Me and Paul by Willie Nelson

Author:Willie Nelson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harper Horizon
Published: 2022-07-22T00:00:00+00:00

If you’re asking, “Who’s crazier—Willie or Paul?”

the answer is simple: Who the hell knows?

MERLE HAGGARD

ARRIVING IN AUSTIN

Early ’70s

AUSTIN TURNED OUT TO BE heaven—at least for me. But it took me a while to understand it was the best place to launch whatever musical mischief I might be planning. My first notion was to move from the Lost Valley Ranch to Houston. After New York, L.A., and Chicago, Houston was, after all, the fourth biggest city in the country. Connie was pregnant with Amy, our second daughter, and I knew she’d like raising our children in her hometown.

I also figured Paul would like the idea. He knew Houston like the back of his hand. He could finagle us onto the greens of exclusive golf clubs while making sure we played all the big-time venues.

First time the topic came up with Paul was when we were driving from Nashville to Texas and stopped for lunch at a little place in the hills of Arkansas. My grandparents, Mama and Daddy Nelson, grew up in the Ozarks before settling on more fertile land in Abbott. My mother’s roots were also in deep in Arkansas soil. On that day in 1972, I was thinking about my distant past even as I was considering my immediate future. I’d just put down a deposit on an apartment in Houston.

“Big mistake,” Paul said while we awaited the arrival of our barbecue pork sandwiches.

I took a swig of my sweet iced tea before asking why he felt that way.

“Look where you are in your career.”

“You know better than anyone where I am. I just recorded what’ll probably be my last record for RCA.”

My recent Nashville session was for an album called The Willie Way. I liked it. It featured almost all new songs I’d written. The big exception—the tune I’d wanted to sing the first time I heard it—was Kris Kristofferson’s “Help Me Make It Through the Night.”

“You don’t think RCA will pick up your contract?” Paul asked.

“Not if the thing doesn’t sell. And I have no reason to believe it’ll sell any more than the other stuff I cut for the label.”

“So why move to Houston?”

Before I answered, the waitress arrived with our sandwiches. I took a big bite. The pork was succulent and the sauce tangy.

“I don’t know, Paul,” I answered honestly. “Seems like the right place for a new start.”

“Been thinking about one of those songs you just recorded. The one about your future.”

“‘Wonderful Future,’ I called it.”

“That’s the one. You remember the last two lines?”

“‘Scenes from the past keep returning, I’ve got a wonderful future behind me.’”

“Great lines. But what do you think they mean?”

“You know better than to ask me what my songs mean, Paul. I just write ’em.”

“And I just listen to ’em. But what I’m understanding is that you just saw the future. The future really is just behind you. The future just happened.”

“Where?”

“Dripping Springs.”

A month or two before, a huge three-day music festival took place in Dripping Springs on a ranch west of Austin.

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