Willie Nelson

by Graeme Thomson

  They would come to hear him pick and sing and bask in a little reflected glamour, while Nelson went away with some powerful new friends in his pocket, whose collective clout came in extremely handy much further down the line. He would throw a little money into their schemes, invest here and there. Always a man who liked to cut a deal rather than sit on his money, he enjoyed playing the cowboy businessman with his corporate friends.

  With a local power base established, Nelson set about assessing the music scene. Or, as Eddie Wilson puts it, ‘Willie was the guy who had the big, rich powerful redneck elite in his pocket, and then he rounded up all those little flower children too!’ He was always astute enough not to align himself too clearly with one crowd. Each artist had a favourite bar and a group they would hang out with. Nelson would show up at gigs by local bands like Frida and the Firehogs and sit in for a while, then disappear and turn up at a Doug Sahm show with someone else. ‘He was,’ recalls Joe Gracey, ‘unobtrusively obtrusive.’ He gave the impression of sitting back and letting things happen around him, but he knew what he was doing. He had a powerful, indeed spiritual belief that music could unite. And he knew enough about both whisky and marijuana to understand both points of view.

  He was living just down the road from the Armadillo. The Nelsons had moved into a rented second floor apartment on East Riverside Drive, a stone’s throw from the banks of the Colorado river. As was the way of these things, Paul English moved his family next door, and soon the gang was all there. It was fine for a temporary home, but it was really too small for them all. Home life was strained. Billy and Susie felt increasingly alienated from Connie, as well as their father and Paula Carlene. Susie would soon be following the example of her sister, mother and aunt by marrying, aged just sixteen. There was little discipline, and it didn’t necessarily help that Connie was pregnant again. She would give birth to Amy on 6 July 1973, by which point the family had moved to a sprawling split-level ranch in 44 acres of land out in the woods of south Austin, off Fitzhugh Road.

  But for now he was still living in town amidst the thick of it, and he would often walk along Riverside and pop in for a beer at the Armadillo and a chat with Wilson, checking out whoever was on stage and, crucially, taking the temperature of the crowd. Wilson had been a fan since the mid-60s when he had heard Nelson cover ‘Yesterday’ on the Live Country Music Concert in California, and together they talked about bringing things together. Nelson soon got the feeling that this would be the perfect place to try and explore just how far things had moved – or could be moved – in a social sense. His immediate problem was that none of the new, young audience that was ready to be converted would come near most of the places he played, like Big G’s in Round Rock. It physically wasn’t safe. If he wanted them to hear his music, he would have to go into their territory, and that meant the Armadillo.

  Willie Nelson: Eddie Wilson was the manager there and he and I got to be good buddies, and I knew this would be a good place to experiment with what I was trying to do, which was bring the hippies and the cowboys together. At the time I said I wanted to do it I really didn’t know how it could be done, but when the Armadillo came along I realised that this is a place it can happen. You’ve already got the long-haired cowboys, and you’ve got your short-haired cowboys, and if you put me and Waylon and Jerry Jeff and all these different people in there, then you’re going to bring them all together. That was just an idea that I had.3

  Nelson first played at the Armadillo World Headquarters in August 1972. Cover charge that night was $2 but even then it was far from a full house. When Wilson announced he was about to come on about fifteen people clapped, and he shouted out: ‘He’s only the Bob Dylan of country music, you hippie assholes!’ About forty people clapped this time. It looked inauspicious, but Nelson won them over immediately. That wild guitar playing, which was not only unusual in the context of a country band but indeed any band, the shaggy hair, earring and beard. He looked like one of their own. And with Paul English’s cape, Jimmy Day’s wild-eyed look and Bee Spears sporting a rooster which would perch on the head of his bass as he played, even the most stoned hippies at the Armadillo had never seen anything like it. And that was before they heard the songs. They worshipped him right off the bat. He was by no means a universally well-known name, but as the biggest and most successful – not to mention the oldest – artist around at the time, he was clearly important. And so he became the figurehead for a scene he had effectively gatecrashed.

  Eddie Wilson: He just saw a bunch of people heading in this direction and managed to get in front of them. He was the very best example I’ve ever seen of someone not just being in the right place at the right time, but having the right consciousness and the right motivation. And, of course, the right network. I was impressed and moved to write that it reminded me of the story about the young bull and the old bull. The young bull says, ‘Let’s run down there and tap one of those heifers,’ and the old bull, and this is Willie, says, ‘No, let’s walk down there and tap all of them!’

  He only played the Armadillo perhaps half a dozen times over a twelve month period between the summers of 1972 and 1973, but it was hugely symbolic. He brought Waylon Jennings down to play, who couldn’t believe his eyes at the crowd: young, and loud, and stoned! This was no country audience, and it took many people aback, but they adapted. Previously conservative songwriters like Tom T. Hall would pick joints up from the stage and smoke them. This new audience re-energised the performers, raised them to new heights. Alliances were made. Dennis Hopper was making a film called Kid Blue in Texas and he and writers Bud Shrake and Gary Cartwright would hang out at the Armadillo, calling themselves the Mad Dogs, emphasising it as the centre of a certain collective rebelliousness. They were high times, and Nelson somehow seemed to be at the epicentre.

  Dennis Hopper: He was leading the way, no question. Around the time of the picnics, the whole feeling made Austin one of the greatest places I’ve ever been.

  Nelson and Leon Russell, the rocker who had led the band on Joe Cocker’s Mad Dogs And Englishmen live album and written ‘Delta Lady’ and ‘A Song For You’, became good friends. Each introduced the other to their audience, and Russell in particular was pivotal in shaping Nelson’s image. Until now he was just a little shaggy and scruffy looking, but when he saw Russell – who sported waist-length silver hair and silver beard, like some futuristic and slightly malevolent version of Merlin – he decided to take his image to its farthest extreme. He understood the instant head start an outlandish and unique visual image would give him to a wider audience. There would never be any confusion over his identity.

  Nevertheless, it took a little while to really catch alight. Just as Nelson had been required to keep shrinking his circle, returning to Texas, then to Austin, and then finally to the Armadillo World HQ in order to find the connection he had been seeking for so long, so the ripples took time to slowly spread back out from the source through 1973 and 1974. Firstly, they hit Austin itself, with all social stripes claiming him as their own; then through south Texas, with new fans travelling deep into redneck country to watch him at places like John T. Floores’ country store in Helotes. It was an ad hoc and primitive means of mutual education: the younger, hipper fans pressing against the stage, staring up as Nelson played; the old cowboys just wanted to drink and dance. And fight.

  Mickey Raphael: There were a few fights – there were some great fights, actually! Willie had long hair, so it kinda defused it a little bit. When you had hippies drinking, they’d want to fight too, but they were mostly on drugs and the cowboys were drinking. When we were really playing the funky joints, I wouldn’t wander too far, because I was a little intimidated by it. I was this little hippie kid, with an Afro, and there was no way I could walk into some of these beer joints by myself. I’d just stand close by Willie. He’s [unbreachable], they’re not going to threaten him.

  It was the picnics that really cemented the union. Nelson’s inaugural Fourth of July Picnic in Dripp
ing Springs attracted 50,000 people in July 1973, but it was a bit of a mess, financially disastrous and badly organised. The path to the venue was a single road and many stalled cars were left in ditches as people walked. Trees were sawn down to clear the way. They ran out of food, water and the toilet facilities were utterly inadequate. The heat was almost unbearable. But there was non-stop music from noon past midnight and it caught and shaped the mood of the times. Texan musician Steve Earle recalls being badly beaten up on his way home from school because he had long hair, ‘and that didn’t really change until Willie Nelson moved back to Texas and started having the Fourth of July Picnics. All of a sudden Texas, at least on that level, became more tolerant.’4 The same year, Jerry Jeff Walker released Viva Terlingua, Doug Sahm put out two albums, Michael Murphey released Michael Murphey and – right at the head of the pack – Willie Nelson made Shotgun Willie. All those faces and many more turned up again at the second Fourth of July Picnic in 1974, alongside the likes of Leon Russell from outside of country music circles. It was here that Nelson was truly anointed a Texas legend, unifying a second summer of love and sealing the coming of age of the Austin scene.

  Joe Gracey: For a while there a Willie Nelson Picnic was like Fear and Loathing in Texas. Whatever it was you were looking for, you were gonna find there, I assure you. There was nothing that did not get smoked, ingested, made love to, or done at some point at one of those picnics. It was glorious. Everybody was into free sex and good cheap Mexican weed and cold Pearl Beer and Shiner and swimming naked together.

  In many ways the reality was less important than the concept which had taken hold. In truth, the idyll of Nelson’s time at the Armadillo was largely a mirage that by late 1973 had already vanished. The meeting of minds between the redneck and the hippie was never seamless, and was often uneasy. There were several bomb scares at the Armadillo, and tear gas was thrown in on one occasion. The loose collection of ne’er-do-wells who made up Nelson’s entourage were never going to have their heads turned by flower power, and things began to get a little hairy. There were all sorts of affiliations being made and agendas being pursued behind the scenes. Aside from the likes of Paul English and Billy Cooper – a former used-car salesman whom Nelson had appointed driver and de facto bodyguard a few years earlier – who were basically decent but had what one local rather quaintly describes as ‘old habits’, in the sense that they packed a piece and would not shirk from violence, there were other less savoury characters on the scene. There was Arlon Walter, a sleazy-looking piece of work with a pencil-thin moustache and a fedora, who would tell people that his job was to go to every Johnny Bush gig and collect a little something towards a ‘Willie debt’. Who knows whether he was telling the truth? He was from the Dixie Mafia and ended up getting shot in a card game.

  Austinite Tim O’Connor became another member of the gang, one of several general dogsbodies who hung around and helped out and got close to Nelson. He left town for a while after shooting someone in the leg. Then there was Larry Trader, who had started working with Nelson before the fire in Ridgetop and who had also decamped to Austin. It wasn’t that difficult to become a member of the inner circle – you didn’t need any qualifications, your face just had to fit somehow. Trader had worked for Ray Price when he met Nelson.

  Larry Trader: Willie sent me on a chore. I did what I had to do and came back, and he said if you ever need a job come along. And that was that. 1969. I got in my Vauxhall and drove to Ridgetop.

  He has been with Nelson ever since. However, Trader was unpopular among certain members of the Armadillo staff for regularly failing to pay bands in San Antonio. Nelson was all too aware of this, but was unrepentant. He would tell people: ‘Larry’s done stuff for me that can never be repaid. Now y’all shake hands and be friends.’ It was the kind of blind loyalty that inspired devotion in return.

  After the first picnic there had been rumblings throughout the Austin scene. Money, success, personal jealousies and ambition reared their heads, and nobody seemed to be satisfied. Eddie Wilson had put capital into the festival when it looked like it was sinking, and there were accusations and counter-claims about who had taken what. Cocaine, too, moved in quickly. Tensions grew between Nelson and the Armadillo, and finally there was a falling out over some of ‘his people’ carrying arms around the hippies; guns were flashed in the beer garden, carloads of guys would roar by and intimidate the bouncers. Shortly afterwards, Nelson came to the office to talk about playing more shows at the Armadillo, keen to keep the momentum going, and he was told it was unacceptable for his guys to be behaving in this way. Could he rein them in a little? Never keen on direct confrontation, he flashed the famous Nelson grin and said, ‘Aw, they don’t all carry guns.’ A couple of days later a more direct message was passed from Neil Reshen back to the Armadillo: ‘Willie says go fuck yourself.’

  Eddie Wilson: They were the antithesis of all the [hippie] stuff we were about. There wasn’t a lot of loyalty on anybody’s part back then. Everyone was looking for a gig, everyone was looking to make a buck. But great art is often produced in camps of smugglers, thugs and thieves.

  In truth, Nelson didn’t need them any more. Having finally escaped Nashville and RCA, he had managed to find his audience and his time. He was yet only a local hero, but soon the ripple effect would be spreading out of Austin and Texas and across the mountains, plains, lakes and valleys of the United States. Within a year of his first picnic he would be playing to an audience consisting mainly of transvestites – and Bob Dylan – at Max’s Kansas City in New York, the club where the Velvet Underground used to perform. Within two years he would be a superstar. He had waited and waited, seemingly standing still, and the times had finally turned to face him.

  Neil Reshen’s first task in the latter part of 1972 had been to get Nelson signed to another label. He may never have struck gold within the Nashville system, at least not as a performer, but there were plenty of record companies outside the straight country labels who were progressive enough to realise that he had something. Leon Russell had wanted to sign him to his Shelter label, but in the end Nelson went with Atlantic. The New York label was famed principally for its classic R&B recordings of the likes of Aretha Franklin and Ray Charles, but in the autumn of 1972 it was all geared up to establish a country branch in Nashville. This was really Jerry Wexler’s baby. The legendary producer co-owned the company with Ahmet Ertegun but his idea for a country venture didn’t receive much support from head office, a setback which would eventually kill it. Wexler had dispatched Rick Sanjek down to Nashville as general manager of Atlantic Country. The first artist signed was Troy Seals. And then there was Willie Nelson.

  Jerry Wexler: I wanted to have a well-rounded record company, to operate in all the current areas. I was at this party for Harlan Howard [in Nashville] and there was Willie Nelson, among other people. I was very ‘on top’ of Willie Nelson. I’d been a big fan for a long, long time. So when we met, I said, ‘Willie, this is a great occasion, I’ve been waiting for a long time to meet you.’ And he said, ‘Well, it’s great to meet you.’ He was free of contract. There were a lot of reasons for that. The Pooh-Bahs in Nashville regarded him as an outlaw – in heavy quotation marks: he had an earring and long hair – and they thought that these were the stigmata of an outcast. It’s one of the most hypocritical, stupid, spurious attitudes in the history of music. And I was the gainer from that, because he was free of contract and I signed him up.

  The plan was to bring both Nelson and Waylon Jennings in as a package deal but, ironically, although Atlantic was a much more creatively stimulating home than RCA, some of the same old problems still got in the way. Wexler was an auteur record-maker; he loved music and musicians and knew his stuff inside out. He was also full of piss and vinegar – and remains so – and would not bow to bullying or bluster. He and Waylon locked horns and neither really got what they wanted. Jennings had agreed to come to Atlantic and had agreed on the money, but Wexler refused to allow him to produce
himself. It was a deal breaker and Jennings went back to RCA.

  It has been said many times over that Jennings was the true renegade in the partnership with Nelson; the one who always stood up for himself with the dramatic gesture. Prior to him meeting Neil Reshen, the only time Waylon had ever got away with using his own musicians in the studio was by coming in with a gun and threatening to shoot the session musicians unless he could use his own. They thought he was serious. Of course, those were the kind of rebellions that, ultimately, didn’t get you anywhere. Nelson, on the other hand, was cannier, and had quietly engineered something unique at the Armadillo. With Atlantic, he was happy enough to accept a minor compromise. He was in the hands of a company he trusted and which would let him get on with business. He could play whatever songs he wanted and choose his own musicians. Jennings seemed to be intent on the sprint, keen to win every victory immediately and simultaneously, but Nelson had his eye on the marathon.

  When he entered Atlantic’s studio B in New York in early February 1973 to record, he had more freedom than he’d ever had before. The band all came: Jimmy Day, Bee Spears, Paul English, as well as local Austinites Doug Sahm and fiddle maestro Johnny Gimble. Bobbie was now also part of the Family Band, coming in on the piano. She had been living in Austin with her third husband Jack Fletcher for the past few years, raising her three kids, playing in hotel bars and working for Hammond demonstrating the organs at ‘every carny and every stock show. It was the nearest I could get to performing.’5 Now that Nelson was going places she was one of the gang.

  In New York, two months shy of his fortieth birthday, Nelson was ready to grasp the nettle. The recording was a genuine event. There was talk of Bob Dylan, newly back in New York after a tortuous spell filming Pat Garrett And Billy The Kid in Mexico, coming along. He never did show, and neither did George Jones or Kris Kristofferson, also rumoured to be coming, but it was still a packed studio: Doug Sahm was there, Larry Gatlin, David Bromberg. Rolling Stone magazine sent a reporter, an indication that what had been happening down in Texas recently was starting to reach a national audience. One man who wasn’t around much was Wexler, who was undergoing seismic changes in his personal life.