A SONG IS A SHORT STORY . It might have been my buddy Harlan Howard, a writer I met in Nashville in the sixties, who first said a song aint nothing but three chords and the truth.
Well, songs come easy to me. Ive written hundreds of them. I see them as little stories that fall out of our lives and imaginations. If I have to struggle to write a song, I stop before I start. I figure if it dont flow easy, its not meant to be.
The truth should flow easy. Same for songs and stories. If you overanalyze or torture yourself to bring them to life, somethings wrong. Just the way a mountain stream, bubbling with fresh clean water, keeps flowing, stories need to flow free and easy. The source of the water, like the source of the songs, comes from on high. Its a natural thing. Its a beautiful thing.
But what youre holding in your hands is something more than a simple song or a short story. Its a Long Story is the name of this enterprise. This time Ive given myself a different task and a whole new challenge. And while Ill certainly need the truth to guide me, Ill need a lot more than three chords. Ill need more than three minutes and a few rhyming lines to convey the ideas in my head and the feelings in my heart. My head is filled with memories, and my heart, while filled with love, also retains the memories of loss and hurt.
My prayer is that, like the mountain stream, the memories flow freely. My prayer is that the memories, whether joyful or painful, refresh my spirit, and yours, by assuring us that the stream never runs dry.
Memories remind us that every moment of our lives, even the most tragic, have contributed to our strength. Weve gotten through. Were still here.
Im thankful that Im still here. By the time you read this, Ill be eighty-two. Im pleased to tell you that since turning eighty, Ive written a couple of dozen new songs, recorded five new albums, and performed over three hundred live concerts. I dont say that to boast but only to reassert my belief that the essence of my work as a songwriter, singer, and performer is based on the simple task of telling stories. Telling those stories has kept me alive.
Now that its time to shape all the short stories into one long yarn, I gotta admit that the job feels a little daunting.
Eight long decades of memories.
Eight long decades of successes and failures, heartbreaks and breakthroughs, miracles and mind fucks.
Its an epic tale. And to tell it right will require all the clarity at my command. But before I move on to glory and return in some reincarnated form, Im determined to do it, determined to tell this story in my present form as Willie Hugh Nelson, a man who has lived a long and blessed life.
So if I view the task before me as just another song to singalthough a long oneIll be fine. This isnt the Bible. This isnt the biography of a world leader or a great philosopher. Its just the story of a picker from Hill County, Texas, who got more good breaks than bad and managed to keep from going crazy by staying close to the music of his heart.
So let me just pick up Trigger, my trusty guitar that has comforted me through thousands of stormy nights and thousands of sun-filled days.
Let me find a melody.
Let me find the right words.
And in one fashion or another, Ill sing you this song.
The End
A pal of mine recently pointed out a poem by T. S. Eliot that starts off by saying, In my beginning is my end, and concludes with, In my end is my beginning.
Im no T. S. Eliot, but it reminds me of a song I wrote called Still Is Still Moving to Me.
Were never still. When we think were at the very beginning of a journey, we may well be at the end. Or when were convinced were at the end, were really just getting started.
That was my situation in the early nineties.
Everyone was saying that I had reached the end. Everyone was saying it was all over.
The IRS had come down with the hammer. And those sons of bitches came down mighty fuckin hard.
They said I owed $32 million in back taxes. They came in and took possession of everything I owned. And at that moment, in my late fifties, I possessed a helluva lot. Property in Colorado. A couple of ranches around Austin. A nine-hole golf course. A recording studio. Several homes, including a big beachfront house in Maui. Not to mention cars and jeeps and custom tour buses. There was talk that they were even going after Trigger, so they could auction it off to the highest bidder.
The heats not going to blow over, said a group of sophisticated and highly trained advisers. According to them, my tax situation was fucked up beyond repair.
How did that happen?
And why?
Man, I was at a loss. All I knew was that I bought a package of tax shelters I was assured would meet my tax obligations and assure my fiscal future.