“You know better than that. But I’m thinking you must have some scheme up your sleeve. What is it, Zeke?”
It wasn’t Zeke’s scheme. The scheme belonged to Zeke’s buddy Carl Cornelius, who owned and operated Carl’s Corner, a big truck stop just outside Abbott. Actually, it was more than a truck stop. Next to the restaurant Carl had opened a topless bar. Nearby were expansive grounds large enough to accommodate thousands of fans. I liked the idea of hosting the picnic a stone’s throw away from the place of my birth. I also thought if the headquarters was Carl’s Corner, we might as well dedicate the event to America’s truckers. I’d been singing the praises of the farmers. Why not praise the hardworking truckers who, like the farmers, keep our economy rolling?
Zeke and Carl went all out. They put up billboards with huge pictures of themselves—and me—advertising that this would be the greatest picnic in the history of the civilized world. My friends turned up and it turned out fine. The lineup included Jimmie Vaughan and his Fabulous Thunderbirds, Delbert McClinton, David Allan Coe, Merle, Kris, Dwight Yoakam, Joe Walsh, and a host of others. That was 1987, the same year that Farm Aid III took place in Lincoln, Nebraska. And I started up in Vegas.
You might think Vegas would be incompatible with my fondness for the spirituality of Hawaii and the ruggedness of Pedernales. But I’m a man of many parts, and Vegas always managed to satisfy several of those parts. I’m not much of a casino gambler. I prefer playing poker and dominoes with good friends at home. But I certainly appreciate that hustler energy that drives a place like Vegas. The excitement behind taking risks and waging big money has been in my blood long as I can remember. Besides, if you’re in the entertainment game, there’s no way to avoid Vegas. Steve Wynn, one of the city’s visionaries, became a good friend. It was Steve who arranged for one of my celebrated dates of the eighties: the time I played the Golden Nugget with Frank Sinatra as my opening act.
I don’t say that to brag. Wasn’t my idea. It was Steve’s. He felt that since I was selling more records than Sinatra, I’d be a bigger draw and was entitled to top billing. I would have been happy with second billing, though. As I told Steve, Sinatra’s my favorite singer.
When I was introduced to Frank before the show, I was surprised when he said, “You’re my favorite singer, Willie.”
Unfortunately, he had to cut his show short because of throat problems. Some said it was because he didn’t want to open for me. But that’s bullshit. Like me, Frank wasn’t hung up on being the headliner. He was the consummate pro.
I told you that I ain’t much on casinos, but there was one exception. It had to do with Tom Preston, who went by the name of Amarillo Slim. Slim claimed to be the world’s best dominoes player. I knew that to be a lie. Zeke Varnon of Hill County, Texas, held that high honor. After Zeke, I considered myself second best. So when Slim challenged me to a match at a Fremont Street casino, I couldn’t resist. The stakes were high. Can’t remember the exact figure, but it was hundreds of thousands. Later Slim claimed that Steve Wynn backed me and promised me some fancy car if I beat him. Not true. Steve wasn’t even there. He had nothing to do with it. It was just me and Slim.
Slim won, but only because he cheated. He had some guy sneaking looks on me and giving away my moves. I figured Slim was gonna cheat, but I also figured I could beat him anyway. Hurt my pride when I lost.
To show you I wasn’t all that pissed, I agreed to write a blurb for his book, Amarillo Slim in a World Full of Fat People: The Memoirs of the Greatest Gambler Who Ever Lived: “Every one of Slim’s tall tales had me in stitches except, of course, the time that country cowboy took me for a pretty penny playing dominoes. I would never make another bet with Slim, but I’d bet everything that Slim’s memoir is the best I’ve ever read.”
In truth, I never bothered to read it.
The Highwaymen turned out to be much more than a one-shot deal. We recorded a bunch of albums and did a bunch of tours, several of them around the world. Rumors spread that Waylon, Johnny, Kris, and I were having ego problems and fighting like cats and dogs. The rumors were bullshit. We saw it as one nonstop transcontinental party. Our wives, our kids, our friends—everyone got along. In spite of the size of the entourage, we traveled the world as one big happy family. I don’t mean that we didn’t get a little cranky from time to time. Hell, we were getting up there in age. Old pickers tend to get a little cranky. For the most part, though, it was smooth sailing. On and off, the Highwaymen had a solid ten-year run.
Funny thing happened when we were booked to play the Astrodome in Houston. We were the opening act for a livestock show, biggest in the world.
Out of nowhere we get hit by a lawsuit. Turns out another group had called themselves the Highwaymen before us. Some college kids at Wesleyan University took the name and even had a hit with a version of “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore” back in 1961. One of the Highwaymen, Stephen Trott, had become a U.S. circuit judge. Judge Trott hired a lawyer who tried to get a court to issue a restraining order to keep us from performing at the Astrodome.
My manager, Mark, a man who relishes a good fight, brought in heavyweight lawyer Jay Goldberg to argue our case.
Jay stood before the court and said, “Your honor, the plaintiffs have come today with a powerful argument. When seventy thousand fans show up at the Astrodome next month, they will surely arrive with an impassioned expectation of seeing the Highwaymen. I don’t mean Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash, and Kris Kristofferson. Those seventy thousand fans have shelled out their hard-earned money to see the original Highwaymen, the group from Wesleyan that performed thirty years ago and have not performed since. As the plaintiffs have so ably argued, this is the group synonymous with the name Highwaymen. According to them, they are the artists most readily associated with that brand.
“Your honor, I can only imagine the anger and dismay of the audience when, instead of seeing Judge Stephen S. Trott and his four associates take the stage, the fans see Willie, Waylon, Johnny, and Kris. I’d venture to say we’re even running the risk of a riot. I’m surprised that the plaintiffs failed to argue that, if only for the public’s safety, these faux Highwaymen must be barred from the Astrodome.”
The judge got a kick out of Goldberg’s sarcasm and seemed ready to dismiss the case against us. I felt sorry for the original Highwaymen, though, and came up with an idea. I asked my partners whether they’d go along with my plan.
“What you got in mind, Willie?” asked Waylon.
“Let’s get the original Highwaymen to open for us at the Astrodome.”
Waylon laughed. So did Johnny and Kris. They loved the plan. And so did the original Highwaymen. The rodeo fans got to hear “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore,” and everyone lived happily ever after.
Unlike the original Highwaymen, I never stopped recording. When a pal once asked me why in God’s name I put out so many albums, I said for the same reason a cow puts out so much milk. What’s in you gotta come out.
In 1989, I came out with A Horse Called Music. Got my good friend Fred Foster, who had produced “I Never Cared for You” back in my Nashville days, to supervise the sessions. The busier I became, the more I was amenable to outside producers—as long as they understood me.
Understanding me was simple. First off, present me with songs that suit my style. That’s not much of a chore since I see my style as suitable for all sorts of songs. Secondly, surround me with musicians who respect melody. I’m a melody man. I’ll elaborate on a melody now and then, but not all that much. I like stating the melody plain and simple. Simplicity is always the key. Get in there. Sing the song. Get out. I’m not big on a hundred takes and a thousand overdubs. My kind of singing isn’t meant to be perfect. It’s meant to reflect the imperfections of a human being like me. After a couple of takes, that reflection is pretty accurate.
I’m also most comfortable around my own musicians. That means Bobbie and Mickey Raphael, Paul English and Bee Spears and Grady Martin. You add some more if you w
ant to. Just make sure they understand the basics of my sound. If I lose the rawness, I lose myself. You can surround me with strings—I’m inspired by strings as much as any singer—but don’t drown me in strings. Use strings sparingly.
Fred Foster understood all this. He wanted to recut some of my old stuff like “I Never Cared for You” and “Mr. Record Man.” I’m always pleased to sing my old songs. In a strange way—and I don’t say this to be bragging—they never sound old. They just sound like me.
He also brought me a new song by Beth Nielsen Chapman. From what Fred said, she’d given him some songs for me and he didn’t think enough of them to pass them on. He told her to go home and think long and hard about my life—and then custom-write a song that fit my story. She came up with something she called “Nothing I Can Do about It Now.” Fred flew down to Pedernales and played it for me while we were driving around the golf course. The lyrics got to me.
I’ve got a long list of real good reasons
For all the things I’ve done
I’ve got a picture in the back of my mind
Of what I’ve lost and what I’ve won
I’ve survived every situation
Knowing when to freeze and when to run
And regret is just a memory written on my brow
And there’s nothing I can do about it now
I’ve got a wild and a restless spirit
I held my price through every deal
I’ve seen the fire of a woman’s scorn
Turn her heart of gold to steel
I’ve got the song of the voice inside me
Set to the rhythm of the wheel
And I’ve been dreaming like a child
Since the cradle broke the bough
And there’s nothing I can do about it now.
Running through the changes
Going through the stages
Coming round the corners in my life
Leaving doubt to fate
Staying out too late
Waiting for the moon to say good night
And I could cry for the time I’ve wasted
But that’s a waste of time and tears
And I know just what I’d change
If I went back in time somehow
But there’s nothing I can do about it now
I thought the song might sound even better if Beth sang the chorus with me. She did and I believe her extra touch was one of the reasons we wound up with a number one hit.
I’d also written a new tune that fit the mood of the record. That mood had me looking inward. The story could apply to many of my past romances. Or maybe to many of yours. I called it “Is the Better Part Over.”
Is the better part over?
Has a ragin’ river turned into a stream?
Is the better part over?
Are we down to not quite sayin’ what we mean?
And after thinkin’ it over
Wouldn’t you rather have the endin’ nice and clean
Where love remains in all the closing scenes?
Is the better part over
Why hang around
For an ending that’s laden with sorrow?
We’ve both been around
We’ve both seen that movie before
And as much as I love you
I can’t live while fearing tomorrow
If the better part’s over
Then why should we try anymore?
29
“LISTEN TO THE BLUES THEY’RE PLAYING / LISTEN TO WHAT THE BLUES ARE SAYING”
THOSE ARE LINES FROM “NIGHT LIFE,” a song I wrote from what feels like a hundred years ago. From an early age I knew the blues contain truth. They are an honest expression of the human condition. All the artists I loved most, from Hank Williams to Django Reinhardt to Ernest Tubb to Ray Charles, played the blues. They played the blues because they had the blues. They played the blues to purge themselves of the blues, knowing all the while that the blues were sure to come back.
For all the joys of falling head over heels in love with Annie, the period that followed our meeting was marked by some heavy blues. It wasn’t that we weren’t happy together. As a couple, we were happy in the extreme. We felt like two souls who’d been searching for one another our whole lives. Our connection was powerful on every level—spiritual, intellectual, and physical.
It was only right that one of my favorite ministers, Father Taliaferro, married us in September of 1991. Both of our baby boys were present at the wedding. Lukas Autry had been born on Christmas 1988 and Jacob Micah in April of 1990. Two beautiful blessings.
For a while I thought that I’d raise my new sons the same way I’d been raised—in Abbott. I moved us all into the old house I’d bought from the estate of Doc Simms. Annie fixed it up and made it comfortable for all of us. It was another way for me to reestablish my roots and return to the scene of my early years. If I had been happy there, there was no reason why my wife and sons couldn’t be, too.
Unfortunately, that proved to be a fantasy.
It wasn’t the fault of the good people of Abbott. They couldn’t have been nicer. They treated us no differently than anyone else in town. There was no need for heavy security. It was just plain ol’ Abbott, where folks respected their neighbors’ privacy.
But word got around. It always does. Folks outside Abbott learned where I was living, and not just because of that dumb old billboard. I should have seen that coming. But in my fantasy that my kids could lead the simple life I had once led, I ignored reality. Because anyone could pull into Abbott and come right to my front door, we got some uninvited guests. If I was around, I could handle it. But when I was on the road, which was frequently, Annie was feeling vulnerable. And, in fact, she was. We moved back to Austin when, in the middle of the night, a drunk in a truck pulled up yelling for Willie and backed into the house. We kept Doc Simms’s house—we own it to this day—but soon saw that it couldn’t be our main residence.
I’d bought and sold a private jet because it proved to be not only expensive but impractical. Bad weather kept it grounded to where I’d missed several gigs. Since I have a cardinal rule against missing gigs, I went back to Honeysuckle Rose. Like the ever-reliable postman, my bus made it through all sorts of shitty weather.
But even my beloved bus had its limitations. Riding the highways of America to play a couple hundred one-nighters a year was getting to me. So when my good friend Mel Tillis offered to lease his theater in Branson, Missouri, the new mecca of live country music, the idea appealed to me. I made a commitment for six months of shows. That meant six months when I could stay off the road and be in Branson with Annie and the boys. Sounded great.
Turned out terrible. The people of Branson were hospitable but their town of four thousand had no real infrastructure. The main drag was always gridlocked. Nothing worked—not even my schedule. I thought eliminating travel would make life easier. I was dead wrong. I’d forgotten the old adage about teaching old dogs new tricks. This old dog was used to traveling. Staying put drove me up the wall, especially since it meant living in a hotel suite.
I hadn’t realized how the road had conditioned every inch of my mind, body, and soul. Going to the same auditorium twice a day turned what had always been a pleasure into a grind. I felt like a factory worker on an assembly line.
Tried to shake things up by pitching a big sleeping tent in my hotel room and pretending I was out in the woods. When that didn’t break the monotony, I considered making a bonfire and burning down the building. Cranky, restless, pissed at myself for having made this crazy long-term commitment, I somehow made it through the ordeal without completely losing my mind. With her good sense, sweet Annie kept me sane. As soon as legalities allowed it, I got the hell out of Dodge. Minute I was back on that bus and sailing down the highway, I breathed a big sigh of relief.
The Branson period was difficult for reasons other than feeling trapped in one place. It happened just months after I lost my son Billy. He was only thirty-thre
e. The cause was a terrible accident. All I can do is grieve. I’ll be grieving the loss of Billy for the rest of my life.
I haven’t discussed my children at any length in this book. That’s because of my strong feeling that, while I have every right to tell my story, I don’t have the right to tell theirs. I can say how deeply I love them. I can say how they, each of them, possess enormous talents. I can let them know that I’m proud of them. And I can express deep regret for not spending more time with them. I believe the children of entertainers—especially the children of wandering troubadours—pay a big price. Sharing your dad with the world isn’t fun. And when that dad has moved through three tumultuous marriages and is on his fourth—well, that’s no picnic. I regret the pain that my lifestyle has caused my kids.
At the same time, I’m grateful for their patience with me. I’m proud to say that I’m close to all of them, just as I was close to Billy. All of them have shown me more love than I deserve.
When she was in her early thirties, Susie, my second daughter, chose to write a book about herself and her relationship with me. It was beautiful. If my other children—Lana, Paula, Amy, Lukas, and Micah—choose to do the same, I’ll support their efforts. But it’s their choice. Until then, I will protect their privacy. Other than touting their talents—as any proud father would—I will let my children determine when, where, how, and if they want to go public with their stories.
When Billy left us, he took his story with him. It is an unnatural and unspeakably painful act for a father to bury a child. I will remember Billy always and in this, my attempt to tell my own tale, I want the world to know that this good boy, this good man, this good son will live forever in the hearts of those who knew and loved him so well.
The blues thickened, as they can do.
Losing Billy came the same year that I learned I was on the brink of losing my land and all that was on it. That was the year the IRS came down on me.
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