It Always Will Be (2004)

Think about it. Time slips away, and yet it “always” will be. “There are some things I think about, and every time I do it breaks my heart.” People don’t break your heart, thinking about people breaks your heart. It’s the thinking that does it. Another example of Willie’s Proustian view of love and time. It lives alone on an island, and he can see it in the distance, in the darkness. Like the light at the end of Daisy’s dock.

“I’m gonna love you till the wheels come off,” but they tend to come off sooner than you think when time slips away. I don’t really understand the Tom Waits’ song “Picture in a Frame.” A very pretty song, but why is the sun blue and gold? I have no clue. I thought it might be something like Dolly’s “the sky is green, the grass is blue, and I never loved you.”

Willie dusts off an old Jimmy Day tune from 1963. A classic country music story with that classic lonesome steel guitar. Don’t tell the woman I just broke up with how hard I’m takin’ it. Tell her I’m fine. It’s the biggest lie that makes the best 3 ½ minute sad song. It works almost every time.

Willie’s daughter Paula is trying a bit too hard on her “Be That as it May,” but Willie’s vocals make up for it, almost. The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree with this line: “A promise is a lie/ With a prettier disguise/ Like I will love you for the rest of my life.” The old lie of time. Always promising that it won’t fly away. Cheatin’ time. She ends with “I’m running out of time.” If there was a concordance for Willie’s complete lyrics, I bet the words “time” and “mind” would show up with highest frequency.

Luke Nelson seems to have a bit of the old man’s way with words, too. “I once had a heart/ Now I have a song” may be the most concise summation of the suffer-into-truth maxim. Another gem is “You could bring out the worst in everyone you knew/ But no one could ever bring the worst out of you.” That subtle shift in syntax creates the semantic frisson I find irresistible. I get it again on track seven with “I been thrown into better places than this.” The simple yet surprising change of “out of” to “into” gives pleasure.

I dismissed this album out of hand the first time I heard it because of “Big Booty.” It may be my least favorite Willie song thus far. Perhaps the only song I will skip on all future listens.

“I lost my mind so long ago,” and he is stilling losing it in 2004, at age 71. Fall has always been my favorite season, and it seems to be Willie’s, too. “As autumn fills the air,” he realizes his “broken heart belongs to you.” In spring your heart belongs to your beloved, but in autumn, you offer your broken heart.

I don’t care for the lyrics to “Dreams Come True” (too trite, too cliché), but I’m glad he did a duet with Nora Jones. My wife loves her. They blend together nicely in this duet, but I’m more of a sucker for Lucinda Williams on the next track. Of course the title would be “Overtime.” You never get over time. It always gets over on you. “The healing hands of time”? I’m not sure I get the play on words even now. “I’ll get over you/ Overtime.” The preposition expressing a relationship between the speaker and time becomes a noun. But you only know this if you read the lyrics, if you see that what sounds like “over time” is really “overtime.” Maybe she means she will have to work “overtime” to get over him. Workin’ overtime to get over you. That’s another country song waiting to happen. Clocking in. Punching in. Working overtime at the honky tonk to forget you. Working late. The poetics of country music has always fascinated me. The word play, the turns of phrase. Like the turn in the sonnet. The hook, the twist, the surprise. I’m not sure Lucinda Williams can sing a dishonest song. She seems to have more pain and honesty per square inch than most singer/songwriters.

Speaking of honesty, Toby Keith and Chuck Cannon wrote an honest one with “Tired.” A poignant drama in 4:14. It has description, dialog, and a narrative arc. Spare as Cormac McCarthy. It does seem to be a bit of a rip off of James Taylor’s “Millworker,” though. “Millwork ain’t easy, millwork ain’t hard, millwork ain’t nothin’ but an awful boring job.” Compare that to, “This work ain’t hard, it’s only boring as can be.” I used to hear Chuck Cannon sing in the round at The Bluebird Café in Nashville. I still maintain that Gary Burr is the best songwriter in Nashville. And I’m a big Don Henry fan, too.

Loneliness, neediness, wanting, longing. That about sums up country music.
The lyrics to “Texas” seem beneath Willie. Rhyming “night,” “light,” and “might.” All we need is “moon” and “June.” But the music is so trippy and flamenco, and he strings these spare lyrics out to 3:48 with such meandering guitar riffs that I remain intrigued. You’re not sure where it is going. It’s about as uncommercial as you can get. Who would play this on the radio?

The only musician I recognize in the liner notes is Mickey Raphael on harmonica, and he rocks on Gregg Allman’s “Midnight Rider.” When I see the lengthy list of studios used for this album, it makes me think many of these tracks were laid down and emailed in from hither and yon. I don’t know if I could really tell this in a blind test, but it bothers me nonetheless. I want to know, to believe, that they are in the studio together making music.

Again, I’m amazed at how wrong I was about this album the first time around. I liked “Be That as it May” and that was about it. Now it ranks pretty high up there. Another one that will get better with time. Overtime. Like all great art, it rewards re-reading or re-listening or re-viewing.

So I’m 214 songs and 12 hours into this adventure. A half a day of Willie Nelson on my IPOD at this point. A half nelson. It has been a full 15 days.

One last paradox before I go. For someone who is so restless, so always on the road, so never satisfied, Willie sure sings a lot about "always."