwayman himself.
I was in the studio with the guys when, after the final take, Chips announced, “It’s a smash!”
Chips was right. The single, “The Highwayman,” a number-one hit, soon morphed into the supergroup, the Highwaymen. On their first album, the poignant “Desperados Waiting for a Train,” written by Guy Clark, also registered as a hit.
Seeing it as a boost for everyone’s career, Mark Rothbaum, Willie’s super-sharp manager, booked a few dates for the quartet that sold out immediately. Then the idea further flowered into a full tour.
At first Kris was skeptical. He didn’t think the four men, no matter how great their mutual respect, could pull it together. Kris didn’t want to desert his band. Johnny had scheduling conflicts. Willie had his picnics to worry about. But because of Waylon’s determination to pull everyone together, it came off.
Each artist was told he could take one or two of his own band members on the tour. The scheduling puzzles were solved and somehow the problems disappeared with almost supernatural aplomb.
In Waylon’s autobiography, he gave his impression of the camaraderie that characterized the group:
Me and Kris think John and Willie are like Truman and MacArthur. They won’t admit it, but there’s a little competition between them. Willie might be late getting to the stage, and John will say, “Where’s Willie? I’m going back to my dressing room.” Both of them enjoy their star power. When John went to the Eastern bloc countries, they called him “Your Majesty,” and he liked that, until he found out it was a guy from the KGB.
[John] looks like he comes from a different historical era. He could’ve been Jesse James, or the Apostle Paul . . . who said, “Woe be unto me if I don’t preach the gospel.” . . . If he’s Paul, Willie must be Saint Peter. He floats freely, founding his church on whatever rock he cares to perch on. . . . Kris taught us how to write great poetry. . . . He’s probably the only truly theatrical performer among us, a true actor in every sense of the word. Kris is probably the most enthusiastic about the music.1
As a grand scheme, the Highwaymen turned into a decade-long project—from 1985 through 1995—with three separate albums and several grueling but exciting tours that spanned the globe. At every stage, it turned into a beautiful musical phenomenon that I was privileged to witness. It even led to the four heroes being cast into a movie, a remake of the 1939 western classic Stagecoach that was shot in Phoenix in 1986, in which I had a small role opposite Tony Franciosa.
The process itself was tedious, the script was lame, and the high point came when Lash LaRue, who had a cameo in the film, dropped by our bus. When Johnny got word, he rushed over. As young boys, Waylon and Johnny had idolized this movie cowboy, famous for his bullwhip. Now sitting across from Lash, Waylon and Johnny turned into twelve-year-olds. They were practically giddy. Waylon talked about every one of Lash’s films—from Son of Billy the Kid to Mark of the Lamb. He also told the story of when LaRue had come to the Palace, the movie theater in Littlefield, Texas. During his stage act, Lash had inadvertently ripped the big screen with his whip. Enraged, the theater owner said, “You’re going to pay for this!” And Lash said, “I’ve got a gun and a whip that says I won’t.”
LaRue smiled and said he remembered that incident.
“Man,” said Waylon, “your attitude that night was something I’ll never forget. I do believe it changed my life.”
The Highwaymen enterprise certainly changed our lives, and all for the good. In the best sense, it was a family affair. Of the family memories, the strongest I have are of Lisa Kristofferson, one of the world’s great women, managing her five children during the day while Kris, exhausted from the previous night’s show, slept in. With one child on her hip, another on her breast, and the others in tow behind her, Lisa would
intrepidly lead our treks to the zoo, museum, or amusement park. I had Shooter, and Annie Nelson—Willie’s fourth wife—had her sons Micah and Lukas. We all loved being in one another’s company. The kids had a blast. We forged friendships that would last a lifetime. But it was Lisa and her formidable brand of motherhood that inspired me most.
On off-days, June and Johnny went shopping. An industrious spirit, June would bargain hunt whenever she could, amassing huge trunks of clothing and knickknacks that she’d ship to their home in Hendersonville and later sell at a profit. Willie was always looking for a golf game, occasionally recruiting Kris. Waylon would usually hang out with Shooter and me, exploring the exotic tourist spots in Sydney or Singapore.
Before the shows I caught glimpses of what I saw as little-boy rivalries. Johnny would pop his head into Waylon’s dressing room, look around, and say, “Just wanna make sure they didn’t give you anything that they didn’t give me.” But once onstage, the musical mood was always majestic. From where I stood in the wings, I envisioned their profiles on Mount Rushmore. Four titans. At the same time, they were also four little boys who’d just happened to have grown tall and wore boots.
Their passion was their music. I never tired of hearing “Mystery Train” or “Folsom Prison Blues” or “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” or “Me and Bobby McGee” or “Amanda” or “Good Hearted Woman” or “Mammas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys” or “Sunday Morning Coming Down” or “Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way” or “A Boy Named Sue” or “Always on My Mind.” The songs were always the same and yet the songs were always different—different interpretations, vocal combinations, and harmonies. The spontaneity never lagged. The surprises never stopped.
The hallmark was humor. The guys thrived on it. Not a day passed without some funny incident. One of the funniest didn’t start out funny. It began as we set off for Europe when Waylon suggested that Jack “Cowboy” Clement take charge of the sound system. Kris, John, and Willie agreed. I had my reservations. Beyond his musical prowess, Cowboy was a wild card, a man who might do or say anything. But because my role in this great enterprise was restricted to being a supportive and loving wife, I didn’t say a word.