Nelson Willie - Its a Long Story: My Life

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.

When those shelters were disallowed, the walls came tumbling down. Now the world was saying that all the kings horses and all the kings men couldnt put Willie Nelson together again.

I became a punch line for TV comics:

Heard the one about Willie Nelson? When the IRS served him with a lien for $32 million, he took the papers, sprinkled on some pot, rolled em up, and blew his troubles away. Next morning, ol Willie didnt remember a thing.

Meanwhile, I was telling jokes of my own:

Whats the difference between an IRS agent and a whore? A whore will quit fucking you after youre dead.

The more I delved into the situation, though, I began to see an even bigger picturea vast landscape made up of mind-boggling mazes. Like a character in some thriller novel, I saw myself trapped in that maze.

I began seeing some of the hows and whys that had gotten me to this point of no return.

Going back over the previous two decades, starting with my close friendship with President Jimmy Carter in the seventies and the political change in the Ronald Reagan eighties, I saw a seismic shift in cultural attitudes.

Jimmy Carter was a mighty good friend who saw me as a soul mate, a country boy who grew up, like him, in a backwoods church believing in the Holy Spirit. Jimmy Carter was good enough to have me spend the night at the White House. He and Rosalynn loved to come onstage and sing Amazing Grace and Will the Circle Be Unbroken. That was the seventies, when there was a beautiful period of peace in the culture wars, when politicos, rednecks, and hippies were sharing the dance floor and maybe even an occasional joint, all in the name of love.

The eighties were a whole different deal. The eighties got dark. The eighties got crack-pipe evil. The eighties were all about secret arms deals and drug deals, the undercover Iran-Contra Affair. A time of speed, subterfuge, and hidden agendas.

I saw how the Iranian oil embargo had jacked up prices and how speculators were reaping the benefits. Millionaires were sprouting up like weeds on the West Texas prairie. Meanwhile, tax shelters were being packaged and sold like corn dogs at the state fair. Because I was an early buyer of those shelters, my mug was plastered all over those corn dogs. Because I was someone whod been on the cover of