Willie Nelson's Letters to America Read online

  A new music hall in an old National Guard armory was the hot spot, so in 1972, I booked myself to play Armadillo World Headquarters. They took the bar money, and I took the door. This was a time when rednecks and hippies were famous for not getting along, but we had a big crowd of dope smokers and goat ropers, all dancing and drinking beer and happy as clams. That didn’t surprise me. I figured if everyone could get along at Woodstock, we could do it in Austin too.

  I talked Waylon Jennings into coming to Austin and sharing a show with me at the ’Dillo. He looked at the cowboy hats and hippie girls and said, “Willie, what have you got me into?” Then we put on one of the best shows of our young lives. It felt really good to find all these new young fans.

  DEAR PAUL,

  Dear wild, wonderful, crazy, loving Paul. You always had my back. You came from a rough life, and we were connected the moment we met. I knew someday we’d be together to stay. Where else could I find a friend who came from music and from the street, who could pick a lock and pick up the tempo, either one while packing two pistols?

  When fate did the inevitable and put us back together, I found out what it was like for someone to truly have your back. In our scuffling days, that meant guarding against locals who didn’t like the way we winked at their girls, taking down angry drunks who didn’t know what they were up against, and setting things right when promoters didn’t want to pay us what we were owed.

  Every time I sang “Me and Paul,” with you playing that snare drum behind me, we both knew the stories behind our favorite verse:

  And at the airport in Milwaukee

  They refused to let us board the plane at all

  They said we looked suspicious

  But I believe they like to pick on me and Paul

  Those pistols came in handy a few times, including when you saved the stage and gear at the Fourth of July picnic by shooting a hole in a tarp full of rainwater that threatened to collapse and drown us all.

  I was blessed with a great sister, so I guess you were my brother. When my Paula was born, Connie and I knew who to name her for, and we also knew who her godfather should be.

  You once called me the eternal optimist, but you were the one who made my optimism into reality. As the years went by, our tours became more peaceful, but that didn’t stop you from packing heat while you sat on that drummer’s stool, still watching my back and watching over Bobbie and us all.

  You looked after the band—you scheduled them, paid them, listened to their troubles, and helped solve their problems the same way you helped solve mine. And when they screwed up, you weren’t afraid to get in someone’s face and make sure it didn’t happen again. At every show, you walked Sister Bobbie from the bus to her piano. And you walked her back again at the end of the show, as reliable as Old Faithful. For fifty years, you made it possible for me to do the thing I love: give the best show I can to every audience.

  Losing you was hard. Who was I without Paul? What would I do without my Devil in a Sleepin’ Bag? My repeat-offender, badass, outlaw from the Fort Worth police’s Most Unwanted list. My great protector and my best friend.

  I remember when we were walking down the street in Hollywood all those years ago and I saw a black cape in the store window and said you should wear that onstage. You said you’d look like the Devil, and I said you already did. You wore that cape for fifty years, keeping time behind me, four-on-the-floor or a shuffle beat on your snare—the most underrated and most appreciated drummer in country-jazz music.

  What can I say? When your beautiful Carlene moved on to the other side, I was moved to write a song for the two of you, “I Still Can’t Believe You’re Gone.” All these years later, it means more to me than ever. And so does our song, because we truly were “Me and Paul.”

  And I still can’t believe that

  you’re gone,

  Willie

  ME AND PAUL

  by Willie Nelson

  It’s been rough and rocky travelin’,

  But I’m finally standin’ upright on the ground.

  After takin’ several readings,

  I’m surprised to find my mind’s still fairly sound.

  I thought Nashville was the roughest,

  But I know I said the same about them all.

  We received our education

  In the cities of the nation, me and Paul.

  Almost busted in Laredo,

  But for reasons that I’d rather not disclose,

  But if you’re stayin’ in a motel there and leave,

  Just don’t leave nothin’ in your clothes.

  And at the airport in Milwaukee,

  They refused to let us board the plane at all,

  They said we looked suspicious,

  But I believe they like to pick on me and Paul.

  And on a package show in Buffalo

  With us and Kitty Wells and Charley Pride.

  The show was long and we was just sittin’ there

  And we’d come to play and not just for the ride.

  And we drank a lot of whiskey,

  So I don’t know if we went on that night at all.

  But I don’t think they even missed us

  I guess Buffalo ain’t geared for me and Paul.

  It’s been rough and rocky traveling

  But I’m finally standin’ upright on the ground.

  And after takin’ several readings,

  I’m surprised to find my mind’s still fairly sound.

  I thought Nashville was the roughest,

  But I know I said the same about them all.

  We received our education

  In the cities of the nation, me and Paul.

  YESTERDAY’S WINE

  The time we spent in laid-back Bandera seemed far from Nashville in a lot of ways. Though I still owed RCA Records another country album, I was taking time to ponder life while reading Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet and sermons by Reverend Taliaferro. I’d been trying to write hit singles, but in a flush of inspiration, I wrote nine new songs and added some earlier ones, similar to “Family Bible,” to tell a story that I felt was timeless.

  The result was my album Yesterday’s Wine, a story that followed my natural thoughts as I contemplated my own mortality in a story of imperfect man.

  “Perfect man has visited earth already,” introduces the first track. “His voice was heard. The voice of imperfect man must now be made manifest; and I have been selected as the most likely candidate.”

  From “Where’s the Show” and “Let Me Be a Man” to “December Day” and “Yesterday’s Wine,” with its reflections on life, the album chronicles the story of one man. The album ends with “Goin’ Home,” as the character watches his own funeral. That may not be the makings of a hit record. I think the execs at RCA called it “some far-out hippie shit,” and I didn’t much care, because I loved it and still do.

  My career was stalled, but I felt like my creative arc was shining bright.

  YESTERDAY’S WINE

  by Willie Nelson

  Miracles appear

  In the strangest of places

  Fancy meeting you here

  The last time I saw you

  Was just out of Houston

  Sit down let me buy you a beer

  Your presence is welcome

  With me and my friend here

  This is a hangout of mine

  We come here quite often

  And listen to music

  Partaking of yesterday’s wine

  Yesterday’s wine

  I’m yesterday’s wine

  Aging with time

  Like yesterday’s wine

  Yesterday’s wine

  We’re yesterday’s wine

  Aging with time

  Like yesterday’s wine

  You give the appearance

  Of one widely traveled

  I’ll bet you’ve seen

  Things in your time

  So sit down beside me

  And tell me your story
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  If you think

  You’ll like yesterday’s wine

  Yesterday’s wine

  We’re yesterday’s wine

  Aging with time

  Like yesterday’s wine

  A FAMILY BAND

  In the ’60s, Paul became the backbeat of my band, The Record Men, and he would soon become the backbone of what became my Family Band. Paul’s brother Billy English joined us as well. Young Bee Spears started playing bass for me in 1968, but he was from San Antonio, so moving home to Texas from Nashville was good for both of us.

  We truly became the Family Band when I signed with Atlantic Records, and Sister Bobbie took the first airplane flight of her life as she flew to New York City to play on my album Shotgun Willie. It’s amazing to think that Sister Bobbie and I started out together, and we ended up back playing together again and have kept playing together for another fifty years. That’s one of those great circles that we got to live long enough to see happen.

  The band grew in 1972, when Darrell Royal introduced me to a young Dallas harmonica player named Mickey Raphael. Mickey was good. After he’d played several shows with us, I asked Paul what we were paying him. “Nothing!” Paul told me. So I said, “Double his salary!”

  Jody Payne had been playing guitar for Merle Haggard. A few years later, I was lucky to get Grady Martin, a Nashville studio legend who’d played guitar on Patsy Cline’s timeless recording of my song “Crazy.” There were other great players along the way, but the core Family Band rolled down several million miles of American highways together, recorded more albums than I can name, appeared on television and in movies, and had a blast doing it all.

  Like any family, we’ve lost a few members along the way. Those losses were hard, but families persevere. Kevin Smith, a talented bass player, took over in that role after we lost Bee. No one could fill the Bee Man’s shoes, but Kevin brought his own talents, and now he’s become family too. We’re often joined now by my sons, Lukas and Micah, so I guess we’re a growing family after all.

  Our shows are a little less wild than the raucous Fourth of July picnics of old, when the ladies in the front row were baring all for the band. We didn’t mind those displays of fandom; I figured if the crowd was going to be half-naked, I’d prefer for the naked half to be the women.

  These days, our big outdoor shows are more likely to have three or maybe four generations of the same family. In other words, they’re just like us. And nothing lifts an old troubadour’s heart like looking out at a bunch of young fans. That energy going back and forth between us is what helps keep me going.

  DEAR FAMILY BAND,

  You really are family, but you know that. We’ve spent more time on the road and in the studio together than most families get in a lifetime. We’ve had more laughs than are legally allowed. We’ve broken ten thousand laws; or maybe we’ve just broken the same laws ten thousand times. We’ve played to millions of people. We went from small nightclubs to concert halls and sports arenas, sometimes on the same weekends. In Amarillo or in Amsterdam, we wanted to give them a good show, and we did exactly that, over and over again. Because that’s who we are.

  We came for the music, but I also remember the laughs; like me wondering why that audience in Vegas was howling with laughter as I sang “Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground.” The answer was behind me—Bee Man wearing angel wings and flying on a wire back and forth above the stage. Poodie’s motto, “No bad days,” was a constant reminder of how lucky we were to be making music together.

  We mostly laughed, but sometimes we cried. That’s what families do. What did we learn? The same thing we play and sing every night. The life we love is making music with our friends. Even better when your friends are your family.

  Big love from the man in

  Honeysuckle Rose,

  Dr. Booger Red Willie Hugh Nelson, Esquire

  DEAR AUDIENCE,

  I guess I should start this more personally, as in . . .

  DEAR LADY IN THE FRONT ROW,

  Wow! What a view we both had back in the ’70s! Sometimes the band told me they enjoyed your show as much as they did mine, so I guess we all were putting on the best show we could. But this letter is not just to you—it’s to the whole audience, and to all the audiences. You know who you are. And I want you to know I love you.

  Dear Audience, we’re all in this together. None of it happens without you. There’s no going “On the Road Again” and no singing “Whiskey River” to shouts and cheers unless you’re there, waiting for me to get off the bus and on the stage. Those lyrics to “On the Road Again” aren’t just a jingle. I really do love my life of making music with my friends. When I’ve been home a little too long and start saying hello to the walls, everyone knows I can’t wait to get back on the road.

  When I come onstage, I want you to be happy about it. I kick off the show with “Whiskey River” so we’ll all know the party has started. I can’t see the faces in the back, but I know you’re there, so as I sing those opening verses, I’m looking to catch the eyes of the audience down front. I see you now. And I’m going to sing to you all night.

  When you look into my eyes, I want you to see how glad I am to be with you. I want you to listen to my voice and feel my love for music, for my songs, and for you. Our exchange is contagious in all the best ways. As we lift each other up, we lift up those around us. A wave of energy flows out from me to my band and to you. And a wave flows out from you to the crowd around you and reaches farther and farther out, all the way to the back row, then back to me.

  We’re all together now, and there’s a straightforward bargain between us. You’ve paid to hear me play, and it’s my job to entertain you, to make you happy about having bought that ticket. When I sing, “Who’ll Buy My Memories?” I’m singing right to you and hoping you’ll turn my songs into memories of your own. We call it the Family Band, but the truth is, even though I don’t know your names, you’re my family too. You’re all the girls I’ve loved before. We’re all a Band of Brothers.

  So, dear Audience, in the form of that lady in the front row, think of this as my mash note to the girl at the school desk in front of me. I can’t dip your pigtails in an inkwell, but I love you yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

  I love that my songs have meaning for you, often a personal meaning that touches you deeply. When I sing “Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground,” I can feel your connections to the song. And I trust that you can feel me too.

  One thing I’ve learned from a life in music is that if you love someone, you’d better say it while they can hear you. So let me say it now: I love the way you’ve stood by me through the years, the way you’ve stood through the rain and through the cold and through the burning Texas sun at my Fourth of July picnics. I love the way you welcomed us to every city, town, and hamlet, to every stadium, concert hall, and two-bit juke joint in America and the world. And I plan on seeing you all soon.

  You know where to find me. When I come onstage, I’ll be happy to see your smiling faces. I’m gonna give you a wave, a wink, and a smile. Then I’m gonna pick up my guitar, step to the microphone, and start my show the way I always do, with a few sharp strums on the strings and the words that lead to “You’re all I got, take care of me.”

  Willie

  ANGEL FLYING TOO CLOSE TO THE GROUND

  by Willie Nelson

  If you had not have fallen

  Then I would not have found you

  Angel flying too close to the ground

  And I patched up your broken wing

  and hung around a while

  Trying to keep your spirits up and your fever down

  I knew someday that you would fly away

  For love’s the greatest healer to be found

  So leave me if you need to, I will still remember

  Angel flying too close to the ground

  Fly on, fly on past the speed of sound

  I’d rather see you up than see you down

  So leave me
if you need to, I will still remember

  Angel flying too close to the ground

  So leave me if you need to, I will still remember

  Angel flying too close to the ground

  SHOTGUN WILLIE

  They say to never look a gift horse in the mouth, though that’s better than the view from the other end and has less kick. I’d like to add an addendum that you should never underestimate the value of sitting around in your underwear.

  In 1971, I was in Nashville at a guitar pull—a late-night session with a bunch of great songwriters showing off their latest stuff. I wasn’t sitting around in my underwear—that part comes later—but I had given up on trying to be a Nashville hit machine. Late that night, I played a new cycle of songs I’d written, called Phases and Stages. The songs told the story of a husband and wife and the falling apart of their marriage. This was a big step for me. No one had heard these songs, and I didn’t know what to expect.

  After I finished, a gentleman named Jerry Wexler introduced himself as the head of Atlantic Records, one of the biggest and best in America. Jerry told me they were starting a new country division, and he wanted me to record the album I’d just sung. Knowing a gift horse when I see it, I said, “I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

  Not only did Atlantic want my new music—they also wanted me to use my band and any guests I wanted. We were soon in New York City, recording an album of mostly new material that Atlantic wanted to come out before Phases and Stages. As we were laying down good tracks, I was still looking for just the right feel and a title song for the album.

  I went back to my hotel one night and opened my mind to let something good come in. It had been a couple of years since that shoot-out with Lana’s husband at Ridgetop, but some of the guys were still calling me Shotgun Willie. I was in the hotel bathroom when a phrase popped into my head. “Shotgun Willie sits around in his underwear.” I picked up a pen and started writing lyrics on a sanitary napkin package.