My wife and I put Willie Nelson’s Stardust on the turntable for our kids and I commented that Willie was getting old. How old, they asked. Willie just turned ninety-two, I said. Feeling the urgency of mortality, my wife and I decided not to wait: we would order the tickets, load up the family, and drive from Birmingham, Alabama, to Austin, Texas, for Willie’s big Fourth of July show.
The concert was the main draw, but the city itself had plenty to offer. We knew there would be drinks for the grown-ups, food for us all, and big Texas things that one simply can’t do or see in Alabama.
As is often the case, the journey was part of the destination. Our GPS took us off I-20 long before I had planned,but my digital obedience was immensely rewarding. East Texas looks a lot like the rest of the Deep South, but somewhere along Highway 79 the pine trees faded into hard mesquite as the far edge of the Hill Country unfolded before us, the rolling hills and scrub trees beautiful. The landscape rolled in brown waves beneath a dark summer storm as we passed through small towns, some small and lively, others dying, a few already dead.
We got to Austin with a day to kill before the Fourth, happy to see the decades-long effort to Keep Austin Weird was still in full swing. The capital city is exactly what I have come to love about Texas: big, ridiculous, and wonderful, like alligator boots in the middle of July or a sandwich loaded with three different smoked meats. We walked South Congress, browsed Allen Boots, and ate Michelin-starred brisket.
The people of Austin are friendly. In one hipster men’s shop, I was cornered by an employee donned in a vintage NASCAR t-shirt. The guy didn’t appear old enough to rent a car. I just wanted to check out an Italian wallet; he wanted to talk SEC football. As an Alabama graduate who was skeptical of conference expansion, it felt like tolerating a younger cousin, but we left with mutual well-wishes for the upcoming season. I ran back outside, dodging rain and sneaking a free beer at yet another boot shop.
The boys had a certain outfitter in mind to visit, though it was their sister who walked away with the goods when the time came. And the boots - everyone wanted to see cowboy boots, not in a store at the mail but in a spot where the floors creaked under the weight of a long history of clients both famous and unknown. After all that, we visited the swimming holes at Barton Springs, though it was too late for a dip. We settled for a hearty Tex-Mex dinner before retiring to sleep. We needed it; the next day was the big show.
Even in a modern, impersonal amphitheatre full of fried food and perhaps-not-legal smoke, Willie’s picnic was an intimate, family event. Toddlers played on the lawn next to their parents and an older couple slow-danced to Asleep at the Wheel. The newly married couple in front of us sang along and to each other in a way that made me reach for my wife’s hand. I looked at my kids and said a prayer that they might be so happy one day. Tattooed girls in gingham dresses and cowboy boots rested their heads on the shoulders of their mustached boyfriends. They were punk rockers a few years ago but had found a home here. Bikers and trendsetters, suburbanites and rednecks - everyone was welcome.
There was an easygoing tone to the evening that didn't work for everyone. Bob Dylan and his band played on a darkened stage with no cameras or projectors. Fifty yards back on the lawn, my sons - who have known Dylan’s music since infancy - were unable to see the great man. Dylan hid behind his piano, his warbling voice present but hard to discern. This was not a show for new converts, but one instead for the Dylan fans who travelled with him a long way down Highway 61. It was disappointing that he was not comfortable enough to take center stage; astute listeners had only the faint tune of his voice to follow. There was a darkness about him, and I wanted to remind Dylan of his own warning about the man in the long black coat.
After Dylan shuffled off stage, there was a calm quiet. At exactly ten o'clock, the sky exploded with colorful fireworks. The smell of sulfur and gunpowder hung over a humid sky. I caught a glimpse of my wife’s smile as she and my daughter looked upward at an endless array of explosions. Fireworks aren’t unique to America, but they are very American. The crowd grinned its approval, thousands of eyes twinkling in unison. When the fireworks ended, the real show began. There was Willie himself, ripping into “Whiskey River” then waving from behind the mic and wishing everyone a happy Fourth of July.
Willie gave the crowd a thorough set, full of beloved hits like a sing-along Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys, Georgia on My Mind, and Good Hearted Woman. Willie never stood, both common for the genre and necessary for a man of his age. He was surrounded by family, his son Lukas on one side and on the other, Walon Payne, the son of his longtime friends Jodi Payne and Sammi Smith. I wondered if the sons of music legends immediately took to the guitar and microphone, or if their parents were overly critical of their songwriting. I wondered if my own children would love the things I love and sing the songs I sing when I am old and faded from the scene. The kids sang along that night, but will they remember it as anything more than a memory?
Yet as raucous as Willie was, a certain sadness hung over the proceedings. Willie sang two covers, Pearl Jam’s “Just Breathe” and Tom Waits’ “Last Leaf on the Tree,” the former a song about dying, the latter about stubbornly hanging on while everyone around you has passed on with the wind,“If they cut down this tree, I’ll show up in a song.” Willie is still a joyful soul, but it’s clear what’s on his mind.
It cannot be easy to be the one of the last of his old friends, some of them around but unable to record and perform. Willie is the last of the Highwaymen, Johnny, Kris, and Waylon already headed out on the neverending tour. Older folks often remark that they don’t want to live forever, their own friends dying off and their bodies failing them, unable to keep up with kids and grandkids. “It’s so sad to be alone,” is more than a line about a one-night stand. It’s a yearning for connection; to others, to ourselves, even to God. The closer we get to the long horizon, the further we are from everyone we know, and the more we seek assurance that we have left our loved ones with something to hold them steady.
It’s not just Willie who is fading. We take these trips because we do not know what next summer will hold. The kids already have camps, practices, and part time jobs. One day, they’ll have families of their own. We made this particular trip because Willie is in winter, old and grey and full of sleep. Our kids are in spring, the time for planting in hopes that roots eventually grow deep. These are the things we care about, we tell them, the things that we allow to shape us. These are the gifts - take them with you as you go. Everything changes and you have a need for permanent things. Everything changes.
But when the last leaf is off the tree and Willie is gone, the songs will remain, in living rooms and bars and pickup trucks. And when we can no longer load up our family for 800 mile trips, we will still have memories of the Hill Country and the songs that brought us there.
