A CELEBRATION OF
TOWNES VAN ZANDT
“Austin City Limits” taping
December 7, 1997

by Brad Buchholz

The late Townes Van Zandt often remarked that the music would come to him in the most simple, mystical ways. Songs arrived through the walls of a house, the dirt in the ground, or the cool of the midnight sky. They were honest songs, essential songs, spare and clear and sad and courageous all at once. And true to their roots, they possessed a spirit all their own.

A lucky few felt that familiar spirit again, vividly, at an extraordinary all-star tribute to Townes Van Zandt recorded for the PBS syndicated show “Austin City Limits” at KLRU-TV studios in Austin on December 7 (scheduled to air in most markets on March 28). On this night, the songs came to us from a crescent — and it was a most touching experience.

The featured musicians — 10 of them in all — sat in simple wooden chairs, shoulder to shoulder, holding guitars, fanned across the stage in a gentle, slender arc. From right to left, the crescent looked like this: Peter Rowan, Steve Earle, Nanci Griffith, John T. Van Zandt, Guy Clark, Willie Nelson, Emmylou Harris, Rodney Crowell, Lyle Lovett, and Jack “Cowboy” Clement.

The spirit called for spareness, and it was granted. There was no drum set, no flourish, no standard accompaniment beyond the lonesome harmonica interludes by Mickey Raphael. For the most part, it was just the 10 featured soloists, their 10 guitars, and 10 hearts touched by the power of song. Early on, Clark explained with stoic, broken-hearted affection that the purpose of the evening was “telling lies and stories — and singing songs that Townes Van Zandt wrote.” It was as simple as that.

Clark opened the 17-song proceeding with “To Live Is To Fly” — performed so delicately, with such melancholy, that it seemed he was singing it directly to his dear, departed friend. The musicians on the stage were visibly moved: Griffith swallowed hard and looked skyward; Lovett bit his lip; Harris bowed her head and gazed at a spot on the floor, lost in reflection. There was not a whisper in the audience.

This, of course, set the emotional tone for the entire evening. Though billed as a “celebration,” this tribute was something far more substantial and introspective — a meditation, an homage, an intense musical submersion. The artists knew that there is no celebrating the genius of Townes Van Zandt without acknowledging the pain that came with it. And that was in the air, too.

Appropriately, the most inspired performances were delivered by the musicians who seemed most determined to explore the very darkest places. Clark, Steve Earle, Lovett and Griffith, in particular, invested themselves completely in the complex, sometimes tortured imagery of Van Zandt’s music.

Earle’s vigorous, jagged-edged rendition of “Brand New Companion”, which acknowledged Van Zandt’s complex relationship with the blues, was one of the night’s brightest highlights. A short time later, Lovett’s stark, moody treatment of “Flyin’ Shoes” — he has obviously loved this song for a long time — represented the best pairing of artist and song. Near the end of the set, Lovett and Earle performed a stunning duet on “Lungs”, the drama heightened by Lovett’s sober, succinct reminder that Townes intended this song to “be screamed, not sung.”

In another memorable duet, Griffith and accompanist James Hooker honored Van Zandt with their rendition of “Tecumseh Valley”. Inspired by the literate timing and tragedy within the song, Griffith and Hooker (on vocals and piano) crafted an arrangement that accented the dramatic textures in Van Zandt’s sad story.

On a night filled with poignancy, the two performances by John T. Van Zandt — Townes’ son — were so touching, so honest, so evocative of his father’s voice and style, that they bordered on overwhelming. John T. looked his father’s life and art straight in the eye on “The Highway Kind”, explaining that, for him, the song “always represented the dark side I love so much.”

The son expressed an even deeper love for the father by choosing to perform “Ira Hayes” — a Peter LaFarge composition and a staple of Townes’ live concerts. Rich with tragic irony, “Ira Hayes” tells the story of a man of honor and sacrifice who winds up ignored and broken by the very culture he has chosen to serve. Musicians and audience alike were spellbound, fully grasping the statement of the song.

Harris performed a sweet, solitary “If I Needed You” as Clark closed his eyes and seemed to sing the song inside himself. Crowell traveled the sea of levity on “Heavenly Houseboat Blues”. Nelson made it through the obligatory “Pancho & Lefty” duet with Harris. But it must be stated, at this point, that this was also a night of great stories and tender, heartfelt testimonials. It’s a shame that “Austin City Limits” won’t be able to include them all within the confines of a one-hour episode.

Rowan captured the essence of Townes’ mercurial genius by recounting a late-night jag in which Van Zandt helped him write “I’ll Be There” while running back and forth between their hotel room and a game of dice. Earle marveled at Townes’ statement that his major influences were “Carl Sandburg and Lightnin’ Hopkins.” Griffith recalled her father’s description of Townes as “the greatest folk singer Texas ever gave birth to — and that’s only because Woody Guthrie was born in Oklahoma.” Clark, the consummate songwriter, spoke with wonder about the “seamless” compositional beauty of “Don’t You Take It Too Bad”.

Recalling her first impressions of the man, Harris suggested the young Townes struck her as “The ghost of Hank Williams — with a twist.” Then, with a laugh: “According to Townes, there were two kinds of music. There were the blues. And then there was ‘Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah’.” Finally, simply, this: “I loved his songs, because they always spoke the truth.”

In that spirit, Earle paid Townes the ultimate tribute with “Fort Worth Blues”, which Earle wrote on the road, early in 1997, while still deep in grief over Van Zandt’s death. Detachment and loneliness are major themes. Struggling to keep his composure — and with Griffith in tears beside him — Earle sang: “You always said the highway was your home/But we both know that that ain’t true/It’s just the only place a man can go/When he don’t know where he’s travelin’ to.”

It was that kind of night — tearful and tender, poignant and thankful. In the audience, we closed our eyes and allowed the songs from the crescent to enter us. The music warmed our bodies, made us feel, made us remember. And when it was over and I was alone, I cried, too.