An Outlaw and a Lady

by Jessi Colter

  After the first show that Cowboy worked, he approached Willie.

  “Your rhythm’s off,” said Cowboy. “You start in last week and wind up next week. You don’t stay on the beat.”

  In no uncertain terms, Willie told Cowboy where to go and what to do.

  But Cowboy was undeterred. After the next show he stayed on Willie, telling him that he was singing “Good Hearted Woman” twice as fast as it should be sung.

  Willie heard enough. He told Waylon that he wanted Cowboy fired. That would leave the Highwaymen in the middle of Europe without a soundman.

  Kris came by to see Waylon after the incident.

  “Where are you going?” asked Waylon.

  “To smoke a joint with Willie.”

  “Maybe you should smoke two. And when you get halfway down the second joint, gently suggest to Willie that he might have been a little hasty with Cowboy.”

  Kris took the suggestion. A half hour later he and Willie walked—or floated—out of Willie’s dressing room.

  With smiling eyes, Willie came up to Waylon and said, “Cowboy probably didn’t mean no harm. Let’s give the man a second chance.”

  A major victory for marijuana diplomacy.

  Waylon was forced to seek another kind of diplomacy when, in the course of one of the tours, he learned that the merchandising company’s promise to pay each of the four artists a $25,000 advance was being reneged.

  Waylon was obligated to bring this unfortunate update to Kris, John, and Willie, who had congregated on Willie’s bus. The challenge, though, was a rule that positive-thinking Willie strictly enforced: no negative news was allowed on his bus.

  Waylon, who greatly respected Willie’s mandate, paused before climbing on the bus. How to break the bad news without breaking Willie’s rule?

  When Waylon finally walked on the bus and faced his colleagues, he was ready. He said, “Okay, guys, how many of you are still expecting an advance from the merchandise firm of twenty-five grand?”

  As Willie began to raise his hand, Waylon quickly blurted out, “Not so fast, Willie.”

  Their bond, of course, overwhelmed their differences. Waylon always talked about their shared commitment to music, their ability, as he put it, “to blend the early country of the Carter family with Texas swing, southern gospel, and rockabilly.”

  They also shared a common sense of destiny. “There’s not one of us,” said Waylon, “who hasn’t come face-to-face with his own mortality, and many’s the time we’ve gone through our struggles and survivals together.”

  The decade-long life of the Highwaymen was a marvel. To watch these four troubadours, grizzled and world-weary, grow even closer in spirit was a unique blessing.

  “It wasn’t that we put aside our egos,” Waylon said. “Each of us has too much ego to ever do that. But somehow our egos blended. Somehow our egos—ornery as they were—learned to harmonize.”

  Chapter 26

  HOSS

  I REMEMBER A REPORTER ASKING ME ABOUT MY OWN EGO. IT was 1987 and the interview, at Southern Comfort, came in the aftermath of Waylon’s A Man Called Hoss, a dazzling autobiographical concept album.

  I was raving about Waylon’s endlessly creative energy and how, in ten songs, he had so succinctly summed up the essence of his life.

  “But what about your songs?” the reporter asked me. “What about your energy? It’s been six years since your last album, Ridin’ Shotgun.”

  “Actually only three years since I recorded Rock and Roll Lullaby,” I said. He didn’t know about my album that had disappeared right after Chips Moman’s label went belly up. I told him the story and he, an enthusiastic Jessi Colter fan, was delighted when I gave him one of the few remaining copies.

  “Can’t wait to listen to it,” he said, “but I’m guessing it must be frustrating to record an album that never gets heard.”

  “Sure it is,” I confessed.

  “And I’m wondering if it’s equally frustrating for a talented singer-songwriter like you to . . . well, to live in the shadow of your husband. We all have egos, and I’m curious how being in the background affects yours?”

  “Have you listened carefully to A Man Called Hoss?” I asked.

  “I know it’s about Waylon’s life.”

  “He wrote a song about me that might answer your question better than I can.”

  I got up, put the album on the turntable and placed the needle on a song Waylon called “Jessi: You Deserve the Stars in My Crown.”

  You’re the one who took the time

  Looked for a reason to believe

  You finally found a sun

  Which shines on the better side of me

  More than anyone

  You’re a part of all I say and do

  When it’s all said and done

  When they remember me, they’ll think of you

  You always believed

  That’s what brought me up when I was down

  And I do believe

  You deserve the stars in my crown

  Moved by the song, the reporter asked, “So you’re saying you’re happy being a supporter?”

  “It’s more than support,” I said. “It’s love.”

  “So you’re happy to put your career on the back burner?”

  “Look, my career happened almost in spite of myself. I’ve always loved singing, and I’ve always loved writing. And I’m certain that I’ll always do both. But formulating or forging a career, spending time planning and plotting about how to raise my public profile—that’s just not me.”

  “Yet it does seem to be Waylon.”

  “And justifiably so,” I said. “Waylon’s a creative genius. I’m not. I don’t say that to denigrate my talent. I thank God for my talent. I consider talent a precious commodity. I try to cultivate and grow my talent as best I can. But there’s a difference between abundant talent and outrageous genius. Waylon thinks, sleeps, dreams, and breathes musical constructs. He never stops creating, not for a second. He hears, feels, and sees things most people don’t. And he’s unable to rest until he expresses those things in musical form. His restless spirit is always at work. The result of that work is a gift for everyone, me included. I want to encourage that work, even as he has always encouraged my work.”

  “So you will get back to recording.”

  “You bet.”

  “Anytime soon?”

  “I have no timetable. I have a young son to look after. I have a daughter who’s become a fine young woman. I have a husband who deserves my attention. And, above all, I have a relationship with God that sustains my spirit.”

  Waylon’s sober spirit was growing stronger every day. The release of A Man Called Hoss confirmed his ability to create abundantly without drug-induced energy. He wrote hauntingly self-reflective songs about his childhood (“Littlefield” and “You’ll Never Take the Texas Out of Me”), his old loves (“A Love Song I Can’t Sing Anymore”), his relationship with Nashville (“If Ole Hank Could Only See Us Now”), his brutal battles with cocaine (“Rough and Rowdy Days”), and, finally, his victory over drugs (“I’m Living Proof There’s Life After You”).

  “This is an incredible record,” I told Waylon. “This is the best work you’ve done in years.”

  “Couldn’t have done it high,” said Waylon. “I see that now. For years I was convinced that I needed that bump to get past the creative block. Now I know that jumping over that block ain’t the way. I had to walk through that block. I had to walk through that fear. ’Cause on the other side I found a clarity I never knew was there. Clarity’s the key. When I was whacked out of my mind, I thought I was as clear as a bell. But looking back, I see that I confused chaos for clarity.”

  With the chaos behind us, I thanked God for our new life, anchored in a steady calmness.

  It wasn’t that Waylon had lost any of his spontaneity and irrepressible energy—Waylon was still Waylon—but the manic behavior, the crazy binges, and the periodic disappearances were now things of the past
. His demons, finally defeated, were no longer on the attack.

  An attack, however, did come in another frightening form.

  In early 1988, we were playing the Crazy Horse, a huge venue in Orange County, California. Back in the dressing room between shows, Waylon lit a cigarette and found it difficult to inhale.

  Seeing the pained look on his face, I asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “A pain.”

  “Where?”

  “My chest.”

  “Just stay where you are,” I said. “I’ll be back with help.”

  The closest to a doctor I could find was a paramedic working as a bouncer. He knew right away that Waylon was having a heart attack.

  Assuming his macho-man role, Waylon said, “It’s not that bad. Besides, I got another show to do.”

  I enlisted the support of Fred Reiser, the owner of the Crazy Horse, who told Waylon, “Don’t even think about doing another show.”

  The pain must have been excruciating because Waylon agreed to immediately go to a nearby clinic where the attending doctor looked just like Larry Gatlin, the one country singer my husband never liked.

  “Bad omen,” said Waylon.

  “Good omen,” I said, when the doctor advised an injection of TPA—tissue plasminogen activator—that breaks down blood clots. Waylon took the physician’s advice. The wonder drug did its job. When we learned that single dose cost eight thousand dollars, Waylon said, “If I’d been poor, I’d been dead.”

  Waylon rested in his room while I went back to our hotel to get some of his things. On the return trip to the clinic, I saw that police cars and media trucks had surrounded the place. My initial thought was that Waylon had died. Imagine my relief when I found him resting comfortably in his room. It turned out that while I was away a Hell’s Angel had broken into the place and shot a patient on the operating table.

  Before leaving the clinic, Waylon underwent an angioplasty, another attempt to fully open his blocked arteries, that was only partially successful. Convinced he had the problem licked, Waylon went back on the road. But a few months later, on his way to play a Johnny Cash benefit in Bristol, Tennessee, he experienced severe pain and turned the bus around.

  “You didn’t have a heart attack,” the doctor said, “but you’re about to. Those clogged arteries are a ticking time bomb. You need a bypass, and you need it now.”

  As it turned out, Waylon needed a quadruple bypass. The next day I checked him in to Nashville’s Baptist Hospital. His first pre-op visitor was Johnny Cash.

  “Hey, hoss,” said Johnny. “Just dropped by to make sure you get through this thing okay.”

  “Thanks, John,” said Waylon, “but to tell you the truth, you don’t look too good yourself. You’re ashen.”

  “Strange that you say that, ’cause I am feeling a little weak.”

  “Why don’t you have one of the docs check you out,” Waylon suggested.

  Next thing we knew, Johnny was in a hospital gown in the room next to Waylon’s with June by his side. Tests indicated severe artery blockage. He, too, required a bypass.

  Despite the severity of the situation, the jokes started flying. Although the men were no more than a few feet apart, the doctors didn’t want them out of bed, so they kept calling each other on the phone.

  “How’s it going in there?” asked Johnny.

  “Lousy,” said Waylon.

  “Why?”

  “I’m hurting like the dickens, but it turns out I’m allergic to morphine.”

  “Feel sorry for you, buddy,” said Johnny, “’cause I ain’t allergic to nothing. They’re pouring that morphine into me and, believe me, I’m feeling no pain.”

  “That’s what I get for saving your life. You get high while I suffer.”

  “Suffering is noble,” Johnny stated. “The more you suffer, the greater your character.”

  “I’d like to trade in some of that greatness for a little of your morphine.”

  The other point of contention had to do with the press. Johnny and June were calling press conferences to talk about his condition. The last thing in the world Waylon wanted were reporters nosing around his room.

  “Can’t we keep this low key?” asked Waylon.

  “No, sir. If we both kick the bucket, I wanna make sure I get the headline, not you,” said Johnny.

  Naturally that made Waylon laugh, though laughing hurt.

  Thank God both operations were successful.

  Johnny and Waylon had to remain in the hospital, of course, for post-op care—which was when the kidding reconvened.

  “I measure my strength,” Waylon told Johnny, “by my ability to reach out when Jessi walks by my bed and pinch her on the butt. For the past three days, I haven’t been able to do it. But this morning, by God, I caught her.”

  “So you’re back to feeling like a superstar,” said Johnny.

  “After this experience, I’m not sure I’ll ever feel like a star again.”

  “What makes you say that, hoss?”

  “When these nurses get me up to walk the hallway, I can hardly stand. But they get me up anyway. They put me in one of those gowns. They take my arms and get me going, and there I am, halfway down the hallway, when I feel a draft from behind. That’s when I realize this gown ain’t got no back, and I got no shorts on, and folks are looking at my bare behind. That’s the great equalizer.”

  Another topic of conversation became how and when they would each exit the hospital. Johnny preferred to do it with fanfare. Waylon wanted to leave quietly.

  “We’ll compromise,” said John. “We’ll leave together.”

  “Agreed.”

  And when they did, the press was waiting, both men standing before the cameras, arm in arm.

  For now, Waylon’s sickness had been abated. Modern medicine had given him—and Johnny—a life extension. But sickness would manifest in other forms. For all Waylon’s determination to lead a robust and productive life, for all the strength of his undiminished spirit, his stamina was permanently compromised. Physically, he would never be the same again.

  Part Five

  THE ROAD BACK HOME

  Chapter 27

  NOURISHMENT

  EARLY IN OUR RELATIONSHIP, WAYLON TOLD ME HIS NAME means “land by the highway.”

  “I may settle on that land for a short spell,” he said, “but the highway is always calling. And, to be truthful, I can’t see myself ignoring that call.”

  One of Waylon’s favorite expressions was “The bus rolls at midnight.” Such a large chunk of our lives was lived on the road where the culinary code was “Eat what you can, when you can—and gobble it down fast.”

  Some of our earliest clashes were about food. Waylon was always hungry and I was always tired of cooking. I realized, though, that part of my job would involve kitchen duties—and I reluctantly accepted the role. I was head-over-heels in love with a man who both fascinated and frightened me. I never got over the fascination but I did get over the fright. He was, after all, just a man in search of love.

  Giving love meant giving nourishment. But my Arizona style of cooking one-dish meals wouldn’t cut it. Waylon didn’t like casseroles or sauces. Waylon liked everything fried, cooked separately, and well done. He loved white bread and white sugar. He devoured huge quantities of cheese, eggs, sausages, gravy, and buttermilk biscuits swabbed with jelly. For a midnight snack, he’d refry a dozen doughnuts in butter. After he gave up drugs, he went from smoking two or three packs of cigarettes to six or seven.

  The bypass operation changed all that, setting off an alarm he could no longer ignore.

  He stopped smoking—cold turkey—and, for the first time in his life, he pursued what Maureen, our assistant, and I had been advocating for years: a healthy low-fat diet.

  It wasn’t easy. Waylon was a man of enormous appetite in all areas of life. He loved the comfort food that had emotionally sustained him since childhood. He realized the urgent necessity of eliminating the vast majority of those ite
ms from his menu, but that didn’t make it easy. He suffered withdrawal from nicotine. He hungered for those sugary substances and deep-fried delicacies he’d always found so satisfying.

  I give him great credit for changing his ways. His willpower was astounding. He wanted to live. He wanted to prolong this new chapter of his life when, finally free of drugs, he could settle back and with hard-earned calmness enjoy his music and, even more significantly, relish his role as husband and dad.

  In 1989, the year after the bypass, Waylon turned fifty-two and Shooter turned ten. Shooter was crazy for toys. He and Waylon would spend hours with the Ninja warriors. They loved going to toy stores together to check out the latest exotic imports from Japan. When Shooter reached his teen years, he became a computer prodigy before becoming a musical prodigy and ultimately merging the two. Not only did he draw his dad into his complex computer games, he also began introducing Waylon to heavy metal and alternative rock. It was Shooter, who greatly admired Trent Reznor and Nine Inch Nails, who broadened his dad’s musical outlook.

  “My father really didn’t have prejudices when it came to music,” Shooter told me. “He just lacked exposure. At heart, Dad was a raw rock and roller. When he heard the real thing, he responded positively. He felt camaraderie with some of the most far-out bands of the day because he himself was far out.

  “As I explored new styles of music that most men Dad’s age considered outrageous, he wasn’t outraged at all. He liked how I went places he hadn’t ever gone, and he was happy to follow me there. I have a funny story about the time he followed me to the mall. In a move of solidarity, he decided to get his ear pierced. But rather than have me take him to some weird piercing parlor, we went to Claire’s, a store that sold costume jewelry to teenyboppers, where a sweet seventeen-year-old girl pierced his ear. Dad was glad that she had no idea who he was.”