Sometimes it’s heaven, sometimes it’s hell
Sometimes I don’t even know
Heaven ain’t walking a street paved with gold
Hell ain’t a mountain of fire
Heaven is laying in my sweet baby’s arms
Hell is when my baby’s not there
My front tracks are headin’ for a cold water well
My back tracks are covered in snow
Sometimes it’s heaven, sometimes it’s hell
Sometimes I don’t even know
Sometimes it’s heaven, sometimes it’s hell
Sometimes I don’t even know
HIGH ON A HILL
I can’t think of a better place to be writing my letters to America than my cypress log cabin that sits high above my ranch, west of Austin. There’s an incredible view of the Hill Country in all directions, and big, fenced pastures where my horses live in horse heaven on earth.
I’ve always loved horses, the beautiful and the not so beautiful. Two of my favorites at Luck were the Dancing Bay Pony, the horse I rode in Red Headed Stranger, and a sway-backed old codger named Crummy. I was a terrible calf roper. So one of my smartest hustles was to sponsor a Texas calf-roping competition in San Antonio. Every top rider in the state competed, and the winner roped against me in the finals. That way, I was guaranteed second place. Another Willie hustle!
The number of horses on the ranch has grown over the years. My daughter Amy teamed with me to rescue a herd of seventy beautiful paint horses that were headed to the slaughterhouse. They look a lot better on my hilltop pastures than they would have on some European dinner table. Every time I walk and talk with them, I think, Okay, score one for the good guys.
There’s plenty of room for Annie and the boys here on the hill. The log cabin’s living room has pianos, guitars, and other instruments, so we can play, practice, or write music anytime, night or day. I used to spend a lot of time here on my own. After a day of golf and an evening in the studio, I’d go up to the cabin late and would pass a big rattlesnake that liked to warm himself on my stone sidewalk. I named him Charlie. And me and Charlie, we had an arrangement. I didn’t fuck with Charlie, and Charlie didn’t fuck with me.
He’d lift his head when I was coming, and I’d sidestep a couple of feet to go around him and say, “Evening, Charlie!” or “Beautiful night, Charlie.”
This went on for a long time, and I always looked forward to being greeted by him. But one night, our ranch foreman came to the cabin. I think it was cold, so Charlie had crawled into the space between the screen door and the front door. He was all stacked up in there, and when Bill Polk opened the screen, Charlie came pouring down onto him. Bill whipped out his pistol, and it was goodbye Charlie.
I’d prefer not to kill any of God’s creatures but understood what a scare that must have been, so no blame on Bill. Besides, we’ve got a lot of snakes out here. Some of ’em are driving around in pickup trucks.
Anyway, I’m sitting in what may be my favorite spot on God’s green earth and feeling appreciative of the blessings all around me. Tonight, I’ll sit on the porch and listen to the coyotes warm up their voices. They’re persistent creatures. They’ve been howling at the moon for thousands of years and are still waiting for the moon to answer.
DEAR LUCK,
Some say if they didn’t have bad luck, they wouldn’t have no luck at all. I’m just the opposite. I like to focus on the good luck and let the bad move on down the road. I was lucky to be born where and when I was, lucky to have some God-given talent for music and to have a musical family to help me develop that talent. I’ve been lucky in love, lucky at the poker table, and I have no doubt that I’ve been lucky in life.
Some say you make your own luck, and when you see someone who’s been lucky, what you often don’t see is the hard work they put in. That applies to success in the world of music and on the poker table, where the winners tell stories and the losers yell, “Deal!”
I’ve never believed in questioning my luck in life, and maybe that’s why I named my town Luck, Texas. Not many people are fortunate enough to build a town from scratch, so when my Western movie set evolved into a place where everyone seemed to want to be, Luck was the name that stuck. I like to tell people, “If you’re not here, you’re out of Luck!”
There’s a lot to love about you, Luck. Your Main Street starts at an old chapel where Sister Bobbie and me and the old-time gospel band, The Bells of Joy, have played many an Easter Sunday service. Past the horse corrals is the Luck Opry House, another great spot for live music. And at the far end, where I’m sitting now, is my Luck World Headquarters. What can I say? I like it here. Me and you, we’re old friends, and we know each other well. We comfort each other on warm days and cool nights.
I’ve won and lost a lot of money at this poker table. When this big shutdown is shut out, I’m gonna have all my rowdy friends come over for one hell of a big game. We’ll all be in Luck then.
Yours truly,
Willie
LADY LUCK
by Willie Nelson and Buddy Cannon
The winners tell jokes
And the losers say deal
Lady Luck rides a stallion tonight
And she smiles at the winners
And she laughs at the losers
And the losers say “that just ain’t right”
But they keep right on playing
And paying and praying
Till someday their luck just might change
But if you’re surveying at the table and looking for the sucker
Oh by the way sir, what is your name?
Lady Luck rides a stallion tonight
Lady Luck rides a stallion tonight
She smiles at the winners
Laughs at the losers
Lady Luck rides a Stallion tonight
I bet you a hundred, if you still got a hundred
One more wager, winner take all
’Cause sweet Lady Luck likes me a lot more than you
And I’m betting she’ll come when I call
Lady Luck rides a Stallion tonight
Lady Luck rides a Stallion tonight
She smiles at the winners
She laughs at the losers
Lady Luck rides a Stallion tonight
When the loser has no more to bet
And the winner’s won all he can get
Lady Luck will go riding off in the moonlight
Lady Luck rides a Stallion tonight
DEAR READERS,
Good news! We’re halfway there, and I’m still writing. If you’ve gotten this far, then you’re still reading, and that makes me happy.
I’m a performer at heart, and these past few months are now the longest I’ve gone without doing a live show since I was a kid. Even though I still can’t do a show and take a chance on my audience members getting sick because of me, I can add a moment of appreciation, just to say thanks for sticking with me. We’ll get there yet.
And even if my crowd has to sit separated in family groups, sooner or later, I’m gonna be out there singing. At this point, an audience of one would be an improvement. Speaking of which, where’s that dog? I want to play him a song!
One more thing to dislike about this pandammit we’re all in: it’s a scary enough time that it’s hard to joke about it. But that never stopped me. So . . .
A guy goes to the doctor with a lot of symptoms. The doctor runs tests, then sits the guy down.
“Bad news,” the doctor tells him. “You have gonor-rhea, herpes, and the COVID-19 infection. We’re gonna put you in a special isolation room on a diet of flounder, pancakes, and pizza.”
“Flounder, pancakes, and pizza?” the guy asks. “Will that cure me?”
“No,” says the doctor. “That’s the only food we can fit under the door.”
If you didn’t like that one . . . I’ll take your opinion into consideration, ’cause you may be right.
In the meantime, since I am sitting in my own
Western movie town, I’ve decided to write a letter from the Old West to the novel coronavirus. Please read on.
Willie
DEAR COVID-19,
Fuck you. And as we say in Texas, that goes for the horse you rode in on too. I’m telling you now: this town’s not big enough for all of us. And by town, I mean starting with the Main Street of Luck and extending out to include Austin, all of my beloved Texas, and from sea to shining sea of America and beyond into the whole of the world. That definitely includes my adopted home of Hawaii, and all our brothers and sisters, grandparents, and children around the globe.
Let me break it down for you, COVID. Yeah, you got a head start and bushwhacked us when we weren’t prepared. Our top elected official didn’t want to admit how tough you are, and the next thing we knew, you and your gang of minions had snuck into our saloons, our churches, and every other gathering place, and started sending our loved ones up to Boot Hill.
But that’s all over now. This is your high noon. All of us, together, have decided it’s time for you to get the hell out of Dodge and every other town. You’ve been a troublemaker from the beginning, and we have ways of dealing with troublemakers.
We have the greatest army of health-care workers the world has ever known. We have researchers and scientists working for governments and for the private sector, all of them committed to wiping you out the way we did smallpox, a much bigger, meaner, and tougher virus that killed three hundred million people in the twentieth century. That was one badass diablo, but he has been vanquished. There hasn’t been a single recorded case of smallpox since 1980. That fucker is no more. And so it will be with you.
While I contemplate your brief obituary, now would be a good time to consider the crucial third element in our showdown. You know what I’m talking about. Just like in High Noon, what you fear most is a united community with the courage to act. It took us a while to figure out that you were poorly equipped to slip around town if we all wore masks and kept our proper distance. But now we know your weakness. Now we know what to do. The only question is whether we can all work together to kick your ass.
These are difficult times, but around the world, we’ve never been more united in facing a common enemy. You’ve opened our eyes to the reality that our enemies are not other nations or religions we don’t unterstand or even other cultures. You’re the reminder that manufacturing weapons of mass destruction doesn’t guarantee our safety. You’re the reminder that money spent on weapons that kill indiscriminately may be money that’s needed elsewhere. Walls don’t keep us safe either. The way to guarantee our children’s safety is to work together until a vaccination and a cure for your scourge is available to people of all lands. Then we can apply those kinds of peaceful solutions to all kinds of challenges.
So my message for you, COVID-19, and for all of your relatives, too, is the same thing I’ve been saying for much of my adult life. It’s something all of us need to say collectively around the world, something we should say to ourselves privately every time we walk into a voting booth. Say it now; say it out loud. Repeat it as often as it takes to truly believe it.
There is a peaceful solution. There really is a peaceful solution.
So fuck off.
Sincerely,
Willie
Sheriff of Luck, Texas
THESE ARE DIFFICULT TIMES
by Willie Nelson
These are difficult times
These are difficult times
Lord, please give me a sign
For these are difficult times
Remember the good times
They’re smaller in number and easier to recall
Don’t spend too much time on the bad times
Their staggering number will be heavy as lead on your mind
Don’t waste a moment unhappy
Invaluable moments, gone with the leakage of time
As we leave on our own separate journeys
Moving west with the sun to a place
buried deep within our minds
And remember the good times
They’re smaller in number and easier to recall
Don’t spend too much time on the bad times
Their staggering number will be heavy as lead on your mind
Remember the good times
They’re smaller in number and easier to recall
Don’t spend too much time on the bad times
Their staggering number will be heavy as lead on your mind
BLUE SKIES
I’ve gotta admit, it feels good to get that “Dear COVID-19” letter off my chest. Writing a book reminds me how smart I was to take typing class in high school. There was one sentence that every typing student in America had to type over and over again: “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country.” Oh yeah, I’ve still got it!
It’s been fun telling you stories of where I came from and how I got to be this recognizable song-singer, Willie Nelson. Now I’m ready to throw a little jazz in the mix. I’ve always loved jazz, from Hoagy Carmichael and Duke Ellington to Django Reinhardt and Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys, who played their own kind of jazz.
Some people say they don’t “get” jazz, but they may be overthinking things. Bluegrass, blues, country, jazz—it’s all American roots music, and just like listeners everywhere, it’s all connected. After my grandmother taught me that the definition of music is anything that is pleasing to your ear, the rest came natural.
The music business has a need to put labels on music, but a label may restrict the kind of music you create. My guitar hero was the Gypsy jazz guitarist Django Reinhardt. I believe he was the greatest guitar player ever, at least so far. His playing technique, his tone, and his speed were incredible, and listening to him has been a huge influence on me.
I never met Django or heard him play live, but I also was a fan of Frank Sinatra’s singing, who of course had great phrasing hisownself. When Frank and I did a show together in Vegas, I told him he’d long been my favorite singer. He told me he loved my singing, which was a tremendous compliment. We became friends, another dream realized, and we recorded a duet of “My Way” for one of his albums.
My interest in those jazz greats and others taught me how to sing and play in the most expressive way. Some people say I sing behind the beat, but I’m in front of it sometimes too. I know where I am, and that’s where I want to be.
My bass player Bee used to say my phrasing could lead a band up a creek and drown you, but when I have the right band, I’ve always trusted that Bee and Paul, or now Kevin and Billy or Micah, will keep the beat and be there for me when I come back to where we started.
After I had chart-topping records with Shotgun Willie, Phases and Stages, and Red Headed Stranger—and a joint record called The Outlaws with Waylon Jennings, Tompall Glaser, and Jessi Colter—I was feeling a little pressured to come up with the next big thing. But I wasn’t feeling it.
I told my pal Roger Miller I was stuck, and he said, “Willie, sometimes the well goes dry, and you have to wait till it fills up again. That’s when you do other people’s songs.”
My neighbor in Malibu at that time was the great Booker T. Jones, and I asked Booker to produce me singing a collection of pop and jazz standards. The execs at Columbia Records thought I was crazy. They said no one wanted to hear a long-haired, country-outlaw guru sing a bunch of old chestnuts, but I figured the songs were classics, and the record execs were the old chestnuts. Right after that Stardust album was released, “Blue Skies” and “All of Me” went to the top of the charts, which may have improved the record company’s opinions.
Stardust has since sold six million records, but there’s still no point in labeling what kind of music it is. The answer is that Stardust is music that people like. There are a lot more great songs I love in the American catalog, so thirty years after Stardust, I released my American Classic album, with favorites like “Come Rain or Come Shine” and “Baby It’s Cold Outside,” a duet
with my friend Norah Jones.
And I still wasn’t done. Three years ago, I released My Way, a Frank Sinatra tribute album that won the Grammy for Best Traditional Pop Vocal Album.
We’ve just finished mixing my second Sinatra tribute album, which will be out in early 2021. The first single is a one-time classic, “Cottage for Sale.” After I recorded it, I learned that my old friend Jerry Jeff Walker also was a fan of the song and had recorded it a few years back. We lost Jerry Jeff this past year, but I like to remember him for all the fun times we had together. In the old days, he had a reputation for drinking, and he told me once that the only difference between him and Hank Williams was that Hank went backstage to throw up! Love you, JJ—hope to see you on the next go-round.
Along with those four albums of standards, I’ve made and released almost one hundred studio albums, some of them considered gospel, a lot of them called country, some with orchestras, and one recorded in Jamaica with reggae master Toots Hibbert of Toots and the Maytals. I guess the lesson is, I love music, and I love to sing. That’s why my goal always has been to be open to making all kinds of great music with people I admire and love. And we don’t need no stinking labels!
DECEMBER DAY
by Willie Nelson
This looks like a December day.
This looks like a “time to remember” day.
And I remember the spring, such a sweet tender thing.
And love’s summer college,
Where the green leaves of knowledge,
Were waiting to fall with the Fall.
And where September wine,
Numbed the measure of time.
Through the tears of October, now November’s over,
And this looks like a December day.
This looks like a December day.
It looks like we’ve come to the end of the way.
And as my memories race back to love’s eager beginning,
Willie Nelson's Letters to America Page 7
