“This is the problem,” he said.
There was no chance to call a lawyer. Even if there was, I didn’t know any lawyers in the Bahamas, and neither did Hank.
“Don’t worry, Willie,” said Hank, who loved to joke as much as I did. “I’ll come visit you.”
Next thing I knew I was whisked into a van and driven to the pokey and put in a cell. I was bummed out, but I couldn’t say that I was panicky. Hank was my buddy. He’d find a way to fix this.
Sure enough, he came to see me during visiting hours.
“They set bail at some ridiculous amount,” he said. “Between you and me, we don’t have the cash. I’m gonna have to get it wired from back home.”
“Hurry,” was all I said.
“Brought you something to tide you over.”
I was hoping it was a brownie laced with pot, but it was only a six-pack of beer. For the most part, I’d given up drinking. But in this instance I’d make an exception. If I was gonna be sitting in a dank, dark jail cell all day, might as well get plastered.
When Hank returned a few hours later with enough money to make bail, I was ripped.
The good news got better when he said, “Not only are they letting you out, but there’s a good chance the judge will drop the charges.”
The second we left the jailhouse and the sunlight hit my eyes, I hollered hallelujah and jumped off the porch of the jail. Given my inebriation, I took a nasty tumble and broke my left foot. I spent the next five hours in an emergency room. When I left, I was walking on crutches. Hungover and hobbling, I appeared before a judge. Hank had found a lawyer who started telling his honor about all the charitable work I did back in the States. His honor didn’t give a shit.
“We’re letting your client go on one condition,” said the judge. “He’s never to return to the Bahamas.”
“Deal,” I blurted out before the attorney had a chance to speak. And that was it.
Two days later I was hobbling into the White House on crutches. President and Mrs. Carter had invited me to perform. They had also invited my family to spend the night. I’d campaigned for Jimmy Carter during the presidential run in 1976 and we’d become good friends. The Carters reminded me of the people I’d grown up with in Abbott.
Before my performance in the Rose Garden, the president came up to greet me.
“I’m glad everything turned out well for you in the Bahamas, Willie,” he said. I was relieved that he didn’t ask about my accident. His warm smile and quick wink gave me the idea that he knew—and didn’t seem fazed in the least. My little concert went off without a hitch.
That night we had dinner with the Carters. Lots of farm talk. The president spoke about growing peanuts and I told some stories about my adventures as a pig farmer. It was an early evening, and Connie and I kissed the girls good night in the Martha Washington bedroom before we retired to the Lincoln bedroom. My head was spinning.
A few days ago I was in the pokey. When you’re in the pokey, you’re feeling mighty insecure. Now I found myself in the most secure place in the world. I was about to fall asleep in the center of world power. Except I couldn’t fall asleep. That’s when I heard a gentle knock on the door.
It was a friend of mine who happened to be a White House insider.
“I was guessing you’d still be up,” he said. “It’s early for you. Thought I’d give you my own tour of this place. What do you say?”
I said yes.
Winding our way through back staircases, we made it up to the roof.
“Best view of the city,” proclaimed my pal. “Private, quiet, and absolutely serene.”
He pointed out all the sights: the Washington Monument, the Jefferson Memorial, the Capitol, the Watergate apartment complex. The night air was cool and the sky glowed with glittering stars. I felt aglow, a picker from Abbott sitting on top of the world.
To top things off, my friend pulled out a joint.
“Think it’s time to burn one, Willie, if you don’t object.”
“Think it’s cool?”
“If it wasn’t I wouldn’t be offering.”
I accepted the offer. The smoke took the edge off my excitement.
Getting stoned on the roof of the White House, you can’t help but turn inward. Certain philosophical questions come to mind, like…
How the fuck did I get here?
The answer was obvious: through the front door. By invitation from the man who runs the place.
But how the fuck did he get here?
By bettering himself. He went from farming to politics and got real good at it. He found a way to help out the average Joe.
In my own life I’d tried to get good at my job. I found a way to entertain the average joe.
Okay, maybe I was ego-tripping. But given where I was sitting—on the roof of world power—who wouldn’t be? There I was, smoking weed and watching the city lights flicker like fireflies, thinking back to where I had started, thinking of the twists and turns of my crazy career, thinking how I had somehow managed to stay half sane. I had to offer up a prayer that consisted of no more than two words:
“Thank you.”
Back in Austin, I had even more reason to be grateful when Ray Charles came to town. I’d been appreciating brother Ray for years, but had never gotten the chance to meet him. As the Austin music craze heated up, he was booked at all the big venues, including the Texas Opry House. We had a chance to spend some time together and became friends for life.
I told Ray I thought his records from the early sixties were single-handedly responsible for dramatically broadening the audience for country music.
“Willie,” he said, “I really wasn’t trying to broaden a damn thing. I was just singing songs I’ve always loved. As a kid growing up in the Florida backwoods, I loved listening to The Grand Ole Opry. The natural fact of the matter is that I’m country—deep country.”
Like Jimmy Carter, Ray was a man I felt that I’d known my whole life. Naturally I was flattered when he said he was a Willie Nelson fan. It was especially flattering because Ray was so sincere. Not only did he never sing a false note, but he never said a word he didn’t mean. He gave off supercharged electric energy. In his attitude toward music, I saw him as a kindred soul. He wouldn’t stay boxed in. He once said, “They called me an R & B artist, so I put out a jazz album. Then they started calling me a jazz artist, so I sang country. Now they don’t know what the fuck to call me. And that’s just the way I like it.”
Ray and I had similar histories with producers.
“Some producers think they know more about me than I know about myself,” he said. “That’s bullshit. I’m the best student of my own style. Hell, I’ve been studying myself forever. Same way you’ve been trying to figure out how to match your voice with your guitar, Willie, I’ve been working on matching my voice with my piano. Might sound like I’m bragging, but I don’t need no motherfucker in the studio with fancy ideas about how I should sound. Best producer I ever had was Jerry Wexler. And do you know what he did? He made sure the studio’s electric bill was paid and left me alone. He said, ‘Go on, Ray. Last thing you need is advice about music.’ ”
When I told Ray I’d had a similar experience, he wasn’t surprised.
“You’re different, Willie,” he said. “And it’s your job to protect that difference. Producers want you to sound like the last hit you had. But hell, I see that as old history. Right now I wanna make new history.”
Ray also loved to laugh. He had a wicked sense of humor.
When he learned I liked chess, he invited me over to his hotel suite. We met in the well-lit foyer. Ray had me follow him to the living room, which was pitch-dark, I guess to even the playing field. The chess pieces were marked in braille. Not knowing braille, I got my ass kicked.
Another time I was with Ray, Roger Miller—one of the funniest guys in the world—walked up behind him, put his hands over Ray’s eyes, and said, “Guess who?”
Ray, who knew sounds and voices be
tter than anyone, knew exactly who it was.
In putting together these yearly picnics, I knew exactly who I was not. I was not a detail man. Once I see the big picture, I count on others to make it happen. The big picture of my party for America’s big bicentennial back in 1976 couldn’t have been clearer: a good-size city of fun-loving fans—over a hundred thousand strong—would come to hang out and hear good music. I’d pick the artists to make that music and make a little music myself. That’s it.
But that ain’t “it,” ’cause the logistics are overwhelming. As a guy who doesn’t like being overwhelmed, I’ll separate myself from the pre-picnic commotion till it’s time to go onstage. That’s good and bad: good ’cause I preserve my peace of mind, but bad if the wrong people start running things.
Those wrong people, of course, are in my employ. And that’s where we come to another area where some say I’m lacking. Having grown up around hustlers, having liked hustlers, and having hustler blood running through my own veins, I’m especially tolerant and even fond of certain hustlers.
In the era when I came up, you couldn’t survive the music business without having a hustler in your corner. And when I say hustler, I don’t exactly mean a cheater, although hustlers have been known to cheat. I mean someone who’s hustling to make sure your deal gets done, whatever your deal happens to be. In the case of the picnic, the deal was enormous. In 1976, the deal meant accommodating a crowd estimated at 150,000. We had secured the town of Gonzales, fifty miles outside Austin. The usual crew of my buddies were on board: Kinky Friedman, Roger Miller, Waylon and Jessi Colter, Kris and Rita, George Jones and Leon and Mary Russell.
But a few of the town leaders got ornery, complaining about the hippies descending on their hamlet. Manager Neil Reshen and promoter Geno McCoslin, busy partying on Peruvian powder, forgot to get a permit and we wound up paying a big fine. Even worse, Mother Nature got pissed and brought down the heavens on our heads. We had to put a huge tarp over the stage. (At another rain-soaked picnic, this one in Liberty Hill, Paul English pulled out his pistol and shot straight up into the overhead tarp containing rainwater. Instant drainage.)
Beyond the nasty weather, there were supposedly some nasty altercations when a motorcycle gang roared through the crowd. Rumors circulated that a man had drowned in a stock pond not far from the picnic grounds.
I didn’t see any of this. I was so busy promoting the event back in Austin that I didn’t make it back in time to play my set. But I did get to sit in with Waylon.
The press hit us hard. They called us unprepared, unorganized, and unprofessional. Of course I regretted any harm or any injuries suffered by anyone. And I also couldn’t deny responsibility for putting people like Neil and Geno in charge.
In Neil’s case, I was still under the illusion that he was the kind of savvy manager I needed to protect me from the music industry wolves.
In Geno’s case, he had booked me back when I couldn’t get myself arrested. He’d saved my ass during down times in my career. He’d been loyal.
Loyalty is a strong element of my character. A love of the unexpected is another. When someone close to me said, “Come on, Willie, admit it. You like things a little chaotic, you like not knowing what’s going to happen, you feed on explosions, you like it wild and crazy,” I couldn’t deny it.
Yet even my worst critics couldn’t argue with the fact that, in spite of unfortunate occurrences and bad weather, a whole lot of people still had a whole lot of fun.
Those same critics predicted that this would be my last annual picnic. I didn’t pay them no mind. I knew better.
I also knew that the pressure of my hectic career was getting to my wife and hurting my family life. I wanted to do right by Connie and the girls, just as I’ve always wanted to do right by everyone close to me. But as my success in Austin got bigger, so did the demands on my time. More and more people came round, looking for my attention. I was easy to reach. Everyone knew where I lived. Our Fitzhugh Road ranch was an open house to the world. I was no good at turning down requests. I’d play any benefit if I thought the cause was half just. I’d been taught that if you could help out a neighbor, you do it.
Connie was convinced I was helping out too many friends and neighbors. After she and I had enjoyed some great vacations in Colorado, she argued that it would be the perfect place for a permanent escape.
I wasn’t all that sure. I loved the Austin area. I loved my home state. It was the very act of coming home that had allowed me to have this recharged career. Texas was my base. If I was gonna move somewhere to escape the crazy crowds, why not move back to Abbott? To my way of thinking, Abbott was the calmest spot in all the world.
Connie didn’t see it that way. If we moved to Abbott, she argued, she and the kids would get even less privacy. Night and day, everyone would be at our door.
I don’t like arguing with women. Fact is, I don’t like arguing—period. If Connie wanted Colorado, well, let’s move to Colorado. Colorado has fresh mountain air. Colorado has beautiful vistas. Colorado has small towns where no one would find us. Connie found a hundred-acre ranch with a twelve-room chalet right there on the property.
She said it was perfect.
I said it was too far from Austin.
She said if I had my own jet, Austin would be only an hour away.
I got my own jet.
We got the property in Colorado.
I went back on the road. And back to the recording studio. This time I was determined to make things run smoothly.
“Your life ain’t ever gonna run smoothly, hoss,” said Waylon when we went to cut a song by Bobby Emmons and Chips Moman called “Luckenbach, Texas (Back to the Basics of Love).”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Look at the lyrics of this goddamn song.”
I did.
The story starts out with an introductory announcement that gave me a chuckle.
The only things in life that make it worth living
Is guitars to tune good and firm-feeling women
I don’t need my name in the marquee lights
I got my song and I got you with me tonight
Maybe it’s time we got back to the basics of love
Then it’s off to the races…
Let’s go to Luckenbach, Texas
With Waylon, Willie, and the boys
This successful life we’re living
Got us feuding like the Hatfields and McCoys
“Don’t you see, Willie?” said Waylon. “Until you get back to Luckenbach—or Abbott—or wherever the hell you came from, things ain’t ever gonna run smooth because the outside world is too fucked up and filled with confusion.”
“I was thinking about going back to Abbott,” I admitted, “but it didn’t work out.”
“Of course it didn’t. That’s ’cause life ain’t letting you. The best you can do is sing this song and pretend that you’re going back.”
I sang the lyrics that said…
Between Hank Williams’s pain songs and Newbury’s train songs
And blue eyes crying in the rain
Out in Luckenbach, Texas, ain’t nobody feeling no pain
So, baby, let’s sell your diamond rings, buy some boots and faded jeans
This coat and tie are choking me
In your high society you cry all day
We’ve been so busy keeping up with the Joneses
Four-car garage and we’re still building on
Maybe it’s time we got back to the basics of love…
Let’s go to Luckenbach, Texas
With Waylon, Willie, and the boys
This successful life we’re living
Got us feuding like the Hatfields and McCoys
I loved the song. Loved that my duet with Waylon hit the number one country slot and crossed over into the top-twenty pop chart.
Waylon was a smart son of a gun. He knew me well. He knew that I’d prosper with Neil Reshen, the manager we now shared. He knew that
this outlaw persona fit me perfectly, just as it fit him. But he also knew that, given my predilection to please those around me, the pressures of show business would have me hopping in five different directions at once.
“You’re trying to do too much and trying to please too many,” said Waylon. “Doesn’t that worry you?”
“Nope.”
“How come, hoss?”
“ ’Cause one way or the other,” I said, rolling a fat one, “it’s all gonna work out.”
“And what makes you so goddamn sure?”
I took a hit and held it in. When I exhaled, I said, slowly but deliberately, “It’s a matter of faith, Waylon. And I got enough faith to last me this lifetime and whatever lifetimes come next.”
Waylon just laughed and called me crazy.
23
AGAINST THE GRAIN
I’M SENTIMENTAL AND NOSTALGIC. I try to live in the present tense, but I’m always aware of the power of my past. I do that by honoring my heroes.
Lefty Frizzell, maybe the greatest of all the honky-tonk singers and writers, was one of my heroes. When he passed away during the summer of 1975, I made up my mind to do an entire album of Lefty material. A year later I had picked the tunes and was ready to roll. As you might have guessed, the label tried to stop me.
“It’s not a commercial idea, Willie,” were the first words I heard.
“Didn’t say it was.”
“You’re the hottest country artist out there. Now’s the time you want to expand your market, not contract it.”
“Were it not for Lefty, I wouldn’t have a market. He paved the way.”
“Look, Willie. Nothing against Lefty. Lefty was great. He was a Columbia artist. But three years ago his sales were so weak we had to drop him.”
“Even more reason to honor him,” I said. “You guys got some making up to do.”
“We urge you to think about this.”
“I have, and the more I think, the more I’m dead set on doing it.”
I called the album simply To Lefty from Willie, and I did some of his best stuff, including “Always Late (with Your Kisses)” and “Mom and Dad’s Waltz,” and something by Jerry Jeff Walker and Jimmy Buffett called “Railroad Lady,” the last song Lefty ever recorded. One of the songs, “I Love You a Thousand Ways,” made the top ten on the country chart, convincing me of something I already knew: the label really didn’t know shit.
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