“I don’t expect you to explain shit,” I said. “These are my songs. I like ’em. I’m proud of ’em. And that’s it.”
When the record came out and bombed, I was still proud of those songs. One of them—“Me and Paul”—eventually became a classic. For the past five decades, I’ve been performing it during practically every one of my shows. Unlike that suit back in Nashville, the fans don’t seem to have any problems understanding what I’m singing about.
Nashville and I had been trying damn hard but we hadn’t really seen eye to eye for most of the sixties. I felt like I had shown goodwill and decent patience. I’d given the Music City establishment a fair chance. After Yesterday’s Wine, I cut other records for RCA, but the story was always the same. The sales were slow and the producers lukewarm about my output. My career was stalled.
So even when the house on Greer Road was rebuilt and ready to reoccupy, I had my misgivings. I did move back to Tennessee, but this time my attitude had changed. This time around, Nashville didn’t sit well with me. I’d sensed something happening back in Texas that felt right.
I tried explaining the feeling to my pal Paul but couldn’t put it into words.
“You already explained yourself,” said Paul.
“How’s that?”
“You said it feels right. Well, if it feels right, just fuckin’ do it. You know damn well that the rest of us are gonna follow you.”
“I got no plan,” I admitted.
“That’s what makes it fun.”
“And I really don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Hell, Willie,” he said, “you never have.”
18
REBOOT
I MARRIED CONNIE IN THE SPRING of ’71.
I divorced Shirley in the winter of ’72.
I know that’s ass-backwards, but those are the facts.
Here’s another fact:
In 1972, Johnny Bush called me with part of a song he’d written with Paul Stroud.
I took the song the way it was but adapted it to my style, which was more blues than rock.
“Whiskey River” turned out to be a big hit for Johnny as both a writer and artist, and I’ve been opening shows with it ever since.
At roughly the same time I adopted “Whiskey River” as part of my repertoire, I threw whiskey out of my life. Any fool could see that booze was bad for me. Booze made me say shit I shouldn’t say and fight guys I shouldn’t fight. Booze made me headstrong, violent, and dumb as dirt. Booze jacked up my ego and drowned out my humanity. On top of that, I still had a two-to-three-pack-a-day cigarette habit. The combination plate of liquor and tobacco was slowly killing me.
In the culture-shifting late sixties and early seventies, I was doing some shifting of my own. I had smoked pot for some time—as evident by the stash I rescued during the Greer Road fire—but I treated weed as a supplement rather than a mainstay. As I moved closer to the Woodstock Nation, as I bore witness to their music-loving, life-loving, peace-loving ways, I saw the key role played by pot. Pot was a communal experience. Unlike cigarettes, you didn’t smoke a joint alone. You shared it. You passed it around. Pot was a plant, a natural substance whose positive uses, I would soon learn, were varied. Hemp, a form of cannabis, had been grown for centuries. As an agricultural product, hemp was lauded by many experts. Growing it, for instance, requires only water. The pioneers used hemp in the canvas of their covered wagons. Thomas Jefferson used hemp paper to draft the Declaration of Independence. The first Levi’s were made from hemp.
I wasn’t yet ready to make any formal declaration of my own—the penalties for smoking pot back then were still brutal—but I did see a world of difference between the two highs: booze and weed. Liquor emboldened me when I needed to be less bold. Weed took the edge off foolish boldness and made me mellow. Liquor agitated me. Weed calmed me. Liquor sped me up. Weed slowed me down. Liquor made me reckless. Weed made me careful. And when it came to two of life’s greatest pleasures—making music and making love—liquor made me sloppy while marijuana made those experiences rapturous. The good herb was the best aphrodisiac I’d ever encountered.
In short, I fell in love with this lovely leafy plant. As time went on, as I quit tobacco and booze entirely, my love grew. As the years went by, as the growers of the crop learned to cultivate an increasingly satisfying product, my appreciation increased. Just as I’ve always loved robust coffee beans and the strong buzz produced by the brew, I felt the same way about cannabis. It pushed me in the right direction. It pushed me in a positive direction. It kept my head in my music. It kept my head filled with poetry.
Pot was plentiful at the Dripping Springs Reunion, a three-day outdoor festival on a ranch west of Austin in March of 1972. Some called it country music’s answer to Woodstock. The first night had more traditional artists like Earl Scruggs, Buck Owens, and the Light Crust Doughboys. The second night had big stars like Tex Ritter, Roy Acuff, and Hank Snow. The final night had artists like Kris Kristofferson, Waylon, Merle Haggard, and me. We were seen as the outsiders. Personally, I didn’t see it that way; I saw it as one big continuum.
What I mainly saw was some ten thousand fans who loved music enough to drive out to this dusty, deserted ranch to hear a bunch of pickers. And it wasn’t your typical country music crowd. A good number of longhairs showed up as well. At a time when the old and new generations were supposedly at each other’s throats, there were no incidents at Dripping Springs. Music was the bond. The promoters said they lost a ton of money, but I saw beyond this particular weekend. I saw the possibility of these huge gatherings on an annual basis. They were beautiful communal events, and Texas seemed the right place to stage them.
When I decided to move back to Texas, I had Houston in mind. But Dripping Springs changed my attitude. Dripping Springs was linked to the music-loving fans of Austin. Austin had the great state university. Austin had the most progressive politics of anyplace in the state. Austin had the most kicked-back vibe of any urban area in Texas. Austin was also a friendly home to the hippies. Austin was deep Texas, but Austin was also different Texas. Austin had natural beauty: Barton Springs, Lake Travis, hidden lagoons, and the nearby hill country. Back then Austin was still small—no more than 250,000 citizens. Austin had a live-and-let-live attitude about lifestyles. Austin had funky ol’ houses and coffee shops where you might hear bluesmen like Mance Lipscomb picking up a storm. Austin had San Francisco–styled venues like the Armadillo World Headquarters, a big ol’ armory converted to a funky show palace, where you could hear Ravi Shankar one night and Frank Zappa the next. Austin had Marcia Ball’s Freda and the Firedogs; Michael Martin Murphey, the Cosmic Cowboy; and Jerry Jeff Walker, a former folk singer from New York who set a musical tone that appealed to rednecks and hippies alike. It was Jerry Jeff who wrote the heartbreaking “Mr. Bojangles.”
Austin also had my close buddy Darrell Royal, coach of the national champions the University of Texas Longhorns football team, and America’s biggest music fan.
“You gonna be loved anywhere you live, Willie,” Coach told me, “but you’ll be more loved in Austin than anywhere. Whether you know it or not, Austin is your city.”
Above all, Austin had my sister, Bobbie. As always, Bobbie was my heart and the strongest link to my past. She had come back from Tennessee to Texas, where she had played piano for shopping center openings, in hotel lounges, at country clubs, and for diners at El Chico, the area’s biggest chain of Mexican restaurants. Bobbie had moved down to Austin with her boys and, in usual fashion, earned a living through her resourceful musical skills.
“Come to Austin,” Bobbie was saying to me. “Things are changing around here. Things are opening up. I do believe that you’ll take over in no time.”
“If I did come down, what would you think about playing with my band, sis?”
“I wouldn’t be thinking, Willie. I’d be crying with joy.”
Before I moved there, I started out slow in Austin, just playing a few benefits for antiwar c
andidates and progressive politicians like Sissy Farenthold, who was running for governor. Didn’t matter to me that they didn’t have much chance of winning. I admired their progressive politics and was happy to help anyone committed to stopping our tragically misguided meddling in Vietnam.
On the same bill were Greezy Wheels, the Conqueroo, and other psychedelic-styled bands. Wasn’t sure how our music would be received. So when the reception was positive—lots of flowers thrown onstage—I felt even better about Austin.
I also played west of town in the Soap Creek Saloon with my friend Doug Sahm, a killer musician who walked a perfect tightrope between hard-core San Antone Mex-Tex country and the Age of Aquarius rock. Doug was comfortable with all the generations.
“Hell, Willie,” said Doug, “so are you. You just don’t know it yet.”
Wasn’t until late summer of ’72 that I played the ’Dillo.
Before the show I still wasn’t sure whether we were the right match for this venue. The Soap Creek Saloon was one thing, but the Armadillo World Headquarters was something else entirely. Would I be ushered through the pearly gates of Hippie Heaven or laughed off as some weird country music act? For the first time I’d be facing the Woodstock Nation full on. The Grateful Dead played the ’Dillo, as did the Flying Burrito Brothers and Dr. John, the Night Tripper. What the hell was I doing here?
I was doing what I always do. I was singing my songs. I sang “Crazy” and “Night Life” and “Hello Walls” and “Funny How Time Slips Away.” Without talking in between numbers, I sang my usual fast-moving set and saw, much to my delight, that the kids went for it in a big way.
We sure didn’t have a flashy presentation. Except for Paul English and his black velvet cape, we dressed plain. So it couldn’t have been our stage presence that got them. It was the music. I saw these kids react to the music in the same way kids reacted to Bob Wills in the dance halls of my youth. They got high on our music. They let the music take them away—far, far away from a world of anger and strife.
I liked this new world. It fit me to a T. I never did like putting on stage costumes, never did like trim haircuts, never did like worrying about whether I was satisfying the requirements of a showman.
It felt good to let my hair grow. Felt good to get onstage wearing the same jeans I’d been wearing all damn day. Felt good to tie a red bandanna around my forehead to keep the sweat from getting in my eyes. Felt good to no longer give a flying fuck about making a proper appearance.
I liked being improper.
Don’t get me wrong. As a performer always interested in making a living, I understood the upside of changing my image. I knew I was appealing to a big new tribe of music fans. And I also knew that I’d be more acceptable if I didn’t dress like an uptight leftover from the early sixties. At the same time, while I was conscious of the fact that I was changing my look to change with the times, that change felt completely natural. It was organic. As I look at it, I was turning exactly into the person I was.
In 1972, I was a man on the move. And that move was to Austin. Our first apartment was on Riverside Drive, right in the middle of town, with a view of Town Lake. I was a proud father of a son and three daughters and one on the way. Connie was pregnant with our beautiful Amy.
Following my natural bent, I soon moved everyone out to West Lake Hills. More room to roam around and commune with nature.
Wasn’t settled in for long when I heard from Waylon.
“What the hell you doing in Austin, Willie?” he wanted to know. “There ain’t nothing down there but those crazy-ass hippies. You ain’t turning into no hippie, are you?”
“Come down and see for yourself,” I urged. I wanted him to see it, to feel what I was feeling.
“If I do, I ain’t putting no flowers in my hair.”
“Fine. You can put the flowers up your ass. Just get here.”
The night Waylon was booked at the ’Dillo, I turned up for moral support. The flower children were out in force for the opening act, Commander Cody.
From the side of the stage, Waylon looked out there and complained. “Those fuckin’ weirdos are gonna hate me,” he said.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“ ’Cause I hate them.”
“Hell, Waylon, you don’t hate no one. Just get out there and play.”
He did, and the hippies loved him so much the fucker had to play a half-dozen encores.
“You may be right, Willie,” Waylon said after the show.
“Right about what?” I asked.
“Austin. This town ain’t half bad.”
19
GAME CHANGERS
EVERYONE IN NASHVILLE HATES HIM,” said Waylon.
“And that’s a reason for me to hire him?” I asked.
“That’s right, hoss. That’s the best reason of all. These motherfuckers at the label have us buffaloed. I’m just now seeing how they’ve been doing their double-dealing bookkeeping and hiding my royalties. My old candy-ass managers were too scared of the system to challenge it. But this new guy isn’t. This new guy is from New York, and he’s a fuckin’ bulldog.”
“What’d you say his name is?”
“Neil Reshen. He audited these labels and found over two hundred thousand sold albums unaccounted for. He says I got over a hundred Gs, maybe more, due me in back royalties. He’s also demanding that they change up the royalty rates that haven’t changed since Thomas fuckin’ Edison invented electricity. That could mean millions for me—and you.”
“Who are his clients besides you?”
“Only one other: Miles Davis. I don’t know what you know about Miles…”
“I know his music. I love it.”
“Well, I don’t really know his records. But I do know Miles don’t mess around. He’s all business. He’s about the only jazz musician out there getting rich—and that’s ’cause he’s got Neil Reshen taking on the label bosses.”
I decided to meet Neil and make up my mind.
Waylon was right. He was the opposite of the laid-back country boys who ran the conservative world of Nashville music. Neil was a pistol, a loaded gun aimed at anyone who stood in the way of his client and his client’s money. He was fast-talking and fast-moving. Along with Waylon, he liked getting blasted on cocaine. When he did, though, that seemed to increase his concentration on the business of making more money.
I didn’t like cocaine, but I wasn’t about to judge anyone who did—especially someone like Neil. When he talked about tripling or quadrupling my income, I couldn’t help but take a liking to the guy.
I hired him and gave him a free hand to overhaul my business and manage my career. Bad move.
At roughly the same time, one of my best moves was to hook up with another hard-charging New Yorker. This was Jerry Wexler of Atlantic Records, the label that had made Ray Charles and Aretha Franklin.
I happened to be at a party at my buddy Harlan Howard’s home in Nashville during the week of the Country Music Association Awards. Me and some of the boys were taking turns playing our new songs. This went on till the wee small hours of the morning. When it was my time, I can’t remember exactly what I played, but you can bet it wasn’t fully formed. It was probably one of my weird reveries about a man trying to figure out the meaning of life.
“I know what you’re all about,” said Jerry Wexler, after I was introduced to him by Doug Sahm. “You’re about artistic integrity. Man, I love what you just did. Sounds like a continuation of Yesterday’s Wine, one of my favorite records.”
This sounded like a man I needed to sit down and talk to. So I did. Turned out Wexler, for all his R & B background, was a stone-cold country music scholar. He knew all about Bob Wills, Lefty Frizzell, and Adolph Hofner. He said he’d been following me for years. Even better, Atlantic was opening a Nashville office and he wanted me as his first signing.
“Nashville hasn’t been the happiest recording experience for me,” I explained.
“I’m hip,” said Wexler. “Our
office will be in Nashville for sales purposes, but I want you to come up to New York to record. Change will do you good.”
“I’ve never cut a record there.”
“All the more reason to do it. I also feel strongly that you should use your own band. Tell you why. When we first signed Ray Charles in the fifties, we provided the studio musicians for him. But Ray never really found himself until he started using his own cats, his own songs, and his own concept.
“Ray taught me something I’ll never forget. As a producer, sometimes the best thing I can do is get out of the way. Record for Atlantic, Willie, and I’ll guarantee you: I’ll get out of your way.”
“I got some pretty strange concepts.”
“Stranger the better.”
“What I got in mind is a gospel album.”
“Love gospel!” Wexler said excitedly. “My favorite Aretha record is Amazing Grace. We cut it in a Baptist church. I’d been after her to do a gospel record for years. I felt that she needed to connect with her roots.”
“I’ve been feeling that same need.”
“Then do it, Willie.”
“You’re not worried that it’s not commercial?”
“Fuck commerce. You’re going for art. You’re going for truth. And when the art is truthful, sales will follow. You don’t need restrictions, Willie. You’ve had enough of those. What you really need is artistic freedom, and I’m here to give it to you.”
I’d never heard a record man talk this way. On the spot, I decided that Wexler was my man. Fortunately, our talk coincided with the end of my contract with RCA. I told Neil Reshen to cut a deal with Jerry Wexler, and just like that, I was on my way to New York City to make some music.
Naturally I was taking Bobbie with me. For years I had wanted her in my band. But life circumstances had kept that from happening. Now that we were both in Austin, and now that I had a producer who gave me free rein, I wanted Bobbie on my records. We had never recorded together before.
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