Nelson’s rather convoluted side of the story was that he had already told RCA he was going to sign for them before he had signed a contract with Monument, and that he didn’t recall telling Fred Foster that he was ever planning on staying with his label long. ‘Well, I don’t figure how that makes much sense if you’ve signed a contract,’ laughs Foster today. ‘It was just a crazy time.’ The most likely explanation is that RCA continued their pursuit of Nelson even after he had signed with Monument, and the advert gave him the perfect opportunity to switch sides. After all, he later admitted he regarded RCA as the greatest label in the world. It was a pivotal moment. Within a couple of months of jumping ship from Monument and signing with RCA he was in the studio recording a slushy version of his own Christmas song ‘Pretty Paper’ and a novelty German tune called ‘Whisky Walzer’ in abysmal, phonetic German which seemed occasionally to slide into something approaching Japanese. The contrast with ‘I Never Cared For You’ could not have been greater.
RCA would be his home for the next eight years. It has become shorthand in Nelson’s potted biography that after he was signed by RCA he was simply left to wither on the vine, but it’s a gross misconception, at least of the early part of the relationship. He had been chased by the label for some time, and his arrival was greeted with great enthusiasm. Chet Atkins, their vice-president and producer, was a gifted musician and recording artist in his own right, a wonderful guitarist and an intelligent man. He was also someone who liked to hold very tightly onto the reins. What he wanted to do was take the essential qualities that made Nelson unique – his songs and his voice – and apply the standard RCA house sound to them in an attempt to sugar the more obtuse parts of his music to appeal to a mass country music audience. Roger Miller – another eccentric songwriter, although he leaned more towards novelty – had just started having hits for Smash Records, and Atkins envisaged Nelson filling a similar role for RCA.
Don Light: Chet believed in Willie Nelson really early. He loved his songs, he loved his phrasings, he loved the way he sang. They weren’t close friends but they were friends and they had huge mutual respect.
His initial recordings for RCA were a mixed bag. ‘She’s Not For You’ and ‘Permanently Lonely’ were recorded in January 1965, for single release in May. ‘She’s Not For You’ was the A-side and a fine song that he has often revisited, but the B-side was the real classic. Even through the Eddy Arnold style over-production, Nelson sounds like a man singing softly to the face in the mirror. For a man who has made a habit of departing, Nelson has written a lot of songs about being abandoned. Without underestimating the impact of his childhood trauma, it is nevertheless an interesting exercise to listen to many of Nelson’s songs and imagine him singing softly to himself. ‘You’ll always be running and wondering/ What has happened to hearts that you’ve broken and left all alone.’ It only made No. 43.
The first of the two albums he recorded for RCA in 1965 was called Country Willie: His Own Songs, taped over three days in April. It was largely an attempt to remind people who he was – a second introduction. Once again it emphasised his prowess as a songwriter, from its title on down, but many of the songs had initially been recorded for his Liberty debut and they did not generally benefit from being revisited. Atkins’ production ideas on Country Willie were somewhat bizarre. Where he should have kept things simple – on ‘Hello Walls’ and ‘So Much To Do’, for example – he opted instead for a fussy approach littered with annoying little touches, such as Pete Drake’s ‘talking’ steel guitar and over-elaborate lead guitar. Conversely, where a song called for a little more punch and pizzazz – re-recordings of ‘Night Life’ and ‘Mr Record Man’, for instance – he switched to a bare acoustic approach which sapped all the energy from the performances.
Nelson frequently sounded on the verge of sleep. It was generally a sympathetic record, however, and ‘One Day At A Time’ and ‘It Should Be Easier Now’ were simply triumphant, whether thanks to luck or design. In December he recorded Country Favourites: Willie Nelson Style, which contained no Nelson originals whatsoever. Backed by the Texas Troubadours, it was designed as a tip of the hat to his roots in the dance halls of his home state and worked well to fulfil that premise.
Both of his first two RCA albums emphasised that he was not enjoying a particularly purple patch in terms of his songwriting. For all his open-mindedness, Nelson has never been a man who has had the luxury of calling upon a particularly wide palette of musical textures or a broad lyrical lexicon. His subject matter in the early and mid-60s was limited and, as such, the success of his early songs depended on a certain alchemy taking place between simple, spare words and a basic melody: when it worked it was mesmerising, but when it was off it could be ordinary. Having covered his elemental themes so exceptionally in the likes of ‘Night Life’ and ‘Crazy’, he was often left raking over the same ground.
Merle Haggard: Once you’ve filled a void, you can’t go back and re-write ‘Crazy’ or ‘Night Life’. That void is already filled. He’s already done that. He’s probably like me, in that he probably ends up re-writing each one of those great ideas over and over. Obviously, they’re written, they’re gone, archived and past, and it’s pretty hard to satisfy himself and continue on with thoughts worthy of writing.
Nelson had signed a contract with the Grand Ole Opry on 28 November, 1964, soon after signing with RCA. It was the cherry on the cake. He was settled into Ridgetop with his new wife, he was contracted to one of the most established and respected record companies in town, and now he had become a member of the most famous country music institution that had ever been. And the songwriting royalties were still pouring in. For the first time in his life, he had reached the point where he could simply slow up, roll down the window and enjoy the view. Accordingly, 1965 became something of a lost year for Willie Nelson the road traveller. He acceded to severe pressure from Shirley to quit the road and settle down on the farm with her. He would play some dates during this period, but nothing like the intensive touring he had previously undertaken.
Johnny Bush: Shirley was as good as she could be, but she was very domineering and wanted him isolated from all of us. She figured that we were the bad influence, not knowing that it was him! But when they were at home she wanted Willie to be with her. She wanted him off the road, and she wanted him home.
There was no financial imperative to tour. The BMI royalties for radio, television and live performances of his big hits like ‘Crazy’ were, at a conservative estimate, bringing in $100,000 a year, and that wasn’t including the royalties from sales. He was aware his songwriting needed attention and felt a break would do no harm. He was comfortable, his children were heading back home to live with him, and he had his farm to occupy his time. In a little over a year, he put on 30 lbs in weight and began to look almost plump.
Ridgetop was important to him. He installed a farm manager called George Hughes, who ran the place with his wife Ruby on a day-to-day basis. They started off with one pig, which soon expanded to two hundred Angus cattle, eight hundred hogs, nine horses, three ponies, numerous fowl, dogs and cats. He would sell his hogs at market, eat fresh eggs, trade horses, and cheerfully watch some of his money disappear. He had grown up among real farming stock and he knew the difference between serious farming and a rich man’s hobby. He didn’t look upon it as a serious business, which was just as well.
Johnny Bush: He thought he was going to be a hog farmer. That was another trip! His feed bills were three times what he sold the hogs for – he was not a successful hog farmer. That went down the tube. I was in on that. I was just out helping to build fences.
His other main achievement as a gentleman farmer was shooting Ray Price’s prizefighting rooster, a story which gives as clear a picture of both the cultural climate of Nashville in the mid-60s and the kind of environment Nelson thrived in as anything can. Price had sent his rooster to Ridgetop to ‘get some exercise’ before a fight, but it began killing some of the hens, who were rega
rded as pets by Shirley. When Price dragged his heels taking the rooster away, Nelson went into the barn with a double-barrelled shotgun and blew its brains out. ‘It was the end of everything between us,’ he later recalled.8 It took Price literally years to forgive him.
But it was not all hog-raising and cock-killing. As well as the occasional session for his two RCA albums, he also had two reasonably high profile projects in Nashville to keep things ticking over. His membership of the Grand Ole Opry obliged him to perform at the Ryman Auditorium around thirty times a year, usually on a Saturday night, so most weekends he had to be home. It was all about prestige: he would play three songs at intervals throughout the evening, and would pick up only $35 a show, which was scale. At least he was near Tootsie’s.
He also became a regular face on Ernest Tubb’s TV show, which was syndicated nationally and ran for half an hour every Saturday afternoon. Tubb was a veteran Texan performer and, of course, an old childhood idol of Nelson’s; his backing band was the Texas Troubadours, whom Nelson had recorded with on Country Favourites. It was a pleasant gig. He was a frequent guest host and performer, appearing as many as one hundred times in total, and it did his profile no harm. He was firmly part of the establishment, and his image was tailored to match: $300 suits, always with a tie, Stacey Adams shoes, clean-shaven, a neat haircut, a slick repartee with the audience and a ready grin. From a certain angle he was a dead ringer for Joe Pesci in Goodfellas.
He might have looked every inch the country superstar, but he was really no such thing. He hadn’t had a hit record since ‘Touch Me’ in 1962, and although Country Favourites was poised to make it to No. 9 in the Billboard country album charts and stay in the run-down for seventeen weeks, it was having hit singles that really mattered. It was all getting a little too cosy. And he had a familiar itch that had to be scratched.
Johnny Bush: Well, you can’t cage Willie Nelson! That year he took off, I think to him it was like being in jail.
The road was calling.
SMOKING POT MADE IT BETTER
WILLIE NELSON IS talking about drugs.
On cue, the figure lying on his sofa suddenly rises from his stupor and staggers to his feet in the centre of the room.
‘Are you all right?’ Nelson asks.
‘No,’ the man replies. He isn’t all right. He rushes out of the room. Nelson smiles and continues sucking on his joint. ‘I guess he had a little too much pot with the wine.’
He is almost as famous for his dope-smoking as he is for his music. It is a well-deserved reputation. His room in the hotel could be smelt before it was seen. One of his band members, Mickey Raphael, describes his weed as the Dope That Killed Elvis. Whatever that means.
Nelson calls it his medicine. It grows naturally and should be legalised. He hates cigarettes, though he used to smoke them. And alcohol is just no good for him.
‘I switched from whisky to marijuana,’ he says slowly. He makes it sounds like it happened overnight or even during the course of an evening, but it was a long, gradual process of realisation. ‘Whisky made me very negative and pot sort of calmed me down a little bit. I don’t want to give either one of those too much power, but the facts are the facts. I was drinking too much and smoking a little pot made it better.’
He still drinks a little alcohol, but nothing compared to the amount he imbibed in the past. Now he prefers water. Fruit. Natural highs.
‘I still drink now but I know that when I do my thinking is not going to be as clear,’ he admits. ‘You can just as well be a happy drunk if you want to be, and sing happy songs and have a good time, but a lot of the time there’s that negative thing that leaks in there. So I quit drinking a lot, and I found out that my thinking was a little bit clearer.’
Marijuana is almost like a sedative for him. Some may wonder whether he uses it to escape his true personality. That one day every unique character trait might become buried under a cloud of dope dust. That he’ll forget who he really is.
‘No,’ he says softly. ‘I haven’t really worried about that, because I know that there would be some part of me that would demand to be remembered.’ He smiles and looks serene. ‘That’s not something I really can or would want to have any control over. It’s just a matter, I guess, of whatever energy we have in us that will make us individuals.’ He takes his medicine every day. He will occasionally have a lay off, although not usually through choice. Doctor’s orders.
‘My throat went out and I did three weeks of silence: no smoking. It wasn’t hard, but one of the problems for me not smoking is sleeping and the dreams that you have. Then you remember why you started smoking, to stop all them crazy fucking dreams. Those crazy dreams that you never really get used to.’
He looks down at the joint in his hand, lights its cold tip, and puts the other end in his mouth. There will be no crazy dreams tonight.
5. 1966–1970
HE STARTED OUT again, almost alone. Nelson had been off the road for the best part of a year and, though his spell of domesticity had been fun while it lasted, it was ultimately unfulfilling. He was longing to get back out there again. In doing so he was going directly against his wife’s wishes, but he felt he had no choice. Although his marriage to Shirley gave the appearance of being a reasonably happy one up until this point, in reality he was feeling trapped and had resorted to familiar ways; he had already, for instance, started running around with other women.
Willie Nelson: Shirley loved farming as long as I was there with her. But then when it came time for me to go back on the road, she had to stay home. I knew that was probably the wrong thing to do, I should have taken her out with me again. She got restless, and the marriage started going downhill after that.1
Mostly he played Texas. He had a new booking agent in Hayes Jones, who could get him plenty of work, particularly back home. Aside from Wade Ray on bass, who travelled with him, he would work with the house band at each venue, which caused problems. With his unusual rhythms and improvisory singing style, other musicians – particularly drummers – had trouble keeping in time, so he put the call out to Johnny Bush. Bush had been living in Nashville, helping out occasionally with general farm work at Ridgetop when he wasn’t trying to make his way as a session drummer for the studios, but despite the fact he was only charging $10 per side for his talents it was slow work – most of the session jobs in Nashville were well and truly sown up. He was, however, reluctant to go out on the road because he had ambitions as a singer and a songwriter. Nelson cut him a deal: if he promised to stay with him for a year, at the end of that period he would produce a session for Bush and pay for the studio time out of his own pocket.
Practically the trio’s first gig together was at Panther Hall Ballroom in Fort Worth on 9 July 1966, part of a string of one-night stands in Texas. The performance was recorded for release as Live Country Music Concert, produced by Felton Jarvis, Chet Atkins’ assistant and the man would later inject some life into Elvis Presley’s comatose career in the late-60s. The live album remains Nelson’s most successful RCA release, precisely because it is free of any studio fuss and elaboration. Instead, it is an electrically charged document of Nelson, Bush and Ray performing in front of a rowdy and loudly appreciative Texas audience (Nashville session man Chip Young added rhythm guitar later in the studio, but it is almost inaudible), with the vocals way up front and more of Nelson’s distinctive, clambering guitar runs than would normally have survived on record. It really isn’t so different – aside from the fact it is a much shorter set and his voice is far richer – than the kind of show he plays today. Among the fourteen songs aired, most were Nelson classics like ‘Hello Walls’, ‘Touch Me’ and ‘One Day At A Time’, but the most interesting selection was a version of the Beatles’ ‘Yesterday’, which had been out for about a year. The Beatles weren’t exactly popular in country music circles, but Nelson loved the song as soon as he heard it. It was all just music to him. He would never be swayed by petty prejudice or, God forbid, collar-length hair.
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The rest of the touring band came together shortly after the Panther Hall record. Loyal on–off sidekick and force of nature Jimmy Day joined the fold on steel guitar, while David Zettner, a young bass player whom Bush had discovered playing in San Antonio, came in soon after. Collectively, they called themselves the Record Men, a rather ironic choice given that they almost never made it into the studio.
And then there was Paul English. Manager, bouncer, drummer, good-luck charm and stone bad news all rolled into one, English was a cartoon character, or at the very least a creature who had swaggered off the pages of a Damon Runyon novel. His speaking voice was a low-frequency nasal mumble, his clothes habitually dark, topped off with a black cowboy hat. His sculpted beard was ‘pirate black’ and – as the song that was written in his honour would later run – he looked like the devil. He has never drunk alcohol but gained his kicks in numerous other ways, very few of which were legal. He was both a gentleman and a gangster, a fighter and a diplomat, a redneck cowboy and a romantic fool.
English had grown up in Fort Worth and was the genuine article, working as a pimp for many of the local hotels – and the local police – organising girls for the guests. He prided himself on his professionalism. The motto was: ‘Girls come and go but pimps are here to stay.’ Running prostitutes was his main source of income, but he did a little of everything. He wore a gun in his belt and a gold medal around his neck depicting St Dismas, the Good Thief who died on the cross next to Jesus. The inference was clear: honour amongst thieves.
Paul English: I was a police character, a guy who is in the underworld but not connected with anyone. Just an outlaw. We were the Ten Most Unwanted. We’d get barred from entire towns. But I had a good name, a name that was solid. I didn’t do anybody wrong, I never had it in me. We had a lot of good rules: you don’t mess with somebody else’s wife; you don’t go into somebody’s house unless you’re invited; you don’t carry a weapon in people’s houses – if you got a weapon you give it to them when you walk in the door; you don’t ever call a guy a friend and then do him wrong – that’s just against the rules; you don’t rob Mom and Pop. We had a lot of character. We had more morals than the square guy on the corner.
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