REMEMBERING KRIS KRISTOFFERSON:
THIS SUNDAY MORNING, HE’S COMING DOWN
One of the most beautiful and powerful moments I’ve experienced was late one night watching Ken Burns’ expansive documentary masterpiece of a television series, “Country Music” which aired a few years ago on PBS. You don’t really and truly fully appreciate what defines American music unless you’ve watched the Burns’ documentary–which at it’s best is mesmerizing. Yes, it’s that good, and often that profound. In one episode, we meet a young aspiring songwriter named Kris Kristofferson.
Born in Brownsville, TX along the US-Mexico border, Kristofferson often pursued the more challenging path in life and pursued the unpredictable road. He always seemed to sing slightly out of tune and strung his guitar to a different beat. Kristofferson had his entire life set and planned and could have done what most other young men his age would have done, opting to take the easy way. But not Kristofferson.
A gifted natural writer, he had his first article published by “The Atlantic Monthly” before he was 20. He was a star athlete in college–in football and rugby. He earned a Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford where he……in characteristic rebellious Kristofferson fashion…..turned to boxing. At the same time, he also improved his guitar playing and cut a few records as an unknown songwriter, recorded at a tiny studio in England, songs which went nowhere. But he wasn’t discouraged. He’d found a calling. Between punches in the ring and occasional music gigs (they called him “the Yank”), he somehow managed to earn a degree in English literature from one of the most prestigious universities in the world.
As the son of an Air Force general, he returned to the U.S. and accepted an officer commission, eventually attaining the rank of Army Captain. While serving, he became a helicopter pilot. The military, seeing Kristofferson’s talents, offered him a teaching position (literature) at West Point.
On his way to take the position at West Point, Kristofferson drove through Nashville. He stopped in to watch a performance at the Grand Ole Opry. That’s where Johnny Cash was onstage. Seeing Kristofferson in his Army uniform, Kristofferson was allowed to stand slightly offstage and watch the show. Here’s where the Ken Burns documentary really takes off and we learn what kind of a man Kristofferson was.
Something magical happened on that day. Kristofferson felt a sense of belonging. Soon thereafter, he phoned authorities at West Point and told them he wouldn’t be taking the teaching job. He wrote to his parents with what must have been disappointing news, informing them he wanted to stay in Nashville and learn how to be a songwriter. Not a performer, just a songwriter. His parents were shocked. They disowned him.
He was on his own. For the next three years Kristofferson struggled. He bounced around odd jobs in Nashville. He even worked as a janitor, sweeping floors — never shamed by the deed of an honest hard day’s work. Kristofferson’s stroke of luck was in meeting Fred Foster, a young up and coming music producer and publisher. Foster saw something special in Kristofferson. During his off hours, Foster offered him free studio time, and the team even cut a few records together. The songs went nowhere. Music was proving to be a tough business.
By 1970, Kristofferson was like so many young men with broken dreams who were seemingly trapped on dead end roads. He’d been given chances, but the timing hadn’t been right, not yet — he wasn’t able to break through and pen a successful song that might take him cleaning offices to becoming a respected full-time songwriter.
He’d written one odd song during this period, hastily composed a few years earlier while sitting in near darkness outside a Louisiana railway station in the rain. The lyrics just came and and the melody flowed, like water droplets streaking down the windshield, the tempo of a broken wiper keeping time:
“Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waitin’ for a train
When I’s feelin’ near as faded as my jeans
Bobby thumbed a diesel down, just before it rained
And rode us all the way into New Orleans.”
Even the title, “Me and Bobby McGee” was penned in error, mistakenly named for Foster’s front office secretary, Barbara McKee. McGee was actually Barbara “Bobbie” McKee, but Kristofferson had misheard her surname–and the rest is history.
Unbeknownst to Kristofferson, rock icon Janis Joplin had been sent the sheet music and performed “Me and Bobby McGee” during an impromptu performance in Nashville while touring in 1969. She also recorded a bluesier version of Kristofferson’s song, intended as a possible filler track. She had also recorded a bluesier version of Kristofferson’s song. Joplin died of a drug overdose in October 1970. By January 1971, her back catalog of recordings was receiving massive radio play, and that’s when Kristofferson walked into Foster’s office on a frigid January afternoon in 1971.
The Burns documentary features the elderly Foster in one of his final interviews before he died. That cold day, he’d been mailed a copy of Joplin’s version of the song, which hadn’t yet been released. He called Kristofferson into the office and together they put on the Joplin recording.
“We listened. We looked at each other. Then, we just sat there and cried,” Foster remembered.
They knew this was that moment, The moment that comes once, if you’re lucky. This was the big break. “Me and Bobby McGee” rocketed to #1.
Just before the song had been published, in an extraordinary act of selflessness, Kristofferson had insisted that Foster share songwriting credit. Even though the song was almost entirely his own, nonetheless he demanded that Foster — who had been so supportive of his time in Nashville and had been so good to him and had always been not just an employer but a friend — share the songwriting credit. Again, that showed what kind of man Kristofferson was.
Many of the tributes to Kristofferson, who died today, will concentrate on the singer-songwriter-actor’s impressive career and many other songs AFTER he became famous. But the most moving story is the path to success and the times BEFORE he wrote, “For the Good Times.”
Hearing of Kristofferson’s death, for so many of us, this truly is that “Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down.”
