KRIS KRISTOFFERSON MAKES IT THROUGH THE NIGHT

Kris Kristofferson died yesterday.

I found out in a text from one of my guitar guys.

“RIP Bobby McGee.”

We mourned Tom Petty’s passing, now Kris.

In baby boomer world, it’s reminder of our tenuous grip on life.

The first time I saw him was on the Johnny Cash Show, another backroom song writer for the Man In Black.

I’d heard Johnny sing some Kris songs and they struck a chord. Which one I don’t know since I was fifteen at the time.

They were different sounds that didn’t include prison, a long black veil, or an egg stealing dog.

The songs seemed to have feelings I was feeling about girls and my town and where I was going.

Maybe I was going Kris’s way?

I learned to play some of his songs on guitar, mostly Me And Bobby McGee.

It has stood the test of time that I still play it.

 

I listened to the Kris songs and got all teary when he broke up with his second wife.

When he became a movie star it was in movies I didn’t see.

I was a fan of Kountry Kris, not movie star Kris, with his shirt loosely buttoned if he wore one at all.

He came to Portland in the early 80’s and did his show at the livestock pavilion where the Expo Center is now.

It was a pretty loose arrangement where I walked to the front of the stage and stood an arm’s length away.

I could have slipped him a demo tape of my songs like he did Johnny? Except I didn’t have the songs or the tape.

 

Many Years Later

Young Kris turned into old Kris and I stayed the same?

Naw, I’m sixty-nine and still look to him for style and fashion.

Epiphone Jumbo Guitar? Check.

Beard? Check.

Longer hair? Check.

The Kristofferson Story:

 

He was an Oxford scholar, a defensive back, a bartender, a Golden Gloves boxer, a gandy dancer, a forest-fighter, a road crew member, and an Army Ranger who flew helicopters.

He was a peacenik, a revolutionary, an actor, a superstar, a Casanova, and a family man. He was almost a teacher at West Point, though he gave that up to become a Nashville songwriting bum.

He believed that songwriting is a spiritual communion of mind, body, and soul, and he believed that William Blake was correct in asserting that anyone divinely ordered for spiritual communion but buries his talent will be pursued by sorrow and desperation through life and by shame and confusion for eternity.

“I took pride in being the best labor or, the guy that could dig the ditches the fastest,” he said. “Something inside me made me want to do the tough stuff . . . Part of it was that I wanted to be a writer, and I figured that I had to get out and live. I know that’s why I ran in front of the bulls in Pamplona.

On the back cover of The Silver Tongued Devil and I, Kristofferson advised that his songs were “Echoes of the going ups and coming downs, walking pneumonia and run-of-the-mill madness, colored with guilt, pride, and a vague sense of despair.”

Asked about regrets, he said, “Listen, I have those. But my life has turned out so well for me that I would be afraid to change anything.”

 

Kris Kristofferson Heads Home

When you can say your life turned so well, why change anything?

But if your life did things you didn’t expect and hurt others?

Maybe change that part.

After seeing this picture of Kris and Taylor Swift, I think Kris will be fine.

The Swiftie approval is good enough for me.

Who else can make a claim about changing the tone of country music in their lifetime?

From the looks of things, Kris didn’t fade away all at once.

He got old, got sick, got better, and then . . .

And then he left us better than we were.

 

From the coal mines of Kentucky to the California sun,
Bobby shared the secrets of my soul,
Standin’ right beside me through everythin’ I done,
And every night she kept me from the cold.
Then somewhere near Salinas, Lord, I let her slip away,
She was lookin’ for the love I hope she’ll find,
Well I’d trade all my tomorrows for a single yesterday,
Holdin’ Bobby’s body close to mine.

Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose,
And nothin’ left was all she left to me,
Feelin’ good was easy, Lord, when Bobby sang the blues,
And buddy, that was good enough for me.
Good enough for me and Bobby McGee.