As long as I can remember, I’ve loved Hank Williams’ music. Usually classified as country, it could just as easily be described as blues, especially ones like “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry”. I’m a singer/guitarist, and not a gig goes by that I don’t play something by Hank Williams. To borrow from Lennon, if there is such a thing as a genius, Williams was one.
It was painful for me to learn, as a young adult, the truth about his trainwreck of a life. The biopic starring George Hamilton is hilarious in retrospect, masking a drug/alcohol addled death at 29 with something approaching martyrdom. Country music glosses over the misdeeds of its icons in a way that rock and jazz are more open about.
Williams is in rare company as someone whom I always believe I can’t think any less of, only to have this belief shattered every time I learn more about them (others include boxing promoter Don King and bootlegger/patriarch Joseph Kennedy, Sr.)
“Will You Miss Me When I’m Gone”, the biography of the Carter Family, details the relationship between Williams and the Carter Sisters and Mother Maybelle, who performed with Williams on the Grand Old Opry in the late 40s/early 50s. Williams’ marriage was on the rocks, and he did a lot of crying on Maybelle’s shoulder about how mean his wife was to him. Maybelle and her daughters were often called upon to mediate between Williams and his wife. In the process, Williams got the hots for the beautiful young Anita Carter, and tried to convince Maybelle that his intentions were good. Fortunately, Maybelle was shrewd enough to protect her daughter from the off-the-rails Williams, whose substance abuse brought on terrifying violent rages. He tried to run a car off the road that he thought contained Anita (it was actually June), and once, incredibly, shot a pistol at June. When she screamed and hit the floor, the panicked Williams thought he’d shot her, and gallantly ran off without learning that he’d missed her by inches. His baleful apologies to Maybelle and her daughters were the typical reaction of abusers, incapable of seeing themselves as responsible for anything they do. It’s that mean old world that’s to blame for that black eye I gave you, honey.
A Jewish friend once asked me how I could admire famed aviator Charles Lindbergh in the face of clear evidence that he was an anti-Semite. I replied that it was because I’m a musician: when you have childhood idols like Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley, John Lennon, and, yes, Hank Williams, you damn well better learn how to separate a person’s achievements from their flaws.
I am having, for the first time, trouble doing this with Hank Williams. The reason: the very heartbroken quality that makes his music so great is starting to sound like the accomplished lying dished out by shits like him the morning after blowing up. Because the “Hillbilly Shakespeare” is way better at spinning things his way than the average wifebeater, we only hear one side of the story. When Williams sings “I’m So Lonesome I could Cry”, I can’t help but wonder whether he’s out in the woods wondering “where you are” because the cops are wondering where he is. When Williams makes us think that he got dumped by a golddigging tramp in “Mansion on a Hill”, I wonder if the woman simply decided she had to live somewhere safe.
But I cannot deny how great the music is, and I can’t bring myself to give it up. So a few nights a week, I’ll continue to down a few drinks and get all weepy singing the works of the “Hillbilly OJ”, trying not to remember what an asshole he was.