Until this year, the Circuit of the Americas racetrack had left me with few indelible memories as a Willie Nelson Fourth of July Picnic fan. But one of those was from 2015 — Sturgill Simpson playing the main stage in the heat of the afternoon.
Sturgill was fine, but the memory is of watching Kris Kristofferson watch Sturgill — intently. Not quite hidden behind the black mesh in front of the right side of the stage, his lean frame and gray hair unmistakable, his enjoyment of the music just as obvious. It wasn’t a passing of the torch or any such cliche, but it was a fine benediction. It was a moment.
Now here I am, four years later, standing in the same spot as Kristofferson. Standing on the side of the stage at the Picnic, amid musicians and their family, watching Willie Nelson and his Family. Now this is a moment, perhaps THE moment of my 21 Picnics. At least within range of seeing Waylon Jennings in Luckenbach.
I didn’t know I’d be here when I was in front of this stage a few hours earlier singing “Copperhead Road,” in the searing sun with Steve Earle, or over yonder singing along with “Snake Farm” or “Green Snakes on the Ceiling.” (Yes, I had called this the “Reptile Trilogy” on Twitter, and, verily, it came to pass).
Jamey Johnson was onstage when I got a phone call from a friend who said he had an extra backstage pass. I didn’t ask questions. I met him by the gate and when I put that pass on, I was gold. Security didn’t ask questions, either.
Of course, I fit in nicely among the cowboy-hatted, full-bearded musicians. While going through the Statesman photo gallery the next day, I recognized Colter Wall as one of the guys who had stood next to me for a good portion of Willie’s performance. I didn’t know him because I had missed his set — truth be told, I was just too lazy to hike over there when I could sit on a padded chair in the shade at the Luck Lounge and drink free Budweiser.
Yeah, that happened, too.
But let’s tackle the obvious questions first: How was Willie? What was it like backstage?
Willie was great, possibly better than last year. It seemed grim for a minute as he walked stiffly to the microphone, and his show has been shortened to only an hour — we ended the night on “I’ll Fly Away” instead of the traditional “I Saw the Light.” But if the show started right at 11 p.m. and ended exactly at midnight, everything in between was fantastic. You wouldn’t confuse him with young Willie, but there was plenty to be grateful for.
Backstage was a maze of buses and friendly, hairy faces. Some red eyes to go around, but any outlaw behavior was discreet. I did climb the tower, and if you’re suspecting there was someone up there smoking a joint, you’d be right. Later I would spy a skunk — an actual skunk — shuffling along a fence line. I joked to everybody in earshot, “Boy, I have some apologies to make.” I got no laughs.
There were plenty of attractive women, but nobody I’d have dared call a groupie. There were no tubs of beer or other such hedonism out in the open, which was probably good, given my afternoon indulgence. The stars were in their buses, or the trailers provided for them. And on stage … with me.
Yes, that’s Jamey Johnson stopping to hug old outlaw Paul English. There goes Luke Combs to pay his respects to David Allan Coe, slouched in a chair a few feet away. Hey, it’s Ol’ Dillo — the band’s taxidermied mascot — atop the sound board in front of me. When the all-star sing-along finale closes the night, Coe limps up to the group that includes Combs, Wall and Earle.
Coe didn’t look much better half a day earlier when he opened the Picnic at noon, compressed into a chair under the weight of the years and his ever-more-ridiculous wig. Sadly, his “Storms Never Last” duet with wife Kimberly Hastings was even more painful to behold than his wig. Still, we got to sing along with “You Never Even Called Me By My Name” one more time, at least.
This is where we compare Coe’s performance with Johnny Bush, who followed him a few acts later. Bush started off a little shaky as well, but gained strength along the way. “All the Rage in Paris,” was a little rough, but I got goosebumps all the same. The difference was in the supporting players. Where’s Coe’s band was tiptoeing around his ragged vocals, Bush’s band was having a helluva time, bringing the San Antonio legend along in the process.
Over the previous few weeks, I had examined files, photos and videos of almost fifty years of Fourth of July Picnics, and for at least half that time, Willie kept answering the same question: “How long are you going to do it?” (“As long as it’s fun,” was the most common answer.)
When I started writing about the Picnic consistently in the mid-2000s, I would often end my stories with Willie leaving the stage, convinced each time it could be the last.
I have finally realized that it’s a fool’s errand trying to guess which Picnic will be the last. Instead, the past 25 years has been one continuing farewell. Goosebumps? Yes. I realize there are people out there who love David Allan Coe the way I love Johnny Bush, and I hope they felt like I felt: grateful for one more Picnic set.
(Still, there’s always gonna be some wannabe outlaw singing “The Ride” to any sumbitch who will listen. This very well might’ve been the last time I’ll hear anybody sing “There Stands The Glass.”)
Thanks to the rain, I missed Ray Wylie Hubbard last year, who had been to every Picnic that I had been to since 1995. Hubbard has consistently been my favorite set of the day, but this year I might have finally tired of the predictable lineup of fan favorites, if not for Lucas Hubbard’s heroics. I am not a guitar guy, but has Lucas taken another step up? More than ever, I’m thinking of Billy Joe and Eddy Shaver when I see Ray and Lucas together — in the best way, of course.
And Billy Joe? Shaky is the word that came to mind. He came out gripping a plastic water bottle with what fingers he had, only to set it down on the stage. After each song, as he leaned over to pick up that bottle and take a swig, I kept worrying he was gonna fall over.
But there he was, wearing that battered brown hat with its crown stretching toward the heavens and a worn denim shirt, a large hole in the sleeve calling attention to the set list he’d written on his arm. Four songs and he was gone, forgetting the set-up to the punchline of “That’s What She Said Last Night,” but getting a big laugh anyway from the crowd and Steve Earle, watching from the side of the stage.
Earle was the man of the Picnic, a much-needed fresh face who gets my vote to join the dwindling ranks of Picnic regulars. After all, he very much seemed to get the spirit of the day. There he was, introducing Bush. There he was, hugging Shaver after he left the stage. There he was, coming out at midnight for the all-too-brief all-star finale.
And there he was, putting in another fiery Picnic set in the searing heat of the main stage in late afternoon. His Guy Clark songs (including “Rita Ballou” and “LA Freeway”) came off well, his originals (including “Guitar Town” and “Firebreak Line”) even better.
If it seemed particularly hot in the concrete pit at 5 p.m., it’s because I’d spent most of the previous 2 hours kicked back in the blessed shade and padded chairs of the Luck Lounge. This luxury added an extra $100 to my ticket, but it seemed worth it at the time, even before I discovered that it also meant free cans of Budweiser.
I pulled up a chair near the bar at the back of the tent and supervised Gene Watson from there. (Earlier, Bush had told us he had borrowed Watson’s steel guitar player because his was “in rehab.” I was thinking Bush was damn lucky to find another steel guitar player at the Picnic these days.)
Watson went through his hits, including “Love in the Hot Afternoon.” Ordinarily, I advise against slow songs during the daylight heat of the Picnic, but this one felt right. Hayes Carll, who had broken this rule a few years earlier — singing a couple of slow weepers as his crowd just melted into the concrete — picked it up this year, drawing from his newer songs and at least keeping the crowd moving.
I left the shade and had meant to pick up a bottle of water and a burger on the way to see Earle when I picked up an $8 tall boy instead. By the time Earle was done, I was half-lit and thinking of that long 90 minutes between the end of Alison Krauss and the start of “Whiskey River,” with nothing to do. It’d be hard enough to stay sober for Luke Combs’ set, and now I had a head start in the wrong direction.
Salvation, oddly enough, was backstage. Over the next five hours, there was too much to take in to think about drinking. For instance, I bet you didn’t know there’s a small battalion of roadies under the stage. Some in hammocks, others in front of glowing computer monitors and cell phone screens. That’s not how we did it in Luckenbach in the ‘90s, y’all.
Back in those days I knew a bar owner who referred to the pop country of Tim McGraw and Kenny Chesney as “flat-belly music” — meaning that they were more models than musicians. I reckon the guy did not anticipate Luke Combs.
I saw just enough of Combs to feel that he was an OK ticket-pusher for the Picnic. On the scale of Brantley Gilbert (so bad he’s entertaining) to Eric Church (dreadfully self-serious) to Dierks Bentley (entertainingly OK), he’s closer to Bentley than Church.
(Don’t ask me about Nathaniel Rateliff. I missed every bit of him, wheezing my way up the tower and limping my way down.)
And here we are, back at Willie. His walk is stiffer, his set shorter. We get songs ranging from “Beer for my Horses” to “My Favorite Picture of You.” We get standards ranging from “Whiskey River” (of course) to “Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I Die” (of course).
I stay until the end. What’s a Picnic story without a description of Willie disappearing backstage? It happens quickly this year, one gospel song and then he’s gone — passing right by me as he heads for his bus.
I go the opposite way. Down the stairs at stage left and through the gate. Into the crowd, heading for my car.