Then Merle Haggard dropped by one of the sessions. We were discussing doing a duets album together, and Chips brought in a song that had been sung by Brenda Lee and Elvis. I hadn’t heard either version.
Very first time I listened to “Always on My Mind,” written by Chips’s guitarist Johnny Christopher along with Wayne Thompson and Mark James, I knew I wanted to record it.
“Wouldn’t mind saving it for our album,” I said to Merle. “We could sing it together.”
“I don’t hear it,” said Merle. “You go on and do it alone. I don’t think it’ll work as a duet.”
I’ll never know whether Merle was right or not. That’s because the song became the title of the album and a hit single. Went to number one on the country charts and crossed over to the top five on the pop charts. Turned into one of the biggest records of my career.
And turned out that when Merle and I did get together to cut that album, we had a monster hit of our own.
Mark Rothbaum likes to say that Merle and I are like two bookends holding up a shelf full of music. I take that as a compliment. Merle is all about authenticity. What you see is what you get. Doesn’t matter that he came out of Bakersfield and I came out of Abbott. Our roots are the same. We share the same musical heroes, the same human values. Merle is my brother and a man who appreciates the good herb as much as I do.
When Merle came to Pedernales to cut an album with me, I figured it’d be a breeze—and it was. If anything, Merle’s more kicked back than I am, and that’s saying something. We got Chips to supervise the sessions. We did one of Merle’s great tunes—“Reasons to Quit”—and a couple of mine: “Half a Man” and “Opportunity to Cry.” Before we knew it, we’d sung down something like twenty songs, but Chips, who has a sixth sense about these things, kept saying that he didn’t hear a hit. Far as I was concerned, all twenty tunes were hits. But that’s just my nature. If it sounds good to me, I figure it’ll sound good to most folks.
Nonetheless, Chips kept looking for more songs and we kept recording. Didn’t mind because singing with Merle is always a treat.
At some point in this process my daughter Lana called me up late at night to say she’d found a song she thought I might like. It was Emmylou Harris singing something written by Townes Van Zandt, a wonderful Austin writer.
“Daddy,” said Lana, “you ever hear ‘Pancho and Lefty’?”
“Don’t believe I have, darling.”
“Well, let me come over and play it for you now.”
“Right now? It’s awfully late.”
“The song’s awfully good.”
Lana ran over. One listen told me that she was right. I loved Emmylou’s version—I love anything Emmylou does—but I could hear how the song lent itself to a duet sung by two men. It had two male characters. Pancho was a Mexican bandito, Lefty his pal. When Pancho is killed by the Federales, he may or may not have been betrayed by Lefty. I loved the line that said, “The dust that Pancho bit down south, ended up in Lefty’s mouth.” I loved the song’s essential mystery. I saw it as a great Western, and I couldn’t wait for Merle to hear it.
Went straight to Merle’s bus that was parked outside the Pedernales studio and woke his ass up.
“What’s so fucking important?” he wanted to know.
“This song.”
When I played it for him, he liked it but wanted to go back to sleep. “We’ll do it tomorrow after the band’s learned it.”
“The band’s already in the studio, Merle,” I said. “Chips and the boys are waiting on us. I got them to work an arrangement. We’re good to go.”
Reluctantly, Merle dragged himself out of bed.
Didn’t take us more than one take to run down the vocals. It was like we’d been singing the song for years.
Next day I was on the golf course, working off my energy and excitement from last night’s session.
On about the fourth hole, here comes Merle.
“Hey, Willie,” he said. “Been thinking about that ‘Pancho and Lefty’ song. It really is something, but I’m not sure my vocal was all it should have been. Let me run into the studio and take another crack at my part.”
“Too late, Merle,” I said. “We already sent the fucker to New York. They heard it and think it’s a smash.”
It was a smash. Went all the way to number one. And the album, named Pancho and Lefty, wound up selling millions. Even better, my daughter Lana directed a great video version of the song.
Not everything I recorded sold millions. Far from it. Did an album called Somewhere over the Rainbow with a Stardust-like lineup of songs. Didn’t sell like Stardust—nothing did—but I didn’t care. I got to sing more of the old standards that I loved.
I also got to go off and do jazz projects, inspired by my good friend Jackie King, a master guitarist who’d played with everyone from bebopper Sonny Stitt to blues shouter Joe Turner. We cut a record called Angel Eyes and, just to be different, played the old cowboy tune “Tumbling Tumbleweeds” together with a swinger, Bob Wills’s “My Window Faces the South.” No spectacular sales, but I got to play with Jackie King, an artistic pleasure unlike any other. We even went to Japan, where the record was first released, to perform it live.
Japan has strict drug laws. Getting caught with a skinny joint could mean a year in the can.
“Don’t fuck around,” said my manager, Mark, who, as something of a joke, turned up at my Tokyo hotel room with a pound of hemp seed.
“What the hell am I going to do with hemp seed?” I said.
“Strain it,” he said, “and maybe you’ll get a buzz.”
Hate to confess it, but I actually did strain the shit and rolled it into a joint. I smoked it all the way down.
“You get a buzz?” Mark asked.
“No,” I said, “and that proves the difference between hemp and pot.”
Because money was plentiful, the eighties was a time when I could relax in the studio and do what I wanted. I loved duets because duets are a beautiful expression of friendship. They’re a way to have a musical conversation with a buddy. Because Pedernales was off the beaten trail and so relaxed, my buddies loved to come there. I welcomed them all.
I was honored when Ray Charles traveled to Pedernales to sing a duet with me on “Seven Spanish Angels.” He sang the shit outta the song, which felt like a Western movie, a sad refrain about gritty gunfighters and death on the lonesome Texas prairie. Became a big hit.
In my studio, I had to laugh when Ray ran his fingers over the board and started telling the engineer about how to better manipulate the controls. Before anyone else, Ray was also into computers. Years later he was the first guy to email me.
I was in London listening to the radio when I heard a singer I liked. He had a distinctive lilt in his voice. After asking around, I found out his name was Julio Iglesias. Might be interesting to do a duet with him. Something different. Didn’t matter to me if he was little known.
“Little known!” exclaimed Mark. “This guy’s one of the biggest-selling singers in the world. He’s number one in Latin America. He’s huge in Europe, huge in Asia.”
“So much the better,” I said. “See if he wants to sing with me.”
He did. He picked out a song with English lyrics. It was something called “To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before.” Apparently the writers—Hal David and Albert Hammond—had composed it with Sinatra in mind.
“Ask him if he’d mind cutting it at Pedernales,” I told Mark.
Turned out he didn’t mind at all. He’d fly in on his private jet.
“You might want to cool it with the joints, though, Willie,” said Mark. “Julio’s a Spanish lawyer.”
A day before he arrived, I still hadn’t heard the song.
Coach Darrell Royal, who was hanging around the studio, asked, “Don’t you need to hear the song to see if you wanna sing it?”
“Hell,” I said, “a guy who sells that many records worldwide is bound to have good taste.”
Turne
d out Julio had great taste. He arrived in grand style. There were at least a dozen dudes in his entourage. When he showed up at the studio, he was wearing all white. Nice-looking guy. Perfectly mannered.
“Hope you don’t mind the down-home atmosphere in here, Julio,” I said, “but we believe in relaxing when recording.”
“I thoroughly approve.”
“Good.” And with that I lit up a fat one.
No objections from Julio. He was focused on singing. He had a suggestion or two on how I might phrase the lyrics. The suggestions were good, and I took them to heart.
Me and Julio were simpatico. Maybe it was his suggestions that made the song go to number one. If that was the reason, more power to him. More power to me for having a hit duet with a European artist commanding an international market.
I’d done so many one-off duets by now that the record label wanted to put ’em together in a compilation record.
“What do you think we should call the album, Willie?” asked one of the suits.
“Half Nelson,” I said.
The man laughed and said that seemed suitable. The title stuck.
Can’t tell you how much I liked sticking around Pedernales. I’d wake up in the morning, wander over to the studio, never knowing who might drop by. Say hello to Hank Snow. Or Roger Miller. Or Webb Pierce. Or George Jones. Or Kenny Rogers. Or Hoyt Axton.
When old friends like Faron Young, the man who had helped me get going by singing “Hello Walls,” showed up, I was all smiles. Didn’t matter that his career had cooled off. Happens to all of us. If I could do anything to help, I was ready. My studio was his for the asking. Styles might change, but great country singers like Faron and Ray Price are forever.
Other artists from different fields, like Bon Jovi and Aerosmith, came not to sing with me but to cut tracks of their own. I was gratified that they had that kind of confidence in my studio.
In 1983, the year I turned fifty, my mother, Myrle, died. Once again, it was that ol’ devil called lung cancer. It was another painful death, another gruesome reminder of how tobacco poisons our bodies.
Mom was one of the great characters. She was as far from traditional as any mom could get. She was fiercely independent and full of self-confidence. This was one woman who did her own thing. At the time of her passing, she was living in Yakima in the state of Washington.
Even though she left us in Abbott shortly after I was born, I never felt as though she’d left us at all. She was always popping in when we’d least expect her. Always had a smile on her face. Always had an encouraging word.
During my early life when I needed a fresh start and ran out to Eugene to see her, she welcomed me with open arms. No matter where she was, I knew I could count on her. Later, when I had some success, she’d come to the shows and loved being introduced to the crowd. She’d come onstage and sing with us during the finale. I was proud to show her off. There was one happy time at Caesars Palace in Vegas and another down in Houston when she came marching in the moment we broke into “Up Against the Wall, Redneck Mother.”
Until cancer caught her, Mom stayed young and vital.
She once wrote me a note that said how proud she was that I’d made something of myself. She talked about her lifelong determination to be self-reliant.
“You have the same quality, son,” she wrote, “and because of that quality you can go to sleep every night knowing that everything’s all right. Lots of men are always looking over their shoulder, worrying that their bad deeds are coming back to bite ’em in the butt. You don’t have those worries. You’re real loyal to your friends and you’re real good to your fellow man. I’ve never seen you hate on anyone, son, and everyone can feel that you want the best for them. I’ve always wanted the best for you. You found a formula for living that suits you just fine. If I had anything to do with finding that formula, I’m mighty glad.”
Mom had everything to do with my finding that formula. She lived a life that said, Go your own way, chase your own dreams.
I was lucky to have such a mother.
I was lucky to be surrounded by such a strong family. Lucky to have a spread like Pedernales. Lucky to have the studio and the golf course and the great camaraderie with cherished companions.
Yet for all this good fortune, something was tugging at my heart. I felt the need to reconnect, to go somewhere I hadn’t been for too long.
I still felt a hankering to go home.
26
“BURN THE FUCKER DOWN!”
I WAS BACK IN ABBOTT, the only place on planet Earth where my heart can truly rest in peace.
Austin is cool. Colorado is high and mighty. The California coast is something to behold. The world is filled with spots of great natural beauty. And even though no one in their right mind would put Abbott in that class, I’d never be in my right mind if I hadn’t been raised right in Abbott.
Abbott gave me stability. It rooted me in the land and in the people—good-hearted and well-meaning people—who anchored me in love. One of those people was my old running buddy Zeke Varnon, the dominoes demon and poker-playing devil who gave me some of my first glimpses into the wild side of life.
It was the eighties, and Abbott was celebrating its centennial birthday. I was asked to play a benefit to raise funds for a big birthday party, and I jumped at it. Good opportunity to go home and renew old friendships. Walking around town, it hurt me to see that the little house where Bobbie and I had been raised by Mama and Daddy Nelson was gone. But I noticed that the house of Doc Simms, the physician who had brought me into this world, was still standing. Wasn’t luxurious by any means, but it was a good solid two-story house. Hadn’t changed much in all these years. Doc was long gone but his relatives had held on to it. When I asked whether they’d be willing to sell, they were only too happy to see the house stay in the hands of a son of Abbott.
“See if they’ll take five thousand dollars over their asking price,” I told the real estate agent.
With the deal done, I felt like I was really back home. Got some old furniture, fixed up the wiring, put in a new air conditioner, and was ready to go. From then on, I always kept a month’s worth of clothes in Abbott—meaning I could go into hiding in my hometown whenever the world of show business got to be too much.
Some years later someone put up a billboard on Highway 35—the heavy traffic interstate that runs from Dallas to Austin—that said, “Abbott, home of Willie Nelson.” Abbott sits right off 35, and the last thing I wanted was a bunch of tourists running around Abbott to find out where I lived.
I was playing poker with Zeke and complaining about how the billboard blew my anonymity when Zeke said, “Well, what do you think we should do about it?”
“Burn the fucker down!” I said.
Zeke didn’t blink. “Good idea.”
So like two teenagers, we snuck out to the interstate. We stopped to buy a can of gas. A cop came by, recognized me, and said, “Hey, Willie. What are you guys up to?”
“We’re going to burn down a sign,” I said.
He just laughed and went on his way. He didn’t believe the truth.
We then drove over to the sign, soaked it with gas, and lit it with a match. It started to burn but then stopped. Must have been treated with some anti-inflammatory fluid. Pissed me off. So we poured more gasoline and lit another match. Still no go. We went home frustrated.
Next day I learned that the sign actually did catch fire some time after we left and had to be extinguished by the lone Abbott fire truck. Not only that, but an innocent teenager was picked up and charged with arson.
I called the police and told one of the boys to let the kid go.
“How come, Willie?” he asked.
“It was me and Zeke who set that blaze.”
“Why would you do something like that?”
“I didn’t like the sign. I didn’t want the attention.”
“Well, hell, Willie, you should have told us that. We would have taken it down for you.”
/> “Was more fun to try and burn it,” I said.
The kid was set free and—at least for a while—I didn’t have to worry about unwanted visits from strangers.
Margie Lundy was no stranger to me. I’d known her all my life. She owned the Nite Owl beer parlor just outside town, one of the first places where I was paid to play music. I loved Margie.
She’d been charged with killing her brother-in-law but claimed self-defense. Her lawyer asked if I’d testify as a character witness on her behalf.
Hell, yes.
“She’s a jewel,” I told the jury. “One of the kindest, most loving people I’ve ever known. Never heard anyone say a bad word about Margie. If Margie killed him, he must have had it coming.”
The prosecutor went after me. What kind of witness is Willie Nelson, a man known to smoke dope and chase women?
Glad to say that during the trial it was proven that Margie’s brother-in-law had attacked her in her sleep and she had acted in self-defense. The good people of Hill County set Margie free.
Being back in Abbott, even for short periods of time, let me reassess, regroup, and figure out what I really wanted to do.
After my Fourth of July picnics had been moved to big stadiums in New Jersey, Syracuse, and Atlanta, I moved the party back to Texas in 1984 and ’85 to Southpark, a huge outdoor venue outside Austin. The mid-eighties picnics—with Waylon and Kris and Johnny Cash and Faron Young—were some of the best.
It was also in the mid-eighties that I finally got serious about making a movie out of Red Headed Stranger. Felt like I’d been fucking around with that project long enough.
By now it was obvious that neither Universal nor Robert Redford was gonna green-light the project. So I bought the rights back and, together with writer Bill Wittliff, became a producer. That meant finding our own money. Don Tyson, the poultry mogul from Arkansas, stepped up to the plate. He joined my limited partnership and threw in a quarter of a million, enough to get us started. Fifteen other investors put in $50,000 each to get us the million dollars needed to make the film.
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