Waiting on the Moon, page 30
I had met Tim in my early years in Boston, but it was not until much later that our fruitful collaboration began. I was in the midst of putting together a new solo album, and Tim happened to read one of my lyrics. He thought he could improve upon what I had written, and he was right. Thus began many sessions of writing together. Conveniently, we lived in the same building. It was not uncommon for me to answer the phone and hear his raspy voice on the other end.
“Commander, you wouldn’t happen to have two Valium at hand? I’ll be right over with my strawberry milkshake.” These ingredients comprised Tim’s magical hangover cure.
If Tim was feeling especially highbrow, bringing his “ascot and cufflinks” attitude to my lowbrow Bronx tough guy, we would argue endlessly over the finer points of a word or phrase. Eventually we would meet somewhere in the middle. We exchanged lyrics back and forth until we felt we had something satisfying and worthy. Tim valued the challenge of finding a street vernacular that would be true to my own experience and style. To say he had a way with words would be putting it mildly. When he died of cancer at a young age (forty-four), I lost not only a writing partner but also a close friend.
I knew well the lyrics of the next collaborator I sought to work with. His words conveyed warmth and wit, with a depth of honesty that few could match. He was most definitely not a gun for hire. It was not a question of whether I could hire him but rather a case of whether he might consider working with me.
I spent months making phone calls and sending letters and faxes before I at last had the chance to meet the reclusive and enigmatic Will Jennings. Like a 1930s gumshoe, following one lead after another, I tracked him down, and he agreed to meet me in Nashville. Finally I stood in a hotel corridor and knocked tentatively on his door. A long silence followed. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was about to meet a person who would become one of my most important collaborators and a treasured friend.
Will Jennings
Will greeted me with a firm Texas handshake. There was a regal air about him; he was dressed like an English country gentleman out for an autumn stroll in an Irish tweed walking cap, cashmere scarf, and jeans. With a kindly face, mustachioed smile, and eyes that gave the impression that there wasn’t much they missed, Will brought to mind a favorite of mine: the distinctive British actor Sir Ralph Richardson.
I followed him to the far corner of a dimly lit room where snug armchairs awaited us beside a coffee table set with an ice bucket and two wine bottles—one empty, the other on its way.
“Didn’t mean to be rude and start without you,” Will said, breaking the silence. “I just received the sad news that Chet Baker committed suicide in Amsterdam. He was one of my favorite jazz musicians. Besides his trumpet playing, I loved the way he sang. Feel like joining me in a toast to the man?”
We finished the bottle, then adjourned to a seafood joint on the main drag in downtown Nashville. After several more bottles of wine and a dinner’s worth of conversation, we ended up in a bar on the top floor of a new luxury hotel where a view of the entire city of Nashville lay spread below. We barely noticed. Over vodka cocktails, we discussed literature, classical music, bebop, jazz, old honky-tonk classics, and western swing. After several rounds, and more toasts to Chet, we turned to poetry as Will announced, “Yeats! Now, that’s my man!” He raised his glass high and proceeded to recite several of the bard’s poems, ending with a verse of “Mad as the Mist and Snow.”
Bolt and bar the shutter,
For the foul winds blow:
Our minds are at their best this night,
And I seem to know
That everything outside us is
Mad as the mist and snow.
He abruptly took my hand with a firm grip and said, “Buddy, call me in a week, and we can set up a get-together out on the West Coast. I can’t stay in this town too long—it just gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
I left him chatting with the bartender. In the elevator, I realized we had talked about many things except the one that brought me there: songwriting.
Will was from East Texas. He studied trombone and trumpet, married his high school sweetheart, and became an English teacher at the University of Wisconsin–Eau Claire.
In 1971, on a whim, he and his wife, Carole, packed up their worldly belongings and drove to Nashville so Will could try his hand at a career in songwriting. By chance, early on, he met songwriters Kris Kristofferson and Mickey Newbury. They introduced him to some of the city’s key publishers, and he never looked back, going on to win several awards, including Oscars, Grammys, and Golden Globes. He never mentioned those accolades, nor were they noticeably displayed in his home.
Will had no set approach to working. We’d begin in the afternoon, each with a clipboard in hand, and I’d start my usual pacing around the room. If I made a suggestion that Will didn’t seem to like, he would quietly stare into space as if nothing had been said, which, I soon came to learn, meant it was not an idea worth pursuing. There were a lot of quiet stares from Will.
When we did finish a song, we’d make a rough recording with me singing and Will playing the keyboards or guitar. I always asked Will to record a version with just him singing. I loved the emotional feel his voice gave to each song and his unique way of phrasing and staying just a bit behind the beat, making each word count. For him, each word always did.
From my first meeting with Will, I felt immediately at ease. I recognized in him the humble gentility of my recently deceased father. His humor and positivity made anything seem possible. And he could be hilarious—nobody could outdo his James Mason or Eugene Pallette impressions.
We would work until about eight, have a light dinner, and then raid his wine cellar before ending the night upstairs in a place Will called the hut. It was a narrow V-shaped room over his garage stacked with mountains of books (including some very rare first editions) and his vast collection of more than twenty thousand CDs, organized from Bach, Basie, and Beethoven to zydeco. It was on these nights, with him as the teacher and me as the eager student, that our long friendship began. Many an evening would end with one of us reciting a poem or work of prose. Will might pick up his mandolin or guitar and play one of his favorite Jimmie Rodgers songs, most often “Peach Pickin’ Time Down in Georgia.”
On one occasion, Will interrupted our writing session, mentioning that he had to meet up with a friend in the valley to discuss some personal matters. I later found out that every Wednesday, Will would meet with Roy Orbison. They would drive their Cadillacs to a local car wash and have what they called a chatting session. I was privileged to hear some of the songs he and Roy wrote and recorded together. Will was amazed at how softly Roy sang into the microphone and how completely the recording of Roy’s enormously full, operatic voice filled the room when it was played back. The two men remained so close that Will was asked by Roy’s wife to give the eulogy at Roy’s funeral.
For lunch, Will sometimes liked to eat at a casual restaurant that looked like a refurbished Denny’s but served much tastier food. On one particular afternoon there, I noticed the actor Rod Steiger sitting with a woman several booths away. I wanted to say hello, but Will was far too polite and reserved to ever intrude on another’s privacy. I waited until I saw the waitress hand Steiger the check. With what Will would call my New York assertiveness, I walked over to Mr. Steiger’s booth. Thinking I might be a bit more creative than the average fan, I wasn’t going to ask about or mention his classic role as Marlon Brando’s brother in On the Waterfront. Instead I uttered the dreaded cliché that every celebrity puts up with: “Sorry to bother you.” I quickly added, “Mr. Steiger, I must say you were really magnificent in the role of Mussolini.”
“Mussolini?” He looked up in surprise. “Mussolini—well, that’s real nice to hear. I put a lot of work and research into that part, and it all pretty much went unnoticed. It’s nice to know someone liked it.” He was dressed all in black, had a large Navy Cross dangling from his thick neck, and wore tinted glasses that looked huge on his massive bald head.
He introduced his wife, and I called over to Will, who very reluctantly approached. I introduced Will as Steiger continued, uninterrupted.
“Nobody gives me credit for the research and detail I gave to every role. Do you know I played more historic figures than probably any other Hollywood actor? I was Ulysses S. Grant, Napoleon, W. C. Fields, Pontius Pilate, Rasputin, Dutch Schultz, Al Capone, and I even played Rudolf Hess. All overlooked! I turned down lots of parts, some really big—Patton, The Godfather! I could have made lots and lots of money, retired from all this bullshit if I wanted! Why? Why did I turn down those roles, you might ask? Depression. I’ve been battling clinical depression for years, maybe even all my damn life when I think about it. I’ve tried psychiatrists, meds, and even electric shock, the whole works. I’m dealing with it all the time. Why? Who the hell knows why? When I think about my life and all the things I could have done, well, maybe, maybe, it’s just too late for me.”
Will and I looked at each other, hearing a new song title ring in our ears like church bells. The song, “It’s Too Late for Me,” became one of my favorite recordings.
In 2006 Will was inducted into the prestigious Songwriters Hall of Fame. I attended the ceremony, noting that Will was seated at the front table alongside Kris Kristofferson, who championed him early in his career and was there to receive the Johnny Mercer Award. Kris dedicated his award that night to Mickey Newbury, who helped both him and Will at the start of their careers. After the ceremony, there was a large reception attended by many notable award-winning songwriters, publishers, and major media outlets. I watched Will, who was uncomfortable in such a large gathering, do the polite meet and greets. Later that evening I assumed I’d find him in the bar of his hotel, but there was no sign of him.
I was about to leave when I noticed him sitting by himself outside, at a small café table. He seemed deep in thought, and I wasn’t sure if he even wanted company, but he beckoned me over. “What a nice surprise. Glad you’re here—now we can properly celebrate this grand occasion.” He ordered a bottle of champagne and a friendly backup bottle if needed. It wasn’t long before we were emptying the second bottle.
We sat quietly, two friends enjoying the deserted street scene, until the arrival of garbage trucks, sidewalk cleaners, and the early morning delivery vans interrupted the tranquility of the moment. With the sunrise reflected in his glasses, Will smiled warmly. In his typically modest way, he said, “Well, pal, thanks for coming. I guess it’s time for me to turn in. It’s been a long day, and there are still many more songs to write.”
35
EVERY FOOL HAS A RAINBOW
Merle Haggard
FRANK MULL LIMPED his way to the tour bus as I followed behind, noting that he greeted everyone in passing with a raised tip of his hand-carved walking stick. Frank, a well-respected tour coordinator, was in his late sixties, balding, with a trimmed gray beard that accentuated his smiling round face. He wore a straw fedora, wide tinted glasses, and a loose-fitting seersucker suit that gave him the air of a traveling carny. The tour bus to which we were headed was owned by his closest friend, the reclusive, moody, unpredictable, and legendary singer-songwriter Merle Haggard. My mission: Would Merle agree to record a duet for a song I had written with Will Jennings, “It’s Too Late for Me”?
Merle had a mythical quality and an outlaw spirit. As a young man, incarcerated in San Quentin, he experienced a life-changing event—Johnny Cash’s famous San Quentin prison concert. In his own words, “It set a fire under me that hadn’t been there before.”
When Merle first burst onto the country charts, in the mid-1960s, he was movie-star handsome. With age, his classic features transformed into an even more riveting combination of character and distinction.
I nervously stood behind Frank as he typed out the code on the keypad and unlocked the door to the bus. There, seated in the back, was Merle, listening to several versions of a new song he had just recorded.
Merle greeted me with a nod as he played the different mixes. I was caught off guard when he turned and asked me, “Which one do you like?”
I thought carefully before answering. “Well, if I had to choose, I think I’d go for the first mix. It doesn’t have as much reverb, so it sounds more intimate. It loses something if there’s too much effect on the voice, especially one as good as yours.”
Merle didn’t respond, leading me to think that perhaps I had said too much. He played the mixes back and, after a long pause, which to me felt like an eternity, replied, “Engineers always seem to want to add effects. You’re right: the first mix is the better one.”
That seemed to break the ice and put me somewhat at ease. Out of the blue, Merle turned and asked me, “Frank played me your track. That isn’t an old Lefty Frizzell song, is it? Because I know almost everything Lefty ever recorded.”
Merle could not have given me a better compliment. Lefty Frizzell was a popular country star in the early 1950s and one of Merle’s biggest influences. When I first saw Merle perform, in the mid-1960s, his vocal style was so closely modeled on Lefty’s that if you closed your eyes during his performance, you could almost hear a young Lefty out there on the stage.
It was a thrill and an honor just being allowed on Merle’s bus. For the benefit of the uninitiated, a bus is not simply a traveling home for many country musicians but also a prominent status symbol, even more significant if it’s customized. They aren’t cheap and can run more than $1 million, but if you want to be thought of as a success in country music, having your own bus is usually one of the requirements.
I came to realize the importance that buses bestowed upon country stars in Nashville during the mid-1980s, when I was invited to a recording session for the making of the famed Highwayman album, a collaboration featuring Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, and Kris Kristofferson. I walked into the control room with record producer Tony Brown to find Waylon Jennings loudly venting his disapproval of the vocal blend on a rough mix and making sure that everyone there knew it. Willie was calmly sitting in a chair listening to Waylon’s rant, while Kris tried unsuccessfully to quiet him down. Finally, Willie told Kris, “Better get Johnny from his bus.”
Moments later, in walked Johnny Cash, with Kris right behind. Johnny asked, “Waylon, what the hell is all this commotion about? It’s just a rough of the song; it’s not the final mix.”
“Hoss,” Waylon shouted to him over the mixing console, “listen, I know how this shit works. They blend the voices in this so-called rough mix, and that’s the way it’ll end up on the record.”
“Waylon, this is going to change at least twenty times before we’re through,” said Johnny, trying to reason with him.
“Bullshit! I’ve dealt with this shit before,” Waylon exploded, waving his hands in the air as if he were swatting away a swarm of bees. Johnny noticed that Tony Brown, several other guests, and I were silently observing this tirade and said, “Waylon, why don’t we move all this bantering to my bus?”
“Banter nothing, Hoss. If we’re all going anywhere, it’s going to be on my bus.”
“What the hell is wrong with my bus?” Johnny shouted back.
Tony, standing next to me, whispered, “This studio has the most comfortable private lounge in all of Nashville, but these guys never set foot in it. They’re just all about their buses.”
As Merle’s stardom rose, he remained a historian of the roots of the music he loved. He recorded tributes to the Singing Brakeman, Jimmie Rodgers (considered the father of country music), Elvis Presley, and Bob Wills, the King of Western Swing.
Merle asked if I had ever heard the transcription recordings of Bob Wills. When I mentioned I hadn’t, he replied enthusiastically, “You’ll be in for a big surprise when you hear them.”
Frank returned to the back of the bus, saying it was time for Merle to join the fellas and hit the stage. As we were all leaving, Merle said, “Next time we get together, I’ll get you a box of those transcriptions.”
Next time—now, that sounded like another promising opportunity to pitch our duet.
Merle was playing in Tarrytown, New York, and I drove out to see him, hoping that I might persuade him to do the duet. I was warmly greeted by Frank Mull and entered Merle’s bus, shocked to find seated in the front lounge a gentleman I immediately recognized. He was a lawyer who was once a top dealmaker in the music industry. He had represented clients such as Paul Simon and Bruce Springsteen. Long retired, he was pretty much forgotten, but I remembered him and the ridiculously overinflated figure he quoted for his services when I was searching for a lawyer to help get a record deal for the Geils band. Needless to say, his fee was well beyond our meager reach.
He was a coldhearted businessman, and I wondered what he was doing on Merle’s bus. Years before, he had been hired by one of Merle’s people at a time when Merle was in deep trouble with the IRS. This lawyer proposed a yearlong tour to pay the IRS debt, the hitch being that Merle had to use a backup band of younger musicians who would be far cheaper than his own. When Merle heard about the situation, he nixed the whole scheme. Instead, he liquidated some of his publishing rights. As Frank was telling me this, the lawyer chimed in, “I got to hand it to Merle. Time proved he was right. He chose to keep his band, and after forty years, he’s still playing with most of the same musicians from back then, and the IRS debt has been long paid in full. So my hat’s off to him.”
Later, I asked Frank why this lawyer was even on the bus. “Oh, he calls me or Merle out of the blue from time to time, and I think when Merle sees him, it still makes him feel real good to rub it in his face that he didn’t take his advice and instead rightly stood his ground.”
