By Kelly Dearmore
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
Buddy Holly and Willie Nelson could not be more different. Holly was a pop star reared on country, a country boy who craved the big city. Nelson is a country legend influenced by pop, a man more comfortable wrestling in the dirt than dancing on marble. Holly projected the wholesome image of the loving son and family man, while Nelson has carefully nurtured and protected his outlaw image. Holly was a careful and deliberate songwriter, while Nelson is a craftsman whose songbooks are stained with whiskey. Holly's dead, while Nelson's just stoned.
But of all the native-born Texans who made music here and influenced the world outside, Holly and Nelson shared one thing: They were inherently simple men who sang of deceptively simple things--puppy love tinged with adult heartbreak, teen-age lust commingled with grown-up desire. Holly wrote the perfect pop songs, Nelson the perfect country songs, and together they form much of the Texas soundtrack, creating music that was big enough to encompass many influences but small enough to sound like it came from nowhere at all.
On the surface, they wrote easy moments--songs easily digested and understood, songs that hid nothing and revealed everything; there's no secrets contained in Holly's "Crying, Hoping, Waiting" or Nelson's "Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground," nothing profound except the directness of the words and arrangements.
It's so hard, then, to fathom how two new so-called "tribute" albums--Twisted Willie, from the Houston-based Justice Records label, and Decca-MCA's Not Fade Away--could get both men so wrong and treat their work with so little respect and compassion. Both sound as though their respective "all-star" lineups never heard of either man's work until they stepped into the studios. They're shallow, hollow, empty records that trample on one man's grave and kick another man while he's down.
Of the two, Injustice's Twisted Willie is the worst, reeking with the stench of a cheap prostitute: Nelson not only agreed to this project, he participated on it (playing with Super-suckers on "Bloody Mary Morning," sing-ing with Reverend Horton Heat on "Hello Walls"), no doubt hoping a crop of hip and alternative artists would resurrect a career that's been flying too close to the ground for some time. Instead, Willie watched and listened as the likes of Gas Huffer, Steel Pole Bath-tub, Presidents of the United States of Am-erica, Best Kissers in the World, L7, Sound-garden, and Jello Biafra slaughtered his music. If songs are indeed children created by their writers and then sent into the world to fend for themselves, then Willie has helped kill his kids.
What most of the artists on Twisted Willie seem to miss is the fact that Nelson's music transcends country--it's a far more complicated beast, infused with jazz and Tin Pan Alley pop--and is closely tied to the singer's nasal voice. Nelson is a songwriter whose work is almost dependent upon his voice singing those songs--the off-tempo phrasing, the whiny inflection, the weariness he brings to both the ballads and the two-steppin' rockers, a voice that creaks like an old wooden dance floor.
When Faron Young recorded "Hello Walls" and Patsy Cline sang "Crazy," they did so when Nelson was still a songwriter employed by a Nashville publishing house; Young and Cline made those songs theirs because they were not yet inextricably linked to Nelson, not bound to his delivery of his own words.
So-called tribute albums, by their very definition, celebrate the songwriter and not the singer; they use disparate artists to redefine one songwriter or singer's body of work, to lend their own voices and interpretations to music that's already left an indelible imprint upon our own private jukeboxes. That's why most tribute albums, whether they're paying homage to John Lennon or XTC or Kiss, never succeed past their intentions, noble or otherwise: They're filled with musicians who are trying to recreate memories, yelling over echoes, attempting to take credit for something they weren't good enough to think of themselves.
What makes Twisted Willie so doubly offensive is the lack of understanding these musicians have of Nelson's work. They don't see past the surface of the songs, don't realize that Nelson's finest moments are often the wide-open spaces between the notes and words. Most of the artists on Twisted Willie take pleasure in mutilating Nelson's songs, destroying them and rendering them all but unrecognizable--playing them loud just because they can. It almost seems as though there exists a certain contempt for the material in producer and Injustice Records owner Randall Jamail's choice of artists and in the presentation itself.
When Nelson sang "Time of the Preacher" on his Red-Headed Stranger, accompanied only by a sparse acoustic guitar, he was recounting a complex story using a deceptively simple arrangement; it was an introduction to a larger allegory about sin and salvation in the persona of a murdering preacher who seeks redemption and finds rejection, a set-up for Nelson's one true masterpiece. The version here, which also opens Twisted Willie, is a bad idea gone terribly wrong, out of place and out of its mind: Johnny Cash (a suitable choice for the song, a God-fearing man whose best work is touched by the Devil) is forced to compete with a ridiculous lite-metal guitar part from Soundgarden's Kim Thayil that misses the point. It's one thing to interpret a song, to infuse it with new life or reveal hidden truths or even subvert its meaning, but Thayil has done nothing more than throw shit on a Picasso.