Roll Me Up And Smoke Me When I Die Part 1

Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I Die.

by Willie Nelson.

WILLIE NELSON: THE FOREWORD.

BY KINKY FRIEDMAN.

In April 1933, Willie's mother, Myrle, gave birth to him in a manger somewhere along the old highway between Waco and Dallas. There were angels in attendance that night, and there would be for the rest of his life. Some of them, no doubt, flying too close to the ground.

In 1939, when Willie Nelson was six years old, he received his first real guitar. Hitler had just invaded Poland; the World's Fair had just opened in New York; and in Hollywood, Gone with the Wind Gone with the Wind had just beat out a quirky little film called had just beat out a quirky little film called The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz for Best Picture of the Year. These things were very probably not known to young Willie. Nor was he aware that his grandfather had just purchased a cheap Stella guitar from the Sears catalog. It would not be a cheap guitar to Willie; it would become his most prized possession, an instrument of transcendental beauty. for Best Picture of the Year. These things were very probably not known to young Willie. Nor was he aware that his grandfather had just purchased a cheap Stella guitar from the Sears catalog. It would not be a cheap guitar to Willie; it would become his most prized possession, an instrument of transcendental beauty.

Unlike many famous people who left their hometowns and never looked back, Willie felt Abbott was always the home of his heart. It was where he was born, where Daddy and Mama Nelson raised him, and where he wrote his first poems and songs. He would come back many times to play concerts there, or maybe just dominoes; to visit old friends; and to reconnect with the land and the memories.

Willie's ticket out of Abbott was music, and to make it in music you had to be able to draw a crowd. The population of Abbott at the time Willie lived there, according to Bobbie, was a little over two hundred people. But, she added, you never could prove that. The little town simply could not hold all of Willie's dreams. Like the cat who always goes into the neighbor's garbage cans, he wanted to go to all the places where the music on his radio came from.

Once he left Abbott, Willie was traveling light like the gypsy in his soul. He'd been a songwriter since he was six years old; why the h.e.l.l should he try to change course now? He kept writing songs and took gigs whenever and wherever he could get them; sometimes they fell like manna from the skies, sometimes they just seemed to dry up like a river in the drought. When he could, Willie found work as a country music disc jockey, playing some of the music that had influenced and inspired him throughout his childhood-Lefty Frizzell, Ernest Tubb, Hank Williams, Ray Price, Hank Snow, and, for sure, Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys.

MERLE H HAGGARD ONCE ONCE REPORTEDLY REPORTEDLY SAID SAID TO TO W WILLIE, REGARDING REGARDING Kris Kristofferson, the most talented janitor in Nashville, "You know, that guy is probably the best songwriter in town." Willie is said to have responded, "After you and me." Kris Kristofferson, the most talented janitor in Nashville, "You know, that guy is probably the best songwriter in town." Willie is said to have responded, "After you and me."

Willie, of course, a wordsmith since childhood, had already spent a lifetime pursuing his craft. Miss Dianne, Willie's first-grade teacher in Abbott, was one of the very earliest to notice his songwriting talent. She read some of his poems, soon to be lyrics, and was quite deeply impressed. She told Mama Nelson to keep an eye on this boy, because he was going to be something special. In Nashville, however, he found himself rapidly becoming the songwriter's songwriter. In other words, he was too hip for the room.

The word "songwriter" can apply to many different kinds of people. Barry Manilow is an accomplished songwriter and he's made more money than G.o.d. Basically, he writes songs that make you feel good for a short period of time. Willie, on the other hand, writes songs that may make you think, and some of them will stay with you for a lifetime.

Willie is hesitant about giving advice on songwriting. "I will never say anything to discourage a songwriter," he says. "But if you are a real songwriter, nothing I could say would discourage you, anyhow. If my opinion could change your mind about being a songwriter, then you really weren't a songwriter to begin with and I would have done you a favor by making you look for a different career. If a real songwriter happened to hear that I didn't like his work, he would say, 'What the h.e.l.l does Willie Nelson know? f.u.c.k Willie Nelson.' "

We come to see what we want to see in this world. The same song may have a totally different meaning to different people, and the guy who wrote it may have an entirely different interpretation from any of them. Willie says there is no formula for writing songs. You might add to that that there is also no formula for relating to songs or understanding them in any one particular way. In my opinion, "Kaw-Liga," the song about the wooden Indian who falls in love, is one of the saddest songs Hank Williams ever wrote. But I saw an old compilation of his work recently that some record company had put together long ago. The alb.u.m was ent.i.tled Kaw-Liga and Other Humorous Songs Kaw-Liga and Other Humorous Songs. It's a close-to-the-heart, personal matter, and it's all in the ear of the beer-holder. Sometimes a writer's best work is what is written between the lines-in other words, what the song leaves up to the imagination of the listener. "If a song is true for you," Willie says, "it will be true for others."

In 1969, during the week before Christmas, Willie and Hank Cochran wrote a song that dealt not so subtly with the frustrations he was going through regarding his life and his career. The song was ent.i.tled "What Can You Do to Me Now?" A day or two later, on the night before Christmas Eve, Willie was in Nashville at a party when somebody came up to him and told him that the Ridgetop house had just burned down. Willie rushed home to find, much to his relief, that all of his extended family and all of his animal family were safe. But the house had been destroyed, along with almost everything he owned. He stumbled through the ashes until at last he found an old guitar case, inside of which were two pounds of Colombian tea. In the late sixties there were places you could get life in prison for getting caught with one joint.

Perhaps Willie took it as a sign. Perhaps, as he said, he was just feeling like "a minnow in a dipper." Whatever the reason, it was time to jump back in the river. When you write a song called "What Can You Do to Me Now?" and almost immediately afterward your house burns down, it would appear that somebody is trying to tell you something. If it was G.o.d speaking to Willie, She was only telling him what he'd already been thinking himself.

Willie is that rare bird who never bothers to sift the ashes after the fire has gone. He is forever embracing the future, even if it slaps him in the face. Most of the time it hugs him back. So he followed in the footsteps of another iconoclastic American hero who'd made the trek almost a hundred and fifty years earlier. Willie told the Nashville music establishment the same words Davy Crockett had told the Tennessee political establishment: "Y'all can go to h.e.l.l-I'm going to Texas."

This move went deeper than the simple, obvious fact that Willie didn't fit in musically and stylistically with the Nashville Sound. The deeper problem was that in the sixties the good ol' boy network that was the music establishment was dead set against ever accepting Willie as one of them. They feared and despised his lifestyle-i.e., smoking pot. To the good ol' boy southern, Christian, straitlaced, humorless, constipated prigs who ran Music Row, dope was indubitably the devil. Country music, whatever its blessings and faults, would never gather reefer madness unto its collective, commercial, corporate bosom. That, indeed, was at the very heart of the problem. But it would not be a problem in Texas.

Like Davy Crockett before him, Willie would walk into history by way of his pilgrimage to Texas. Texas, where even before the music caught up with the ethos, outlaws were celebrated. But Willie did gain some practical wisdom from his Nashville experiences: "Get yourself a good Jewish lawyer before you sign anything, no matter how much the company says they love you."

Many years have come and gone, but the great body of work that Willie managed to create along with a small handful of others still resonates today, shining like musical diamonds in the rough despite the changing seasons, trends, and times. They were songwriters and they created some of their best work when they were broke, drunk, and stoned half the time. Maybe more than half.

Throughout his life, Willie has written most of his lyrics on sc.r.a.ps of paper, c.o.c.ktail napkins, and worse. He wrote "Shotgun Willie" on a sanitary-napkin envelope. He wrote "On the Road Again" on a vomit bag. I once asked him whether he found it interesting that he wrote "On the Road Again," one of the greatest road anthems of all time, while on an airplane, and that he wrote "b.l.o.o.d.y Mary Morning," a poignant portrayal of a heartbroken man on an airplane flight, while on the ground. He never really responded to my question. Of course, he was smoking a joint the size of a large kosher salami at the time.

This may indeed be conjuring up a romantic vision of Willie and the others, but when compared to today's Music Row, you can't help but see the obvious difference. Nashville after Willie and the boys is not the same. For decades now it seems to have sp.a.w.ned corporate publishing brothels, replete with long hallways filled with tiny little rooms each inhabited by two or three young songwriters who rushed to get to their songwriting appointment by four thirty sharp. In theory, this could produce some great new music; in practice, it has only resulted in the h.o.m.ogenized, sanitized, and derivative tissue of horses.h.i.t you usually hear on the radio these days.

Surely these writers are making money for somebody or the publishing corporations wouldn't be paying them. But it is worth mentioning that in the more than three decades since Willie got out of Dodge, n.o.body has written "h.e.l.lo Walls." n.o.body has written "Me and Bobby McGee." n.o.body's written "Silver Wings." And n.o.body's written "King of the Road."

I asked Willie why he thought that was, and he didn't have a ready answer except to say that back then times were really tough. Perhaps that is the answer; perhaps this modern crop of songwriters, though not untalented, was merely born too late. Great art is rarely produced by someone who sits down to paint his masterpiece. The guy who sets out to write the great American novel never does it; the great work is invariably written by the guy who was just trying to pay the rent. Of course, it helps if you're a genius. But if you're a genius, you probably f.u.c.ked up and missed your four-thirty songwriter's appointment.

EARLY MEMORIES.

I'm flashing back to my first memories; they are of a blacksmith shop in Abbott, Texas. My grandfather is shoeing a horse. He is heating the horseshoe in the roaring hot coals in the furnace. I'm standing on my tiptoes turning the bellows that blows the air on the furnace, keeping the fire going. He heats the horseshoe till it is red-hot, then fits it to the horse's hoof, cools it off in water, and nails it onto the horse's hoof. A horse kicked him one day and ruptured his stomach.

He wore a truss the rest of his life until he died from pneumonia at fifty-six. I was seven years old at the time my grandfather died.

The next memory is my first introduction to gospel music. It is of a tabernacle that sat next to my house, where in the summertime we had revivals. The Methodists, the Baptists, and the Church of Christ all held their church services in the tabernacle. I am sitting at the table looking out the window, listening to them all. My first performance in church was when I was about five. I was wearing a white sailor suit with red trim. I start to recite a poem my grandmother taught me, but I have been picking my nose, which now starts to bleed. I hold my nose with one finger and while blood runs all over my little white sailor suit I recite my poem: What are you looking at me for?I ain't got nothin' to sayIf you don't likes the looks of meJust look the other way My next memory is of our b.u.mblebee fights. On Sundays we would all go out and fight b.u.mblebees. I was ten years old. The farmers around Abbott would run into b.u.mblebee nests during the week while they worked their fields. They would let us know where to go, and eight or ten of us boys would go out and fight the bees. Some days I would come home with both eyes swollen shut from bee stings.

What fun we had!

We made paddles, sawed out of wooden boxes, that looked like Ping-Pong paddles with holes. One of us would go in and shake the nest and stir up the bees. Then, when the bees were swarming, everyone would start swinging. The bees always headed for your eyes.

The next memory is when we (the same bee-hunting boys and me) are all hiding behind a billboard sign on the main road, Highway 81, that runs through Abbott, which is between Waco and Dallas. We have tied a string to a lady's purse that we laid in the middle of the highway. A car would come by, see the purse, hit the brakes, stop, and back up to get the purse. At that moment we would pull the purse back to us behind the billboard sign. The driver would then realize that it was a prank, give us the finger, and speed away. We laughed a lot.

Another great Sunday!

REDDY THE COW.

Reddy was a big brown milk cow that I literally grew up on. Reddy was my first "horse." She was the first thing that I ever rode in my life, other than a stick horse. One of the first pictures that I ever saw of myself was of me sitting on Reddy's back. I couldn't have been more than two years old. I rode her all the time. It was my job, as I got older, to stake her out with a twenty-foot rope to graze on any gra.s.s I could find in Abbott. In the evening, I would go pick her up and ride her back home to her barn. On the way home, she always wanted to run because she could smell the barn, and she knew she was going to get fed, have some water, and get great treatment. It was also my job to take her to a bull about a mile away, when she came in heat. She seemed to sort of pick up the pace on the way to the bull. I never seemed to have any trouble getting her to go over there-Reddy was always ready!-but she walked a little slower on the way back.

A BETTER WAY TO MAKE A BUCK.

One day while I was picking cotton, on a farm by the highway that ran between Abbott and Hillsboro-it was about a hundred degrees in the hot Texas sun, and there I was pulling along a sack of cotton-a Cadillac came by with its windows rolled up. There was something about that scene that made me start thinking more about playing a guitar. Here I was picking cotton in the heat and thinking, There's a better way to make a dollar, and a living, living, than picking cotton. Sister Bobbie and I picked cotton on all the farms around Abbott every summer and every day after school. In Abbott, the schools let out at noon during harvest season, so we could all work in the fields. That's how we made our extra money. I did a lot more farmwork than Sister Bobbie, things like baling hay and working in the cotton gin and on the corn sh.e.l.ler, all of which was very hard work but in a lot of ways was good for me because it made me work harder on my guitar. than picking cotton. Sister Bobbie and I picked cotton on all the farms around Abbott every summer and every day after school. In Abbott, the schools let out at noon during harvest season, so we could all work in the fields. That's how we made our extra money. I did a lot more farmwork than Sister Bobbie, things like baling hay and working in the cotton gin and on the corn sh.e.l.ler, all of which was very hard work but in a lot of ways was good for me because it made me work harder on my guitar.

SISTER BOBBIE.

Willie and I were born to Ira and Myrle Nelson in a small Texas town called Abbott. I was born in 1931 and Willie in 1933. Our parents were seventeen when I was born and nineteen years old at Willie's birth. We always lived with our grandparents, our father's parents. They had moved to Texas from Arkansas the year before I was born. Ira and Myrle were married in Arkansas at the age of sixteen in order for Myrle to come to Texas with Ira and his family. The marriage lasted only long enough for Willie and me to be born. We continued living with our grandparents William Alfred and Nancy Nelson. Our grandfather was a blacksmith. A large man in stature, a quiet man but very strong in spirit, Daddy Nelson never spoke unkindly of anyone. He was very protective of Willie and me. Our grandparents were students of music and studied the music that they received through mail-order courses by lamplight every night after supper. This was our inspiration and these were our teachers.Our grandmother Mama Nelson was our music instructor. Daddy Nelson insisted that Mama start teaching us before we started school. We had a pump organ that I received my first music lessons on.Daddy Nelson got sick with the flu and then pneumonia when I was nine and Willie was seven years old. He died only two weeks after he got sick. But before he died he had already bought a piano for me and a guitar for Willie. He made sure I learned to play the piano a little and he had already taught Willie some guitar. Daddy Nelson played stringed instruments, and Mama Nelson had knowledge of music from her father, who taught voice cla.s.ses at singing schools in Arkansas. He traveled by horseback and buggy teaching singing cla.s.ses. Our grandparents were gospel music singers. Daddy Nelson's voice was very beautiful; he was a tenor.Willie and I continued living with our grandmother after Daddy Nelson died. We wanted to stay with her. We were afraid they might take us away from her and put us in an orphanage. We were very fortunate we got to stay with her. She took care of us and we tried to take care of her. We had a fabulous, blessed childhood with her. She gave us all of her: her life, her time, her knowledge of the world, her spirituality, and her devoted love.

MY NEXT NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR NEIGHBOR WAS WAS M MRS. BRESSLER, A A DEVOUT DEVOUT C CHRISTIAN lady who was very good friends with my grandmother. They lived next door to each other in Abbott all the time I was growing up there. She told me when I was about six years old that anyone who drank beer or smoked cigarettes-anyone who used alcohol or tobacco, really-was "going to h.e.l.l." She really believed that, and for a while I did too. I had started drinking and smoking by the time I was six years old, so if that was true, I've been h.e.l.l-bound since I was barely out of kindergarten! I would take a dozen eggs from our chicken, walk to the grocery store, and trade the dozen eggs for a pack of Camel cigarettes. I liked the little camel on the package-after all, I was only six. They were marketing directly to me! After that I liked Lucky Strikes, Chesterfields, even tried the menthol cigarettes, because they said it was a lot easier on your throat. That's a lot of horses.h.i.t. Cigarettes killed my mother, my father, my stepmother, and my stepfather-half the people in my family were killed by cigarettes. I watched my dad die after lying in bed with oxygen the last couple of years of his life. Cigarettes have killed more people than all the wars put together I think. But like my old buddy Billy Cooper used to say, "It's my mouth. I'll haul coal in it if I want to." I think I'd have been better off with the coal. lady who was very good friends with my grandmother. They lived next door to each other in Abbott all the time I was growing up there. She told me when I was about six years old that anyone who drank beer or smoked cigarettes-anyone who used alcohol or tobacco, really-was "going to h.e.l.l." She really believed that, and for a while I did too. I had started drinking and smoking by the time I was six years old, so if that was true, I've been h.e.l.l-bound since I was barely out of kindergarten! I would take a dozen eggs from our chicken, walk to the grocery store, and trade the dozen eggs for a pack of Camel cigarettes. I liked the little camel on the package-after all, I was only six. They were marketing directly to me! After that I liked Lucky Strikes, Chesterfields, even tried the menthol cigarettes, because they said it was a lot easier on your throat. That's a lot of horses.h.i.t. Cigarettes killed my mother, my father, my stepmother, and my stepfather-half the people in my family were killed by cigarettes. I watched my dad die after lying in bed with oxygen the last couple of years of his life. Cigarettes have killed more people than all the wars put together I think. But like my old buddy Billy Cooper used to say, "It's my mouth. I'll haul coal in it if I want to." I think I'd have been better off with the coal.

I TRIED TRIED A A HUNDRED HUNDRED TIMES TIMES TO TO QUIT QUIT SMOKING SMOKING. BY THE THE TIME TIME I I ACTUALLY ACTUALLY did quit smoking cigarettes, I had already started smoking pot, which I picked up from a couple of old musician buddies that I had run into in Fort Worth. The first time I smoked pot I kept waiting for something to happen. I kept puffing and puffing, waiting for something to happen, but nothing happened. So I went back to cigarettes and whiskey, which made s.h.i.t happen. As I started playing the clubs around Texas, I ran into the pills: the white crosses, the yellow turnarounds, and the black mollies. I never liked any of the pills or speed, because I didn't need speed; I was already speeding. So I quit everything but pot. Cigarettes were the hardest. My lungs were killing me from smoking everything from cedar post to grapevine, but I wasn't getting high off the cigarettes, so it was good-bye, Chesterfields, and I haven't smoked since. It's one of the best decisions I have ever made. did quit smoking cigarettes, I had already started smoking pot, which I picked up from a couple of old musician buddies that I had run into in Fort Worth. The first time I smoked pot I kept waiting for something to happen. I kept puffing and puffing, waiting for something to happen, but nothing happened. So I went back to cigarettes and whiskey, which made s.h.i.t happen. As I started playing the clubs around Texas, I ran into the pills: the white crosses, the yellow turnarounds, and the black mollies. I never liked any of the pills or speed, because I didn't need speed; I was already speeding. So I quit everything but pot. Cigarettes were the hardest. My lungs were killing me from smoking everything from cedar post to grapevine, but I wasn't getting high off the cigarettes, so it was good-bye, Chesterfields, and I haven't smoked since. It's one of the best decisions I have ever made.

The day I quit, the day that I decided that I was through with f.u.c.king cigarettes, I took out the pack of cigarettes that I had just bought, opened it, threw them all away, rolled up twenty joints, replaced the twenty Chesterfields, and put the pack back in my shirt pocket, where I always kept my cigarettes, because half of the habit, for me, was reaching for and lighting something.

FAMILY BIBLEThere's a family Bible on the tableIts pages worn and hard to readBut the family BibleOn the table will ever beMy key to memoriesI can see us sitting round the tableWhen from the family Bible Dad would readAnd I can hear my mother softly singingRock of agesRock of Ages cleft for meThis old world of ours is filled with troubleBut this old world would oh so better beIf we found more Bibles on the tableAnd mothers singing rock of ages cleft for me THE NIGHT OWL AND BUD FLETCHER The Night Owl was h.e.l.l-at least that's what Mrs. Bressler told me. It was the first place that my best friend, Zeke Varnon, and I used to hang out, get drunk, and play music. There was a lot of drinking, smoking, dancing, cussing, and fighting. Margie and Lundy ran the Night Owl. In the middle of all this confusion and fighting was music. It's what brought everyone there. It was one of the first beer joints that I played. Me, Sister Bobbie, Whistle Watson, and a little harelipped drummer. Bud Fletcher, who was Sister Bobbie's husband-she married him while she was a senior in high school-was a very good friend of mine. He was my first promoter/booker. He was about half hustler. We had a band called "Bud Fletcher and the Texans." We played the Night Owl, Chief Edwards, the b.l.o.o.d.y Bucket, and every beer joint in Texas at least once. Bud was the bandleader, but he was not a musician, even though he looked like he was. He was in the band with us and he played upright ba.s.s. Well, not really played played it. He spun it and kicked it a lot, but I never heard one note of music come out of it. it. He spun it and kicked it a lot, but I never heard one note of music come out of it.

I would always hock my guitar during the week at a p.a.w.nshop in Waco and drink and gamble up all the money, and Bud would always have to go get my guitar out of hock before the weekend so we could go play our music gigs. I used to say I hocked my guitar so many times that the p.a.w.nbroker played it better than I did. But Bud would always get it out of hock, because he would have already booked us in a place, and we needed to go play.

I remember one night we played some bar for the door (meaning we got the money people paid to get in-the bar got the money from the booze). There were six of us and we each made thirty-seven cents. That was not an unusual night. We were always getting booked into places that weren't quite ready for us. I'm not saying we were bad, but our music just didn't quite fit in in places like the Scenic Wonderland in Waco, which was a huge dance hall that held about two thousand people. We could never manage to get more than twelve or fourteen people in there.

We also played a radio show each Sat.u.r.day in Hillsboro at KHBR studios. It was a lot of fun, a great experience, and allowed us to plug the shows that we were playing around the state. We played in places like Whitney, West, Waco, and San Antonio.

One time, we played the Huntsville Rodeo at the Huntsville state penitentiary. As soon as we got to the property line, the guard from the penitentiary got on the bus to escort us to the bandstand. We had about twenty pounds of pot in the bay of the bus that we had bought the day before. The guard must must have smelled it, because I did, but if he did, he never said a word. We played the rodeo, which was the best rodeo I had ever seen in my life, because these guys just didn't give a s.h.i.t, and got out of there as quick as we could! have smelled it, because I did, but if he did, he never said a word. We played the rodeo, which was the best rodeo I had ever seen in my life, because these guys just didn't give a s.h.i.t, and got out of there as quick as we could!

Thought for the Day: If it ain't broke, break it! If it ain't broke, break it!

BACK TO ABBOTT.

I was tr.i.m.m.i.n.g trees with Zeke, Billy Bressier, and Curly Ingram. Curly was the boss of the tree-tr.i.m.m.i.n.g gang. We worked for Asplundh Tree Company, which was a contractor hired by the Texas Power and Light Company to keep the power lines clear and free of trees and limbs. My job was feeding the chipper, a machine that ground up the limbs when they were thrown down from the trees, and at the end of the day, we would take the load of chips to the dump. One day, Billy Bressier was high up in a tree sawing off a limb. He needed a rope to tie around the limb so that it could be lowered to the ground without falling on anybody or anything. I climbed up the tree to give him the rope, which I had done a few times before, and instead of climbing back down the tree, I decided to climb back down the rope. I had just started down the rope when my left hand got tangled up with the rope. My fingers on my left hand were intertwined with the rope above my head where I had tried to lower myself. I was hung up. I couldn't go up, and I couldn't go down. We were about twenty feet above the ground. Right below me were the two power lines. The rope was tearing the fingers off my left hand when I told Billy to cut it. He did and I fell all the way to the ground, right between the two power lines. I hit the ground, jumped up, and walked away from that job, never to return. was tr.i.m.m.i.n.g trees with Zeke, Billy Bressier, and Curly Ingram. Curly was the boss of the tree-tr.i.m.m.i.n.g gang. We worked for Asplundh Tree Company, which was a contractor hired by the Texas Power and Light Company to keep the power lines clear and free of trees and limbs. My job was feeding the chipper, a machine that ground up the limbs when they were thrown down from the trees, and at the end of the day, we would take the load of chips to the dump. One day, Billy Bressier was high up in a tree sawing off a limb. He needed a rope to tie around the limb so that it could be lowered to the ground without falling on anybody or anything. I climbed up the tree to give him the rope, which I had done a few times before, and instead of climbing back down the tree, I decided to climb back down the rope. I had just started down the rope when my left hand got tangled up with the rope. My fingers on my left hand were intertwined with the rope above my head where I had tried to lower myself. I was hung up. I couldn't go up, and I couldn't go down. We were about twenty feet above the ground. Right below me were the two power lines. The rope was tearing the fingers off my left hand when I told Billy to cut it. He did and I fell all the way to the ground, right between the two power lines. I hit the ground, jumped up, and walked away from that job, never to return.

Had all my medication and it's half past ten I'm just sitting round waiting for something to kick in -WILLIE N NELSON, SONG SONG IN IN PROGRESS PROGRESS.

CHURCH.

I have spent all my life in church. The Bible says our body is our church, our temple, and I have spent seventy-nine years in this temple. We all live in our church. have spent all my life in church. The Bible says our body is our church, our temple, and I have spent seventy-nine years in this temple. We all live in our church.

Church is not a building; it's our body, our temple, and we should take care of our church. It's the only one we get this lifetime, and we will be judged by the way we treat it. The better we treat our body, the longer, healthier the life we will have, and the more we will be able to do for the world and ourselves. We are our brother's keeper, and he is ours. Treat him the way you want to be treated. You get back what you give. Good for good, bad for bad; for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. If you dish it out, you better be ready to take it.

Amen.

Abbott had four churches and one tabernacle, where all the other churches used to hold their summer revivals. We lived right next door, and I mean right right next door. I could sit at our dining room table and hear every word. Baptist, Methodist, Church of Christ-great singing and preaching, and when it was the Methodists' revival, I went every night. And every time the preacher gave the invocation, where he tried to get you to admit your sins and join the church, I went down and asked for forgiveness. For what, I didn't know; I was only ten years old. How much sinning was I into at ten? But I went down anyway because it made all the women in the church happy. They loved me. They made me a lifetime member of the women's missionary society. That's a true story. The Catholic Church was a little more lenient. They danced and drank beer, and it was okay. I played dances for the Catholics at the SPJST Hall, where they would get together, dance, play dominoes, and have fun. My first paying gig was at the SPJST Hall in West Texas, with the John Rejcek family band. They played polkas, waltzes, "Cotton-Eyed Joes," the schottische, the Bunny Hop, and the Texas two-step. I learned to play them all, and got paid for it. I made ten dollars. I had hit the big time! next door. I could sit at our dining room table and hear every word. Baptist, Methodist, Church of Christ-great singing and preaching, and when it was the Methodists' revival, I went every night. And every time the preacher gave the invocation, where he tried to get you to admit your sins and join the church, I went down and asked for forgiveness. For what, I didn't know; I was only ten years old. How much sinning was I into at ten? But I went down anyway because it made all the women in the church happy. They loved me. They made me a lifetime member of the women's missionary society. That's a true story. The Catholic Church was a little more lenient. They danced and drank beer, and it was okay. I played dances for the Catholics at the SPJST Hall, where they would get together, dance, play dominoes, and have fun. My first paying gig was at the SPJST Hall in West Texas, with the John Rejcek family band. They played polkas, waltzes, "Cotton-Eyed Joes," the schottische, the Bunny Hop, and the Texas two-step. I learned to play them all, and got paid for it. I made ten dollars. I had hit the big time!

SISTER BOBBIE Our first music performances together were in our church, the Abbott Methodist Church, where we were all members. Our grandfather wasn't a regular churchgoer, but our grandmother was. She had us scrubbed and cleaned and dressed for church every time the doors opened. She was a Sunday school teacher for children as well as a music teacher for anyone who wanted to learn to read music, play an instrument, or sing. This was one of the ways we survived. She used the barter system, exchanging her knowledge of music and life for some of the material things we needed for a comfortable survival. We were never unhappy or sad because she made sure of that.I KNOW MY PARTI know my partI'll bring up the rearI'll eat the dustYou know I don't careThat's what I doI'll get 'em thruI'm driving the herdI sing 'em to sleepI sing 'em awakeThey like my songsI give and I takeI know my partI play from the heartWhile I'm driving the herdOr maybe I'm followingThey let me knowIf I'm doing it rightThey sing along with me every night TROUBLEMAKER I've been called a troublemaker a time or two. What the h.e.l.l is a troublemaker? you ask. Well, it's someone who makes trouble; that's what he came here to do, and that's what he does, by G.o.d. Like it or not, love it or not, he will stir it up. Why? Because it needs stirring up! If someone doesn't do it, it won't get done, and you know you love to stir it up ... I know I do.

THE TROUBLEMAKER-BRUCE G. B G. BELLAND, DAVID T TROY S SOMERVILLEI could tell the moment that I saw himHe was nothing but the troublemaking kindHis hair was much too longAnd his motley group of friendsHad nothing but rebellion on their mindsHe's rejected the establishment completelyAnd I know for sure he's never held a jobHe just goes from town to townStirring up the young folksTill they're nothing but a disrespectful mobAnd I know for sure he's never joined the armyAnd served his country like we all have doneHe'd rather wear his sandals and his flowersWhile others wage a war that must be wonThey arrested him last week and found him guiltyAnd sentenced him to die but that's no great lossFriday they will take him to a place called CalvaryAnd hang that troublemaker to a cross SALESMANSHIP I did a lot of work in sales. I have worked selling on the radio and door-to-door-encyclopedias, vacuum cleaners, books, sewing machines, and all kinds of sales. I had my own sales crew in Waco selling the did a lot of work in sales. I have worked selling on the radio and door-to-door-encyclopedias, vacuum cleaners, books, sewing machines, and all kinds of sales. I had my own sales crew in Waco selling the Encyclopedia Americana Encyclopedia Americana. They were and are still, I think, a great set of books. Every home should have a set, and I tried hard to put one in every home. I had great teachers, and I got good at selling them. We had a friend who worked with the phone company and who gave us all the new listings in Fort Worth each week. We called them and would make an appointment to come by their home and show them the new Encyclopedia Americana Encyclopedia Americana. We would make at least six appointments per day, then go out that night and try to make a sale. A good salesman would sell at least three sets of books out of the six appointments. The books sold for three hundred to six hundred dollars, depending on the binding. You could make from sixty to a couple hundred dollars' commission per sale. Three per night added up pretty good. But this job and all the others were just temporary until I found a job playing music.

As I said, I worked at KHBR in Hillsboro, where I had a live show with my band on Sat.u.r.day at noon. It paid nothing and only covered a few miles, but my band and I could plug our dates. I also worked at KBOP in Pleasanton, KCNC in Fort Worth, and KVAN in Vancouver, Washington. It was a good way to stay involved in music.

ONE IN A ROWIf you can truthfully say that you've been true just one dayWell that makes one in a row one in a row one in a rowAnd if you can look into my eyes one time without telling liesWell that makes one in a row one in a row one in a rowWhy oh why do I keep loving youAfter all of the things you doAnd just one time come into my armsAnd be glad that you're in my armsThat will make one in a row one in a row one in a rowWhy oh why do I keep loving youAfter all of the things you doAnd just one time come into my armsAnd be glad that you're in my armsThat will make one in a row one in a row one in a rowOne in a row, one in a rowOne in a row, one in a row Thought for the Day: Remember, we're not happy till you're not happy. Remember, we're not happy till you're not happy.

OCCUPY WALL STREET.

They are still at it, and it's been weeks. It's growing; it's good. Where and when will it end? Not until the 1 percent antes up the equivalent of what the working-cla.s.s people are sacrificing. They say it's the 99 percent against the 1 percent, but I believe it is more like 99.9 percent against one-tenth of 1 percent, which equals about 1,200 people who own the world. And then there are all the rest of us who pay them to rob us blind. The one-tenth of 1 percent love to complain about welfare moms who take what amounts to chump change in funding compared to the trillions that the one-tenth of 1 percent take from our tax dollars as subsidies ... which is nothing more than welfare. And just because you're a millionaire, or some would say rich, rich, does not mean you are a crook ... no more than you can say that everyone who is poor is completely honest. There are a lot of poor people who would like to be millionaires, regardless of what they would have to do to get there, and a lot of millionaires who have used their money for good. Some would say I am in that category, and even I believe, like Warren Buffett, that it just ain't fair for people like us to have all the advantages. does not mean you are a crook ... no more than you can say that everyone who is poor is completely honest. There are a lot of poor people who would like to be millionaires, regardless of what they would have to do to get there, and a lot of millionaires who have used their money for good. Some would say I am in that category, and even I believe, like Warren Buffett, that it just ain't fair for people like us to have all the advantages.

I started the TeaPot Party after I got busted for pot in Sierra Blanca, Texas. I thought, Hey, there's a Tea Party, so why not a TeaPot Party? Hey, there's a Tea Party, so why not a TeaPot Party? There are now TeaPot Party representatives in every state of the union, and even in several foreign countries. On a few occasions, the TeaPot Party has backed a few politicians who believe, as we do, that marijuana should be legalized, taxed, and regulated the same way we do alcohol and tobacco. On the border of Mexico and the United States, thousands of people are killed annually because of the war for and against drugs. We should bring home all of our troops from around the world, put them on our borders, and legalize drugs, and in doing so we will save thousands of lives and millions of dollars. We should not be sending people to prison for smoking a joint, who after years in prison return to society as hardened criminals, with no other way to make a living than, you guessed it, selling drugs. Addiction should be treated as a disease, period. There are now TeaPot Party representatives in every state of the union, and even in several foreign countries. On a few occasions, the TeaPot Party has backed a few politicians who believe, as we do, that marijuana should be legalized, taxed, and regulated the same way we do alcohol and tobacco. On the border of Mexico and the United States, thousands of people are killed annually because of the war for and against drugs. We should bring home all of our troops from around the world, put them on our borders, and legalize drugs, and in doing so we will save thousands of lives and millions of dollars. We should not be sending people to prison for smoking a joint, who after years in prison return to society as hardened criminals, with no other way to make a living than, you guessed it, selling drugs. Addiction should be treated as a disease, period.

If we legalized drugs in this country, and treated abuse as the disease it is, and offered medical treatment for these addicts, it would make much more sense than putting them in prison, and we should leave the marijuana users alone but tax them. It's already been proven that taxing and regulating marijuana makes more sense than sending young people to prison for smoking a G.o.d-given herb that has never proven to be fatal to anybody. Cigarettes and alcohol have killed millions, and there's no law against them, because again, there's a lot of money in cigarettes and alcohol. If they could realize there is just as much profit in marijuana, and they taxed and regulated it as they do cigarettes and alcohol, they could realize the same amount of profit and reduce trillions of dollars in debt. Making marijuana illegal only helps the criminals and the private prisons. My mother and my dad, my stepmother, my stepdad-well, half of my family-have been killed by cigarettes, and as far as I know, no one has ever died from smoking marijuana. Marijuana's being illegal makes no sense at all because that's not keeping it off the market. I've never had trouble getting marijuana anywhere in the world. In the places where it's legal, the smart countries, they are making a profit. And where it's not not legal, the only people making money are the criminals. legal, the only people making money are the criminals.

Put something in the pot, boy; it's your move. Your back is against the wall, and that wall is Wall Street against Main Street. I didn't come here and I ain't leaving.

Amen.

LEAVING ABBOTT.

We moved to Pleasanton, Texas, where I lied my way into the job at KBOP. The owner of the station was a guy named Dr. Ben Parker. Dr. Parker was a wealthy chiropractor who owned at least six radio stations in Texas. My job was to sign on in the mornings, which meant I did news and weather, played music, swept the floor, wrote copy, sold time, and collected. I did everything there was to do in a radio station, except that I was not an engineer and couldn't work on the equipment. When I applied for the job, Dr. Parker asked me if I had any experience. Of course I lied and said I did. So he asked me to sit down, go on the air, and read a commercial I had never seen. Live. I'll never forget that commercial. It was for the Pleasanton Pharmacy, and at the end of the commercial I was to say, "This program is brought to you by the Pleasanton Pharmacy, whose pharmaceutical department will accurately and precisely fill your doctor's prescription." Of course I screwed that up completely. He asked me if I was familiar with the board, which was an RCA board, because as a disc jockey I would have to operate all the equipment, turntables, and tape machines. And when Doc Parker asked me if I was familiar with this particular board, I said, "No, I was trained on a Gates board," which I had no idea about either, but I had seen it somewhere. Doc Parker must have just liked me and knew I had a family and needed a job, because he gave me the job and showed me how to operate the equipment.

I had a lot of fun at KBOP. I learned a lot about radio and how it all operates. I worked on Sunday mornings, when all the churches came in to do their Sunday morning church services at KBOP. The Church of Christ, the Baptist Church, the Methodist Church, the Catholic Church, and the Pentecostal Church, or the holy rollers as we called them, because they became so emotional and involved. They would shout, dance, and make all kinds of noise. We had to tie the chairs together because otherwise they would be thrown all over the studio. I would sit at the controls, and I could see through to the live studio where all this was going on every Sunday morning. I would always be a little hung over from Sat.u.r.day night, and they obviously knew this because they all looked right directly at me and preached every word to me, it seemed like.

I did a live radio show, just me and my guitar, from noon until twelve thirty daily. This is where I first met Johnny Bush. I liked his singing well enough that I thought he needed a manager. So I became his manager, and somewhere there are still posters that say JOHNNY JOHNNY BUSH BUSH, MANAGED MANAGED BY BY WILLIE WILLIE NELSON NELSON. I don't think it hurt him much, because he still sings so beautiful.

Johnny was not only a good singer, but he was a good musician. He played ba.s.s and was a fine drummer. He eventually wound up playing drums for me in a three-piece band that included me, Johnny Bush, and Wade Ray. We were pretty good. We played the Panther Hall ballroom in Fort Worth, which was an old professional bowling alley that had been converted into a beer joint. The three of us recorded my first live alb.u.m at the Panther Hall ballroom.

I remember one night we debuted a Beatles song called "Yesterday." The crowd loved it. I thought that I had discovered an obscure song that no one had heard of before, not realizing that the Beatles had just sold ninety zillion records.

I also thought I had discovered Julio Iglesias. I was in England on tour, listening to the BBC radio late night, and they played a song-I couldn't remember the song, but I remembered the voice and decided I had to record with this voice, whoever it was that I thought I had discovered. I found out later that he too had already sold ninety zillion records-but in seven different languages. I eventually got word to him, and we recorded "To All the Girls I've Loved Before" at my studio in Austin. It's the same studio where I recorded "Seven Spanish Angels" with Ray Charles, who is another hero of mine.

Ray Charles.

Ray Charles did more for country music than anyone else. When he recorded the alb.u.m Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music, Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music, with all the great country cla.s.sics, millions of Ray Charles fans were introduced to country music. I had been a Ray Charles fan all the way back to "What'd I Say." To be able to record and sing with him was a dream come true. We eventually became good friends, and I sang many shows with him. The best one was in New York on my sixtieth birthday. Ray Charles flew in from Spain to New York, just to come sing at my birthday show, and when he and Leon Russell sang "A Song for You," it was the best I had ever heard. So thank you, Ray, and thank you, Leon. with all the great country cla.s.sics, millions of Ray Charles fans were introduced to country music. I had been a Ray Charles fan all the way back to "What'd I Say." To be able to record and sing with him was a dream come true. We eventually became good friends, and I sang many shows with him. The best one was in New York on my sixtieth birthday. Ray Charles flew in from Spain to New York, just to come sing at my birthday show, and when he and Leon Russell sang "A Song for You," it was the best I had ever heard. So thank you, Ray, and thank you, Leon.

The greatest musician, singer, writer, and entertainer that I have ever seen or heard is Leon Russell. We are still great friends and have a double alb.u.m of songs that we recorded, called Together Again, Together Again, coming out next year. I first saw Leon in Albuquerque, New Mexico. There were twenty thousand people on their feet yelling and screaming for the whole show. He and I stayed up all night the night before the show drinking and smoking. At sunrise we went onstage and started playing. It was the greatest sight I had ever seen. There were thousands of people walking toward the venue through a cow pasture, carrying everything from beer coolers to sleeping bags. They came to stay a while. There were hippies and rednecks, young and old coming together for the first time to hear the same thing. The magic was the music. It touched all kinds of people, and the world has not been the same since. I remember he had the crowd in such a frenzy that at one moment he stopped and said, "Remember where you are right now, and remember that right now you would believe anything I would say. So be careful who you would let lead you to this place." Then he threw his cowboy hat into the audience, and the crowd went crazy, which is when I stole the idea of throwing hats to the audience. coming out next year. I first saw Leon in Albuquerque, New Mexico. There were twenty thousand people on their feet yelling and screaming for the whole show. He and I stayed up all night the night before the show drinking and smoking. At sunrise we went onstage and started playing. It was the greatest sight I had ever seen. There were thousands of people walking toward the venue through a cow pasture, carrying everything from beer coolers to sleeping bags. They came to stay a while. There were hippies and rednecks, young and old coming together for the first time to hear the same thing. The magic was the music. It touched all kinds of people, and the world has not been the same since. I remember he had the crowd in such a frenzy that at one moment he stopped and said, "Remember where you are right now, and remember that right now you would believe anything I would say. So be careful who you would let lead you to this place." Then he threw his cowboy hat into the audience, and the crowd went crazy, which is when I stole the idea of throwing hats to the audience.

I booked Leon for the first Fourth of July picnic in Dripping Springs, Texas. I thought if it worked in Albuquerque and it worked in Woodstock, it could work here; it did. Thank you, Leon, and thank you, Woodstock, for showing me how to do it.

Leon RussellALWAYS NOWIt's always nowNothing ever goes awayEverything is here to stayAnd it's always nowIt's always nowThere never was a used to beEverything is still with meAnd it's always nowSo brace your heartAnd save yourself some sanityIt's more than just a memoryAnd it's always nowAnd here's your partSing it like a melodyThere's really only you and meAnd it's always now NASHVILLE.

I went to Nashville because Nashville was went to Nashville because Nashville was the the marketplace, and if you wanted to succeed in country music you had to go to Nashville-so I went to Nashville. I drove there from Houston in a '51 Buick. I had been teaching guitar at Paul Buskirk's music studio. I taught a cla.s.s where I had about twelve full-time students. I loved teaching guitar. I could play pretty good, so I would knock out a few blues licks to impress the cla.s.s, then jump into Mel Bay's book and teach little fingers to play. It was and still is a great way to teach. By the time you went through the first book, you had learned a lot about reading music, and I was learning as much as I was teaching. marketplace, and if you wanted to succeed in country music you had to go to Nashville-so I went to Nashville. I drove there from Houston in a '51 Buick. I had been teaching guitar at Paul Buskirk's music studio. I taught a cla.s.s where I had about twelve full-time students. I loved teaching guitar. I could play pretty good, so I would knock out a few blues licks to impress the cla.s.s, then jump into Mel Bay's book and teach little fingers to play. It was and still is a great way to teach. By the time you went through the first book, you had learned a lot about reading music, and I was learning as much as I was teaching.

I had just recorded "Night Life" with Paul Buskirk's band. He was the best rhythm guitar player I had ever heard. Dean "Deanie Bird" Reynolds played great upright ba.s.s, and I played lead guitar. I had also just written "Family Bible," which was recorded by Claude Gray. I sold the song for fifty dollars, because I needed the money to pay my rent. The song went to No. 1 on the Billboard Billboard charts. So when I hit Nashville, I had a record and a No. 1 song. charts. So when I hit Nashville, I had a record and a No. 1 song.

I met Hank Cochran at a bar called Tootsie's Orchid Lounge, which is right across the alley from the Ryman Auditorium, the home of the Grand Ole Opry. All the artists and musicians who played the Grand Ole Opry would spend a lot of time at Tootsie's. It's where I met Faron Young, who turned out to be a great friend and who recorded my song "h.e.l.lo Walls," which became his biggest hit.

Tootsie's was also where I met Charlie d.i.c.k, who was married to the great Patsy Cline. He heard and liked one of my records on the jukebox, so I played him a tape of "Crazy." He took me to Patsy's house and woke her up so she could hear it, too. I remember I was embarra.s.sed to go into their house-it was past midnight-so I stayed in the car. She came out and made me come in, and she recorded "Crazy" the next week. It was the biggest jukebox song of all time.

Back to Hank Cochran-Hank heard me jamming with Jimmy Day and Buddy Emmons one night in Tootsie's. He was a writer for Pamper Music, which was owned by Ray Price and Hal Smith. Also, there were Harlan Howard, Ray Pennington, Don Rollins, and Dave Kirby. All great writers. Hank had a fifty-dollar-a-week raise coming but told Hal Smith to hire me as a writer and give me the fifty dollars-a-week instead. It was fantastic, and I thought I had hit the big time!

There is a new singer in town who has a great voice and a good heart and is doing really well. His name is Jamey Johnson, and he is doing an alb.u.m of Hank Cochran songs. Hank wrote some great songs, like "Make the World Go Away" and "A Little Bitty Tear." We did one the other night that I had only recently heard for the first time called "Livin' for a Song." It was me, Jamey, and Kris Kristofferson singing on that one. I'm glad Jamey is kicking the can on down the road, so people don't forget Hank and people like him. Thank you, Hank, wherever you are.

Thought for the Day: You have all the power there is. There is no one more powerful than you. You just must be aware of it and know it; don't doubt it. Faith, dummy. (Those last two words were for me.) You have all the power there is. There is no one more powerful than you. You just must be aware of it and know it; don't doubt it. Faith, dummy. (Those last two words were for me.) THINK IT IT. BE IT IT. YOU ARE ARE THE THE SUM SUM TOTAL TOTAL OF OF ALL ALL YOUR YOUR THOUGHTS THOUGHTS. Remember you are who you wanted to be. If you're happy, thank G.o.d and move on. If you want to change, you can. Intentions are important, but remember you can kill yourself with good intentions. If everything fails, start over. Failure is not fatal. It's inevitable that you learn from your mistakes. If you fail, you start over. If you fail again, you start over again. If you fall seven times, get up eight. Amen. Or om, or ... ?

I can still see the Abbott Panther motto: "A quitter never wins, and a winner never quits." Abbott High School was the greatest school in the world for me and small enough that I could take every subject. You will pa.s.s some and fail some, but the ones you fail you will remember longer. Kind of like in life, you keep coming back till you get it right, or as someone said, "Keep doing it wrong till you like it that way." I think I already said that, but it's important.

Ba.s.s 101.

The best country singer of all time was, and still is, Ray Price. His ba.s.s player Donny Young, who later became Johnny Paycheck, quit and I was hired to replace him. I had never played ba.s.s in my life, but when Ray asked me if I could play ba.s.s I said, "Can't everybody?" Jimmy Day tried to teach me on the way from Nashville to Winchester, Virginia, which was Patsy Cline's hometown. It was a struggle for us both. Johnny Bush played drums for Ray, but I played ba.s.s, so he was screwed from the get-go. I asked Ray later how long it took him to realize I was no ba.s.s player. He said the first night, but he kept me around, so thank you, Ray.

Ray had his band dressed in pink and blue Nudie suits with sequins. Donny was about fifty pounds lighter than I was, so the suit was a little snug, but after a while on the bus eating truck-stop food, it began to fit better. I opened with the band and sang a few Hank Williams songs and told a couple of Little Jimmy d.i.c.kens's jokes. Then I would introduce Ray. Most of the way through my show there was a lot of heckling, like "Where's Ray? We paid to see Ray Price!" It was a very humbling experience. I understood very well what they meant, and I too was glad when Ray came on. Later, when Johnny Bush opened for me, he had to listen to, "Where's Willie? We paid to see Willie!" It's all funny now. We actually have a new CD called Young at Heart Young at Heart coming out next year. Here I go plugging my music again. Bite me. coming out next year. Here I go plugging my music again. Bite me.

Ray Price helped us out on the CD and sang great, as usual, but he's been a little under the weather lately. He told me he had to cut back. His exact words were "I'm only living six days a week now." Now that's that's funny! funny!

RAISING HOGS.

I spent some great years living in Tennessee. I first lived in Dunn's Trailer Park in Madisonville, Tennessee, just north of Nashville. Roger Miller and Hank Cochran both lived there at one time for no reason that I can think of, except that it was twenty-five dollars a week, with everything furnished. Not such a bad deal. spent some great years living in Tennessee. I first lived in Dunn's Trailer Park in Madisonville, Tennessee, just north of Nashville. Roger Miller and Hank Cochran both lived there at one time for no reason that I can think of, except that it was twenty-five dollars a week, with everything furnished. Not such a bad deal.