At 58- going- on- 59, Haggard, the youngest man to be voted into the Country Music Hall Of Fame, has produced one of the most consistently artistically rich bodies of work to emerge from country music (if not from American popular music, in general). He has earned the praises of the form's pioneers, his own contemporaries, and the genre's current reigning stars. The man's influence even stretches across the border into rock & roll, with fans ranging from the late Gram Parsons and almost- late Keith Richards to Wayne Kramer and members of D- Generation. And let's not forget locals like the Derailers.
So, what does such a lifetime batting average get Haggard? Lately, it's produced two -- count 'em! -- two tribute albums that have received more attention and airplay than any contemporary recording Haggard made -- including his new album for Curb, 1996. And can someone please explain why Haggard was forced a few years back into the insulting position of having to open for Clint Black?! Now, who should be opening for whom? Ergo, it's hardly surprising when the local Sun Records office (see sidebar) throws a press reception for Haggard, who has to face reporters as supercilious and disinterested as Ms. Dressed- For- Success. Later, she'll show how much of a Haggard fan she is by asking her colleagues if he was an "outlaw," in much the same manner she likely asked classmates about a history exam the day after a raging kegger.
No, darling, Haggard was never an "outlaw." He's certainly been friends with Willie Nelson for a long time, but Hag's never been one to hang with cliques or join clubs -- he was even outside that batch of outsiders. Hag's always boogied to his own internal beat. At the height of his career, he refused to record in Nashville, choosing instead to forge his own hardcore honky-tonk vision rather than conform to the strings- and- choir- laden "Nashville Sound." Even when he was pegged as the voice of the silent majority via the ironic "Okie From Muskogee," Haggard turned around and penned "Irma Jackson," an unflinching account of an interracial love affair, which his label, Capitol Records, managed to bury.
For over 20 years, Haggard ruled country music despite his contrariness. Now he wonders if that same contrariness is costing him. "I've been one that didn't really play the game," reflects Haggard, before adding wearily, "I'll play the game, now. I'll do everything I'm supposed to do, and see if that's what it is."
Haggard's discomfort with that decision is as obvious as the furrows and creases that have changed the character of his once- handsome features. Of course, it's hard to get comfortable at any anonymously catered function in an anonymous hotel reception room, with its Swedish meatball buffet and grin- for- pay bartender. Or maybe it's the sore throat he contracted in Australia that's making him visibly squirm? Whatever the case, as Haggard switches from black coffee to a tumbler of George Dickel, he's hardly grinning and bearing the situation.
"It's almost like someone's censoring music, nowadays," he grouses through his temporary case of barbed-wire throat. "I don't think the public is really getting a fair listen to what's really happening. I don't think they get a listen of the stuff that's great anymore. A lot of the things that they hear are there for reasons other than music."
Well, isn't that status quo for the modern-day country music business, which eschews artists in favor of trends?
"I think that's because of videos," says Haggard. "I don't think very much of videos, at all. They don't sell, they don't do anything, and it costs a lot of money to make 'em. They give people a false impression [of the artist]. They go to see 'em and get very disappointed to find they can't do anything. That's what I hear, at least."
In Haggard's opinion, music video's intrusion into country music has made the music part damn near incidental. "They're writing songs about videos. The song has become secondary. And I think a song should be good enough to where you don't have to draw no pictures. I think that's why we're losing such a great amount of quality. Music's so thin! It's so refined, so perfect. And it's unenjoyable to me. I just can't even listen to it."
Perhaps that's why many of Haggard's contemporaries are turning towards the rock & roll market to find respect. Johnny Cash or Willie Nelson, anyone?
"Hey, I'm fixin' to do the same thing!" snaps Haggard. "I'd rather listen to rock & roll stations, myself. But there's a lack of diversity on radio, these days. There should be a full scope, a full picture. But there's not a full scope. There's just these video people. And there should be some music in there along with that. I don't know what to do about that, but the American public's the ones that are getting screwed."
Still, there seems to be a good- sized audience for Haggard and his music. It's no mean feat, selling out two consecutive houses at Palmer Auditorium without the benefit of any advertising, but rather strictly on the strength of phone sales. Haggard shrugs it off, chalking it up to the salesmanship of the Austin Fire Fighters Association, whom the shows benefited. "They do the same thing for other people," he adds, "and have had nobody there. People buy the tickets and they just don't show up. But they're showing up at our shows. We're really proud of that. It proves that there's still an audience out there, and I think program directors around America are foolish not to see that. But they've got to sell automobiles, and they've got to cater to the people they sell their time to, and if they don't do that, they're gonna lose themselves as radio people. Radio's gonna be turned off for good."
Refusing to let go of his anti- radio tirade, Haggard foresees a pendulum swing in the near future. "I predict there's a lot of stations that are gonna make some serious programming changes in America. I've been fortunate to talk to two or three [radio programers] lately that have done that, and they've had terrific success. There's a station in San Francisco that's been programming traditional country music. They've been playing me and Willie, and I think they've played Cash, even a Lefty Frizzell tune or something like that. And the station was like number eight in the market three days after programming this kind of programming. Then they went to number one. So, that should let you know what the people are wanting to hear. They switched along there and heard something different, and they didn't want to leave. They called that station, and the [programming director]'s name is Frank Terry. Frank said, `Merle, the kids are calling in, saying, who is that?' And he said, `I'm tellin' 'em, Ask your daddy!'" he laughs.
Or just go down to the local record shop. Up until a year ago, Haggard's back catalog was in a shameful state of disrepair. But in the past year alone, Razor & Tie has issued a superlative 2- CD collection of his Capitol singles, while Koch International has given five of his vintage Sixties LPs (including his legendary tributes to Jimmie Rodgers and Bob Wills) the reissue treatment. Sun Records has also issued two budget-line CDs of fine remakes of Haggard classics, the reason for the meet- n- greet that Haggard's enduring. Meantime, there are two Haggard box sets now out. Haggard personally prefers the more comprehensive (and pricey!) box offered by German reissue house Bear Family, The Untamed Hawk. ("In German, I guess my name means `The Hawk' or something like that.")
Not that Haggard's living in the past, or totally ignoring more contemporary music or musicians. Dwight Yoakam, his hat, and his spray- on jeans make an appearance on a track off the latest album. The track, "Beer Can Hill," is a tribute to the Bakersfield honky-tonk scene that spawned Haggard and inspired Yoakam, and also features Merle's friend and fellow Bakersfield legend Buck Owens. Haggard's also taken up with Iris DeMent as a bit of a cause celebré, cutting her "No Time To Cry" after hearing her version of his "Big City" on the Tulare Dust tribute album. Of the latter, Haggard has remarked that DeMent "took the conviction and sincerity to a depth that I, the writer, had not been able to reach."
Listening to 1996, it's easy to see the source of Haggard's resentment for modern- day radio programming. The LP stacks up nicely against his vintage output, and contains some of his most mature and full-blooded music of his career, which is getting dissed in favor of the latest line- dancing novelty. Haggard has certainly never sung better, his voice having gotten more rounded and resonant with age, just as his long- standing ability to find the emotional core of a lyric and bring it to the fore has improved. Still, even Haggard's shaking his head at Curb's packaging the record in Spartan graphics virtually identical to his 1994 LP.
"They're going to put a [different] cover on this new album," he says adamantly. "They're not going to get away with that. The ones you're talking about are going to be collector's items, 'cuz they are going to put a cover on it. I just don't understand it. It's almost like sabotage. Why they would want this album to look like the last one is beyond me. I don't understand it, but I've always been confused."
Maybe, Merle, but you're nowhere near as confused as the audience you greeted at your evening performance at Palmer Auditorium. Nor are you as lacking in manners: Austin was treated to maybe one of the last old- style country & western revues, complete with brief showcase opening sets by the Strangers and Haggard's ex-wife and longtime partner, Bonnie Owens. Ignorant of the treat they were receiving, the boors and drunks (at least in my immediate vicinity) were loudly expressing their impatience. "Who's this bitch? Get 'er off! Where the fuck is Merle?!!"
This must've been exactly what triggered Haggard's bittersweet tune, "Footlights:" "Putting on that Instamatic grin" and "kicking out the footlights again" when the heart and soul just might not be able to back the gestures up. Indeed, the croak illness had reduced Haggard's voice to a shadow of its expressive style. Yet Haggard gave all he could. In this case, it meant the Strangers' backing had to be a little more restrained than usual, and Haggard could only offer a close approximation of his rich, sub- Lefty Frizzell croon. But none of this seemed to penetrate the thick and loud skulls seated around me. "Aw, hay- ull! He's drank and drugged and fucked 'til he's all fucked- up! This is bullshit!"
Yes, "friend," you're right. The stench of bullshit was thick in the Palmer Auditorium air that night. But that stench wasn't coming from Merle Haggard's side of the stage. Many apologies, Merle. As usual, you deserve a lot better.