Willie Nelson Concert

Oh that any of us are still as creative, energetic and fun at 80 years old as Willie Nelson. We really, really enjoyed his concert last night.

Whatever fears I had of seeing some sad old-timer playing beyond his years were immediately dispelled by the rousing opening version of “Whiskey River” and a swinging “Still Is Still Moving to Me.” The guy is truly amazing. His voice sounded great (better than on one of his recent albums) and his always underrated guitar playing was terrific: warm and beautiful at times, as on Django Reinhardt's "Nuages", or hard-driving and almost atonal on “Night Life.” What many people fail to realize is that beneath Willie Nelson the cartoon-figure cultural icon there percolates a musical mind of the highest order. His understanding of jazz, popular music, country, rock, folk, Mexican and Latin music and other genres is tremendous. As someone who loves all kinds of music, I find it invigorating. Tell me what living performer in a 90-minute show could weave together in a seamless whole Django, Irving Berlin, Hoagy Carmichael, Hank Williams, Bob Wills, Carl Perkins, Kris Kristofferson, shit-kicking country, gospel hymns, rockabilly, two songs originally performed with Snoop Dog, and, of course, the tremendous Willie Nelson catalog? His moody, samba-country arrangement of Berlin’s “Let’s Face the Music and Dance” may have been the highlight of the evening. (Even better than the studio version attached.) I don’t think I had ever really paid attention to Berlin’s opening line, “There may trouble ahead,” but last night when Willie growled out the words, I had images of outlaws riding into Mexico floating through my head, and the darker atmosphere of the song really came out.

The musicianship last night was top notch. In addition to Willie, the line-up included the key members of the classic “Family” line-up that produced all of those great outlaw country records in the early and mid-70s: his sister Bobbie on piano, Paul (The Devil) English on drums and percussion, and Mickey Raphael, who may now be the greatest living harmonica player, with all due respect to Toots Thielemans at 91. These people have been playing together off and on for about 40 years (Willie and English actually first played together in 1955!), and they know each other so well, that they can follow one another with great skill and ease from a hell-raising country song to a haunting version of "Gerogia." But the key to everything may be the young stud on stand-up bass whose super groovy, driving rhythm kept the old folks on their toes. I don’t know the guy’s name, but he made his presence felt from the first moment of the night. There was also a young drummer/percussionist who switched off and on with English, who suffered a minor stroke in 2010. The Devil would play drums on some of the old hits and more mellow pieces, and the young drummer took over on the swinging, upbeat songs. When not on drums, they both added some terrific percussion, especially English. He may not be able to pound the skins on every tune any more, but he’s a wise old dog with a great ability to add the perfect spice to a song - a chilling set of chimes during “Georgia,” or tasteful maracas during one of the Mexican-flavored works.

The other thing that impressed me was that many of the best songs of the evening were from Willie’s last two albums, Let’s Face the Music and Dance (2013) and Heroes (2012). He certainly played some of his classics (including my two favorites – “Me and Paul” and “Funny How time Slips Away”) and his big hits, which had the crowd singing along, but in no way was this some kind of retrospective show. He’s still making good music and having fun performing it live. Another great part of last night was hearing this group play some of those awful, syrupy Willie songs from the early 80s ("Always on My Mind" "To All the Girls I've Loved") that I've always hated. Suddenly, with new stripped-down arrangements, they didn't sound half bad. Also, thinking back on it, I can't believe how much material the guy crammed into 90 minutes. They never took a break, and he (sadly) didn't chatter much between songs. They just played. And played a lot.

In the end, the best part of the night may have just been watching an 80 year old musical artist with so much joie de vivre, who obviously still loves what he’s doing, does it pretty damn well, and seems to really enjoy playing for people. And they enjoy him. There was a great communal spirit in the auditorium last night. And my oh my how the ladies do love this old fart. At one point, Alexandra and I thought we were at a Tom Jones concert, as not one, not two, but three women climbed on stage to give the guy a kiss or throw him a bandana or try to hug him. And one of them was probably in her 20s or 30s! Yes, Willie sing-talks through some of his songs, but he did it wisely and to good effect, turning a potential weakness into a strength. And I’m sure his guitar skills are not the same at 80 as they were at 40. But all in all, the guy was pretty impressive. My only regret last night was that I hadn’t gone to see Willie sooner in my life, so I could have experienced him more in concert. If we could, we would go again this evening. Alexandra and I both really enjoyed ourselves.

In the Shadow of Hank Willams

One of those strange times when unseen forces mysteriously converge in one direction. . .

I added Hank Williams to my iPod a few days ago. Within 48 hours, I stumbled across several examples of the love and devotion many famous musicians feel for the man.

It started with an article on Leonard Cohen:

"When I wrote about Hank Williams 'A hundred floors above me in the tower of song', it's not some kind of inverse modesty. I know where Hank Williams stands in the history of popular song. Your Cheatin' Heart, songs like that, are sublime, in his own tradition, and I feel myself a very minor writer."

Then I discovered that Neil Young owned one of Hank's guitars:

"I've got a Hank Williams' guitar . . . an old Martin D-28. . . . It's always great when someone understands what this is that they're holding, who understands the effect Hank Williams had on all of us. They are sort of awestruck by being in the presence of anything that he touched---to the point that to actually play his instrument elevates them to another level."

(This morning, knowing how important Hank was to Bob Dylan, I did a little searching on the internet and came across this passage from his memoir, Chronicles:

"When I hear Hank sing, all movement ceases. The slightest whisper seems sacrilege. In time, I became aware that in Hank's recorded songs were the archetype rules of poetic songwriting. The architectural forms are like marble pillars, and they had to be there.")

My favorite story, though, comes from Waylon Jennings' autobiography. As background: The great country singer Faron Young first came to Nashville in 1952, along with his 19 year-old girl friend, Billie Jean Jones. Here's Waylon:

''Everything I did in Nashville, anything anyone did, was measured against Hank's long, lanky shadow. . . .

I wanted to be like him. We all did. Even his contemporaries held Hank in awe. Faron Young brought Billie Jean . . . to town for the first time. She was young and beautiful, and Hank liked her immediately. He took a loaded gun and pointed it to Faron's temple, cocked it, and said, 'Boy, I love that woman. Now you can either give her to me or I'm going to kill you.'

''Faron sat there and thought it over for a minute. 'Wouldn't that be great? To be killed by Hank Williams!' ''

(Hank married Billie Jean two months later.)



"I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry"
(Hank Williams)

Hear that lonesome whippoorwill,
He sounds too blue to fly.
The midnight train is whining low,
I'm so lonesome I could cry.

I've never seen a night so long,
When time goes crawling by.
The moon just went behind the clouds
To hide its face and cry.

Did you ever see a robin weep,
When leaves began to die?
Like me, he's lost the will to live,
I'm so lonesome I could cry.

The silence of a falling star
Lights up a purple sky.
And as I wonder where you are,
I'm so lonesome I could cry.

thought dreams and new directions

Portrait prémonitoire de Guillaume Apollinaire (Premonitory Portrait of Guillaume Apollinaire). Giorgio de Chirico, 1914.

A new year has started, and I've been in a reflective mood lately, wondering what I'm actually doing in/with my life.

Part of that has means mulling over what I'm doing - and not doing - with ZONE. After blogging for almost two and half years (hard to believe), I'm still not comfortable with the process or the results.

The name ZONE comes from the title of a long poem by French poet Guillaume Apollinaire, and the first post on the blog was "A Word from Guillaume." The subtitle of ZONE is "improvisations on literature, music, film. . ." Yet there has been very little literature on my blog. Mostly because there's been very little literature in my life.

Somewhere back down the road, I burned out on "literature." For 25 years or so, I had tried my best to live "the writer's life," which meant writing all the time, devouring literature constantly, editing literary journals, and participating to one degree or another in the poetry scenes of various cities. And, most importantly, living in an open and creative manner.

Then, suddenly, it just stopped.

For a while, I blamed too many bad submissions and dull poetry readings for making me jaded. Having to read or listen to a lot of crappy, self-indulgent "creative work" can do that. Especially when some of it's your own. The whole process seemed pointless and terribly narcissistic.

Luckily, I've been able to meet some excellent and genuinely creative writers whose work I really enjoy. Interestingly, the only "literature" I've been able to stomach during during this time has been that of my friends. Otherwise, I think I've finished one novel in the last three years, and only cracked open a few books of poetry. I write very little beyond the bits and pieces on this blog, and my journal, which I used to keep regularly, has gaps of several months.

So . . . what happens when the thing on which you've based most of your life suddenly vanishes?

And what if that thing was deeply intertwined with your spiritual journey? Or was the spiritual journey?

A time in the desert, one might say. Actually, that's not true. Having spent a lot of time in the deserts of the American West, I can tell you that a desert is filled with much more beauty, excitement and life. My experience has been more like sitting in the dark on the floor of a closet for two years. Just nothing happening.

(Except then there's not floor to the closet. You just have to learn how to stay afloat.)

In the end, it's not about "literature." It's not the endless mediocre submissions I had to read for Terra Incognita, or poets reciting dull, lifeless work. It's me. I've been struggling with a profound emptiness that lies within myself.

We have met the black hole, and it is us.

(And I wonder why blogging doesn't satisfy!)

What does all of this mean for ZONE? I'm not sure. But I think I'm going to try some new things this year.

Bob Dylan, circa 1965.

When I was younger, I used to write spontaneous pieces/poems on a regular basis, just as a warm-up exercise, or a way to let out whatever needed to come out. I called these "thought dreams," after one of my favorites lines from Bob Dylan: "And if my thought-dreams could be seen / They'd probably put my head in a guillotine / But it's alright, Ma, it's life, and life only."

Perhaps going back to my "thought dreams" will help prime the pump of a well that's been dry, dry, dry. I hate to inflict the world at large with these pieces, many of which can be downright awful. But my desire to jolt the blog into some new directions - and my own need to publicly express/embarrass myself - makes me want to give it a try.

Also, I've been inspired by Steve Caratzas at The Blog of Lewd Enlightenment, who's been publishing a poem a day for over four years now. Quite an accomplishment. Especially for someone like me who can't even raise a flabby, atrophied arm to the poetic page more than a few times a year.

I'm not going to try and duplicate Steve's heroic effort. I'd like to knock out a few of these a week, if at all possible. And even that may feel like too much. But I want to do something different, head in some new directions.

Don't worry - ZONE is not going to become all bad poetry from a perplexed, dried up writer. I'll continue with the other things I've been doing as well. And hopefully get back to doing more film reviews.

We'll see what happens. I need to open some new doors. Head down some new paths. That's really what I really wanted ZONE to be about.

That's what I still want my life to be about.

(Below this post, my first attempt at reviving the thought dreams...)

Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way?

February 1959. Buddy Holly and the Crickets are touring with Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper. Holly hires a four-seat airplane to take his band to Fargo, North Dakota. The Big Bopper has a cold, so one of the Crickets, Waylon Jennings, offers him his seat on the plane. A few minutes later, Holly, Valens and the Big Bopper would be dead, the plane crashing in snow shortly after take-off.

In 1965, after struggling a few years with grief and guilt, Jennings headed to Nashville, where he eventually made it as a country singer. But he grew increasingly frustrated with the stuffy attitudes and limited artistic freedom in Music City USA. Along with another rebellious Texan named Willie Nelson, he rejected the "rhinestone suits and new shiny cars" of the slick Nashville scene and began experimenting with a new sound.

By the early 1970s, Jennings and Nelson had started blending a rock and roll sensibility with the country tradition of Hank Williams, Bob Wills and Johnny Cash. It was an edgier form of country, musically stripped down and lyrically more complex, and it became known as "progressive country" or the Outlaw movement. One of the influences on the new sound was Johnny Cash's own friendship and musical exploration with Bob Dylan in the late 1960s. Dylan wrote "Wanted Man" for Cash, who included it on his 1969 live album, At San Quentin. (Real outlaw music.) And, of course, Dylan himself was greatly inspired by Hank Williams. So, it shouldn't have been a surprise when Dylan went country. Or when country went Dylan.

Or when one of Buddy Holly's Crickets dug back into his rock and roll roots to lament what Nashville had become.

Here's Waylon in 1975, singing what became a kind of anthem for the outlaw country movement: "Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way?"


Lord, it's the same old tune, fiddle and guitar
Where do we take it from here?
Rhinestone suits and new shiny cars
It's been the same way for years
We need to change

Somebody told me when I came to Nashville
Son, you finally got it made
Old Hank made it here; we’re all sure that you will
But I don't think Hank done it this way
I don't think Hank done it this way

Ten years on the road, making one night stands
Speeding my young life away
Tell me one more time just so I'll understand
Are you sure Hank done it this way?
Did Ol' Hank really do it this way?

Lord, I've seen the world with a five piece band
Looking at the back side of me
Singing my songs and one of his now and then
But I don't think Hank done 'em this a'way
I don't think Hank done 'em this a'way