Excerpt from new Willie Nelson biography chronicles his darkest days

The IRS troubles were not the worst for Willie, who lost a son and then was stuck off the road for six months.

By Joe Nick Patoski
SPECIAL TO THE AMERICAN-STATESMAN
Sunday, April 13, 2008

Willie Nelson's troubles with the IRS, which seized his bank accounts and property in November 1990 to help satisfy a $16.7 million tax debt, are well-known. But the darkest times for the larger-than-life songwriter were still ahead. The story below begins in 1991.

From the book 'Willie Nelson: An Epic Life,' by Joe Nick Patoski. Copyright © 2008 by Joe Nick Patoski. Reprinted by permission of Little, Brown and Company, New York, NY. All rights reserved.

On September 16, 1991 — Diez y Seis de Septiembre, a major Mexican holiday observed throughout Texas — Father Albert Achilles Taliaferro, the founder of St. Alcuin Montessori School in Dallas, married Annie D'Angelo and Willie Nelson, an event marked by Annie clutching a pacifier rather than a bouquet at the altar and by the parade of paparazzi chasing the couple.

The marriage made formal a relationship that had already given Annie and Willie two sons: Lukas Autry, born on Christmas Day 1989, named for Willie's cowboy hero Gene Autry ("Gene was one of the first people to hold Luke," Willie said proudly), and the following year, Jacob Micah, named for the Sheriff Micah character in television's "The Rifleman" series.

Three months after the wedding, on Christmas Day at the old family homestead in Ridgetop, Tennessee, neighbor Ronald Greer went to check on his friend Billy Nelson (Willie's oldest son), who lived in a cabin back in the woods on the family land. Greer found him hanged with a cord.

Billy's suicide was a horrible end to a troubled life.

Ridgetop was the first place where Billy had felt at home as a boy, even if his mother Martha was in Waco and his father was mostly on the road, leaving Shirley Nelson (Willie's second wife) and his older sisters to raise him. Married once and having recorded a gospel album once, he insisted on being Billy Nelson, not Willie Hugh Nelson Jr. But Billy never emerged from his father's shadow. Try as he might, he was never able to be anyone other than his famous father's son. He had the sensitivity (and deep soulful eyes) of his father and his wild streak too — friends didn't call him Wild Bill for nothing — but those attributes never translated into a happy life.

Too often, his father had bailed him out of trouble. His condo at the Pedernales Country Club had been burned down as revenge for a dope deal gone sour and when it was rebuilt, the $50,000 he was given to get back on his feet disappeared in a matter of weeks. Billy had been hurting for money again that December. Because of his tax problems, his father wasn't in a position to bail him out. Willie had visited Billy at Ridgetop trying to get him to move back to Texas again, but Billy said he wanted to stay with his friends.

Willie Hugh Nelson Jr., 33, was buried the Saturday after Christmas in 1991.

Afterwards, Willie Hugh Nelson Sr. headed to Hawaii to sort out the aftermath. But before he left Nashville, Frank Oakley, the proprietor of the Willie Nelson General Store, called and asked him about the New Year's Eve date he was scheduled to play in Branson, Missouri, as a preview show for the coming tourist season. Willie told Frank he'd call back in an hour. Ten minutes later he was on the line. "Let's go picking," Willie told Frank. "It's foolish for me to sit on a beach somewhere. I should get to working again. There's nothing I can do about what happened."

He played the New Year's show in Branson but did not share the tragedy in his life with the audience. He stuck around for two hours after the show signing each and every autograph thrust in his direction.

Publicist Bonnie Garner attempted to ease the pain a few days later by explaining in a press release that Willie was a firm believer in reincarnation. But no words — nothing — could erase the deep sadness of a parent losing a child, regardless of the circumstances. In this case, the hurt seared deeper and was shared with precious few.

One was Coach Darrell K Royal. "Willie's more than an acquaintance," explained Coach. "He and I have been together in some pretty emotional situations. When I lost two of my children, Willie was right there. I tried to do the same after Billy. I never brought up the subject much. I just shook his hand and was there for him. But he knew why I was there, just like I knew why he'd come to my house (after the deaths of Coach's kids). We've been together through some emotional times. That's the reason I like 'Healing Hands of Time' so much."

Willie privately grieved the loss of Billy in the only comfort zone he knew, the stage.

He had reached that age when his peers around him were slowing down or getting off the road altogether. When May rolled around, Willie joined them to begin a 144-show, six-month engagement in Branson, Missouri (pop. 3,706), the tourist town in the Ozarks that had evolved into a new model for country music. Fans came to the artists in Branson, instead of the artists coming to the fans. More than 20 theaters operated in Branson, each featuring entertainers associated with country music, many who'd seen better days (Moe Bandy, Mickey Gilley), a few who historically operated on the periphery (Shojo Tabuchi, Boxcar Willie, Chisai Childs), most everyone packing the house twice a day with tour busloads of middle-aged, Middle American, middle-of-the-road country music fans.

Willie's one-man Chamber of Commerce welcome committee to Branson was Mel Tillis, the stuttering singer and songwriter who arrived in Nashville about the same time Willie did and had a theatre in Branson. Mel spoke of the theatre glowingly when he visited Willie on the road bringing along a bottle of tequila, an ounce of pot, and a mouthful of good bull. Over the course of the evening, Willie grew amenable to the idea of the Mel Tillis Theater becoming Willie Nelson's Ozark Theater, Gift Shop, and Museum, featuring Willie Nelson. (Mel was building a bigger theater for himself.)

Willie might have thought Branson was the solution to his heartache and his finances, but the minute he arrived for the extended engagement, he knew he'd made a mistake. He was used to moving. It was the natural state of life. "Everything else in the universe is moving," he said. "Why shouldn't we? Even the heart is moving the blood around. I just like to keep moving. It feels good to me." In Branson, he was playing a stage that never moved, just like the people who came to Branson didn't move. The town of theatres didn't much move either. Traffic was in a semi-permanent state of gridlock gummed up by congestion and road construction as the town boomed into a major RV and motor coach destination.

Willie insisted on doing it his way, refusing to take breaks like most Branson performers did mainly so the performers could sell more merchandise. Most acts did 45-minute sets followed by hour-long autograph sessions. Willie did his typical two-hour shows and signed autographs until there was no one left. "I never did think about what other artists were doing," he said. "I knew what I was going to do and I figured they accepted those terms before I got there. Once I get 'em up, I don't want to let 'em down." Playing each show without a break, two shows a day, and staying to sign autographs meant long, weary days and nights.

"(Branson) was a nightmare," (harmonica player) Mickey Raphael said. "We were stuck in one spot. The traffic was horrible. Artistically, it sucked. It didn't sell that well. ... You have to schedule the bus tours that come to Branson months in advance. That was the darkest period, just being stuck there."

"It was a self-imposed prison sentence where I decided I wanted to book myself for six months," Willie said. "After six months, I couldn't wait to get out."

Willie may have been a sucker to take Mel's theater, but so was Merle Haggard, who bit on Willie's offer to play three days a week while Willie cut back his performance schedule to four days a week, two shows a day, giving him more time to play golf or play benefits for H. Ross Perot, the feisty Dallas billionaire businessman running as a third party candidate for president of the United States. "Crazy" was adopted as Perot's campaign theme song. As Ethan Smith of Entertainment Weekly noted, "The tune was meant to allude, facetiously, to the Establishment's view of the pint-size libertarian. The song actually reflected with uncanny accuracy on the wisdom of waging a $1 million-a-day, no-chance campaign out of sheer orneriness."

Willie was GTT (Gone To Texas) the day his contract expired, his residency with Merle Haggard replaced by Loretta Lynn and Charley Pride. He didn't think twice about leaving. All he had to do was compare and contrast. Which was it going to be? Farm Aid, which drew 50,000 fans to Texas Stadium in Irving, the home of the Dallas Cowboys football team, in March to hear Willie, Paul Simon, the Highwaymen, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Little Village, Asleep at the Wheel, the Texas Tornados and Little Joe y La Familia? Or Shoji Tabuchi, Boxcar Willie, Jim Stafford, Kenny Rogers, Ray Stevens, Moe Bandy and Andy Williams, each in their own theater, two shows a day?

Band and crew were chomping at the bit. "We just weren't geared for sitting still that long," roadie Kenny Koepke said. "After Branson, everybody was so ready for the road, no one was complaining about anything. It was real smooth after that."