“I say I’ll be right by your side.”
13
THE OFFENDERS
IN 1963, I TURNED THIRTY. I had me a new wife, had me three great kids, had me a fiery former wife, and had me a lucrative career as a songwriter and a half-assed career as a recording artist. I was feeling feisty. I was doing what I wanted to do, and no one could tell me to do otherwise.
For a short while, Shirley traveled with me and the Cherokee Cowboys. But seeing how she and I made beautiful music together, we decided to go out on our own. Jimmy Day, a poet of the steel guitar, left Ray Price to join us. I informally referred to our little trio as the Offenders because we weren’t in the least concerned about offending anyone with the music we played.
Our shows would start off with Shirley. She’d sing songs like “Penny for Your Thoughts” and then yodel her heart out on “Bet My Heart I Love You.” I’d come out and sing whatever songs I’d been working on. Didn’t matter to me whether the audience knew ’em or not. I was hell-bent on trying out new material. Of course this went against what I’d learned from Bob Wills and Ray Price. Their mantra was always, “Play the familiar. Play what folks wanna hear.”
Well, I was going through one of my rebellious periods. I had this royalty money from my songs. I had a recording contract. And even though my first album on Liberty—… And Then I Wrote—was far from a sensational seller, I had all the confidence in the world. Shirley and I recorded more duets, songs like “You Dream about Me (and I’ll Dream about You)” and “Is This My Destiny” that reflected our newfound love. Our harmony was so close there wasn’t the slightest spec of daylight between her voice and mine.
During our shows I’d break into songs like “Columbus Stockade Blues,” a jazzy up-tempo number too fast for the dancers. I’d experiment on songs like “Second Fiddle” and my own “Half a Man.”
Granted, “Half a Man” was one of my stranger songs. It’s about a guy who considers what it would be like, in the name of lost love, to start losing body parts.
“If I only had one arm to hold her, better yet I had none at all,” I wrote, “ ’cause then I wouldn’t have two arms that ache for you.
“If I only had one ear to listen to the lies that she told me, then I’d more closely resemble the half a man that she made of me.”
I take it even further, imagining what it would be like to have only one eye, and then only one leg to stand on, and then a heart that turns to ashes. All this in pursuit of painting a portrait of “Half a Man.”
This wasn’t exactly a song that made you want to dance. But the Offenders wasn’t a group looking to please the public. Instead, I was looking to experiment. I had these two wonderful elements—Jimmy Day’s brilliant steel guitar and Shirley’s fabulous voice—to weave together with my own picking and singing. When I sang straight country like Hank Williams’s “There’ll Be No Teardrops Tonight” or tried-and-true pop standards like “Am I Blue,” Jimmy and Shirley added the kind of sensitive accompaniment that made me smile.
When it came to my own compositions, I was also trying for sensitivity. For example, I wrote something I called “Home Motel.” It was another study in despair about a guy who finds himself in “a crumbling last resort,” where “the rooms are all shambled, things are scattered on the floor,” a place to “hang a neon sign with letters big and blue—‘Home Motel on Lost Love Avenue.’ ”
It was a thrill to play the song live. Jimmy Day had his steel guitar weeping just enough, Shirley added just a touch of harmony, and I got to sing my blues the way the blues should be sung: no frills.
Yet when I brought the song into the Liberty studios, the producers felt compelled to put on the frills.
“Aren’t you worried you’re burying the soul of the song?” I asked.
“More worried about the song not selling,” was the usual answer.
That meant putting on sweet strings or a chorus of light-sounding singers. The idea was to sculpt an acceptable sound—something easy to digest.
I didn’t argue. In those days, big productions like Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” were huge hits. I loved Johnny and, even though his song was heavily augmented by horns and harmony voices, I could hear his soul. So if it worked for Johnny, maybe it’d work for me. I went along with the program.
“These arrangements take your songs to a higher level,” the producers argued.
I was skeptical of that kind of thinking. I didn’t really think I had to be brought up to a higher level. I was perfectly fine where I was. At the same time, I had this thing inside me called ambition.
Being a best-selling writer was fine, but I wanted more. I wanted to be a best-selling artist. The producers claimed to know the public taste. If that were the case, fine. I let them fool with my music and adapt it to that taste. The problem, though, was that even with all those augmentations, my stuff for Liberty still didn’t sell.
I took my frustrations to the boxing ring. I found a fight instructor, put on the gloves, and discovered that, as a pugilist, I could hold my own. Disciplined training did me a world of good. I needed a healthy outlet for my aggressions. After mixing it up with a strong opponent, I often saw that my mind began to clear. After a vigorous fight, I was able to address some of the big questions that had been haunting me. The biggest question was also the simplest:
What did I really want to do with my life?
“I want to get off the road,” I told Shirley. “I want to settle down somewhere peaceful.”
“I’m all for it, sweetheart,” she said.
“Let’s find us a nice piece of land. Let’s get back to the land.”
Shirley smiled and gave me all the support I needed.
I had great love for the land. It’d been too long since I felt the connection with the natural world. And since I had enough money, why not look for a spread to call my own? Why not grow vegetables and raise animals and return to the simple pleasures of watching golden sunsets in the evening and radiant sunrises in the morning?
Before that happened, I stayed on the road with Shirley and Jimmy Day. Along the way I picked up Johnny Bush, the great singer, who made some gigs with us. For a while we settled in Fort Worth, still home to my dad and sister Bobbie. That’s where I rekindled my friendship with Paul English, who’d developed his drumming skills. I’d go out on small tours now and then, bringing along whatever musicians were available. In addition to me and Shirley, I might be lucky enough to get Paul Buskirk on guitar or Ray Odom on fiddle.
I had something of a circuit going. I could count on certain clubs in Texas, California, and Arizona. I even started a booking agency—Willie Nelson Talent—with my new producer at Liberty Records, Tommy Allsup. The idea was to build up a roster of artists, book them, and pocket a nice commission. Ever since, as a kid, I’d booked Bob Wills back in Hill County, I’d entertained notions of myself as a promoter. Sometimes my promotions had paid off, but more often than not they hadn’t. Willie Nelson Talent, as an ongoing enterprise, didn’t last long.
Neither did our stay in Fort Worth. I kept running out to L.A., where Liberty kept churning out my singles and albums. The critical praise was strong, but the public’s reception remained lukewarm. It was my live performances, whether at the Longhorn Ballroom in Dallas or the Golden Nugget in Vegas, that helped me cultivate a small but loyal following. I also encountered some supersharp hustler/promoters, like Geno McCoslin in Texas—guys I could always count on to find me good-paying gigs.
Any way you looked at it, it was a hustle. I realized that everyone’s gotta hustle to make ends meet, but there were also times in my life when hustling became a hassle.
Such a time was the winter of 1963.
Enough touring.
Enough recording.
Enough hustling.
Shirley agreed that we’d be happier settling down in the country. So when I found seventeen acres of prime land just north of Goodlettsville some thirty miles east of Nashville, I gave it serious consideration. The town
was called Ridgetop and it was up toward the Kentucky/Tennessee border on Greer Road. I’d be close enough to Music City to keep my toe in the business, but far enough away to maintain a healthy distance.
In addition to a nice expanse of land, the place included a big single-story ranch house. It was set on a hill with groves of cedar, pine, and weeping willow trees. Underfoot, that fertile Tennessee red clay soil was good for growing all sorts of crops. One long walk around the property convinced me to claim it for my own.
“I’m gonna buy it,” I told Shirley.
“You won’t be sorry.”
I wasn’t—at least not for a while.
Not long after we signed the papers, I was at an airport headed to Dallas when the news came on the radio. It was November 22, and President Kennedy, our hope for the future, had been shot down in cold blood.
It was the end of an era, a time for grieving and deep reflection.
14
FARM LIFE
I FOUND THAT LIFE ON THE land afforded me just the sort of reflection I needed. I loved observing Mother Nature up close and personal. And I especially loved her creatures. The pigs were among my favorites. They’re fascinating, funny, and smart. Man, I could watch pigs play around all day long. And for a while I did just that.
Johnny Bush, a country boy himself, helped me with my hog-raising enterprise. We bought us seventeen weaner pigs. Paid a quarter a pound. Happened during a harsh winter when we had to build the pigpen in the cold snow. But being amateurs, we built the lower plank too high. Next thing we knew, the pigs were escaping out under the bottom of the pen. So there we were—me and Johnny running all over hell and back rounding up the pigs. We got ’em all, lowered that bottom plank, and put in a feeder with a trough of water next to it. That was another stupid mistake.
I should have put the water far from the feeder. That way the damn pigs would get some exercise. Instead, they got so fuckin’ fat that a few actually ruptured themselves. Making matters worse, when I finally took them to market, the price per pound had fallen to seventeen cents. I had to eat $5,000.
Though I did work on my farm, I wasn’t the one who was running Ridgetop. I hired a whiskey-drinking horse trader named Mr. Hughes and put him in charge. When it came to buying cattle and horses, he was an old hand. His wife, Ruby, who, at two hundred pounds, was twice his size, could cook up a storm.
I couldn’t have been more pleased when Martha sent Lana, Susie, and Billy to live with us. Martha was in the process of ending another marriage and thought the kids might find more stability with me. Shirley accepted her role as mom but before too long relinquished it. Martha married a third time, and she and her husband, Mickey Scott, found a place not more than a mile away from us.
And that wasn’t all.
I was happy when my father, Ira, and his wife, Lorraine, moved onto the farm along with my stepbrothers Doyle and Charles, who had families of their own. There was room for everyone.
And naturally I was overjoyed when Sister decided to join us. By then Bobbie had divorced her second husband and married her third. Bobbie brought along her sons, Randy, Freddie, and Michael. She found work playing piano at a local supper club. Bless her heart, Bobbie always found a way to take care of herself and her boys.
I was glad to see so many people living with and around us on Greer Road, where the mailbox read, “Willie and Shirley and Many Others.” I loved being surrounded by a big ol’ extended family. Gave me a sense of security. There was more than enough love to go around. And somehow old adversaries—like me and Martha—managed to stay clear of each other. Sometimes there were clashes, but mostly smooth sailing.
Maybe I’m fooling myself. Maybe with so many different personalities and diverse people leading intertwining lives there was more dysfunction than I care to recall. For my part, though, I was happy to have this brood all around me. Felt like being a member of a special fun-loving tribe.
Got me even more land. With my song royalties mounting up, I bought another couple hundred acres and another assortment of high-priced hogs, sows, chickens, geese, and ducks. Because I love horses, I had three Tennessee Walkers, two palominos, two ponies for my children, and Preacher, my own quarter horse. An experienced cowboy taught me calf roping. Didn’t win any rodeo prizes, but whenever I managed to rope and tie a calf, one of my partners would yell out, “That’s one in a row!”
Just like my pigs, I wasn’t getting enough exercise. Devouring all that wholesome food fresh off the farm, I put on thirty pounds. So I found me a serious kung fu master. I loved learning his moves. Loved those spinning side kicks, double chops, and lightning-fast takedowns. Within a few months, I had whipped myself back into shape.
Mr. Hughes would watch me break a thick wooden board in half with my bare hands.
“What’s the point?” he’d ask.
“If I’m attacked by a board, I’ll know what to do.”
As if I didn’t have enough going on, my friends liked making the trek up to Greer Road. Hank Cochran, Roger Miller, Mel Tillis—they’d drop by and we’d have guitar pulling sessions around the fireplace, trying out songs. Once a month or so I might drive into Nashville to let a producer hear some of my new tunes, but mainly I stayed on the farm.
I say mainly because from time to time, I still went on the road with my band. No matter what phase of life, I’m always ready to hit the road. Can only stay home for so long.
Well, that caused big trouble with Shirley. She wanted to come along. She still wanted to sing and play bass, but her domestic duties were so great I didn’t see how that was possible. She stayed behind, and I gave her great credit for toeing the line. But I was a fool not to realize how her resentment—not to mention my out of town shenanigans—would eventually crush our relationship.
Shirley put up with a lot. When one of my mentors, Ray Price, asked me if he could let one of his roosters stay at our farm for a short while, I was happy to say sure.
“He just needs a little room to run,” said Ray. “He’s cooped up here.”
Before I knew it, Ray’s rooster had killed one of Shirley’s laying hens. Shirley loved those hens—she had named each one—and was understandably upset.
“Better come get your rooster, Ray,” I told him over the phone.
“I’ll be there tomorrow,” he promised.
But tomorrow came and went and the damn rooster killed another one of Shirley’s hens.
Another call to Ray, another promise, and then another no-show.
After the death of a third hen, Shirley grabbed a shotgun. Because I was a better shot, I decided to do it for her. That night Ray’s rooster made a delicious dinner.
When he learned what had happened, Ray hit the roof. He called me everything in the book. “I’ll never sing another one of your goddamn songs,” he swore. “I’ll never let you near my band.”
“Well, you should have fetched your rooster like you promised.”
“That was a prize rooster.”
“Hell, Ray, there ain’t one fightin’ rooster in all of Tennessee worth one good laying hen.”
Took years for Ray to forgive me, but he did.
On the music business side of my life, it took only three or four years before Liberty Records gave up on me. Actually, they gave up on more than me. By 1964, they’d gotten out of the country music business altogether. I’d cut two LPs for the label:… And Then I Wrote and Here’s Willie Nelson. Each had a picture of me on the cover—clean-shaven, smiling, and looking straight as your local insurance salesman—and each included a gang of good songs. But neither established me as an artist, like Buck Owens or George Jones, with a mass-market following.
Figured if I was a free agent, it made sense to see if the biggest producer in Nashville, Chet Atkins, was interested in signing me to RCA. Turned out he was. I liked Chet. I had great respect for his hit-making history and, of course, his own masterful musicianship. I had the feeling, though, that like so many others on Music Row, Chet saw me as an outsider writing
outsider songs and singing in an outsider style. For all practical purposes, Chet was the ultimate Nashville insider.
At this juncture, I felt a little more comfortable with Fred Foster, another producer with a strong track record. Fred was the one who’d produced Roy Orbison, an artist who, like me, wasn’t easy to categorize. I had heard how Fred let Roy be Roy. He promised to do the same for me at Monument Records.
Fred seemed willing to follow me off the beaten track. A good example was one of the first songs I recorded for him, a tune I called “I Never Cared for You.” You’d have to call it an anti-love song. Don’t know what I was going through when I wrote this stark poetry.
The sun is filled with ice and gives no warmth at all
And the sky was never blue
The stars are raindrops searching for a place to fall
And I never cared for you
I know you won’t believe these things I tell you
I know you won’t believe
Your heart has been forewarned
All men will lie to you
And your mind cannot conceive
Now all depends on what I say to you
And on your doubting me
So I’ve prepared these statements far from true
Pay heed—and disbelieve
Not exactly radio-friendly lyrics, but these were the sentiments lurking in the dark corners of my mind. The truth is that these thoughts probably didn’t correspond to my personal life. The thoughts came out of my poetic life. In that life I could imagine all kinds of crazy shit—men who use bleak metaphors to lie to women and then warn the women to disbelieve the lies. Some men, maybe most men, find it tough to speak sincerely. We hide behind stories. And this story, set to the tune of a forlorn cowboy ballad, was plenty sad.
On the other hand, it was original. Fred Foster liked it enough to put it out as a single.
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