Added: Elisa Everette - Date: 19.07.2021 19:26 - Views: 26675 - Clicks: 7107
The late Townes Van Zandt, who was the precise weight of Jesus at the time of his death, now has about ten of them. Jesus, of course, has more. But when Jesus was alive, He was relatively uncelebrated and totally broke. Tribute me almost always dies in the gutter or, occasionally, in the back of a Cadillac, as Hank Williams did. Talent is invariably its own reward. He wants them to sing the songs of the guy who died in the back of the Cadillac, or the songs of Willie Nelson, or the songs of Stephen Foster, who died on the Bowery in New York City.
How exactly did that fine record—picked as a spotlight album of the week in December by Billboard—come to be? Glad you asked. About two decades later, once I had enough decent or indecent songs and my career had gone so far south that people thought I was dead or wished I was, I knew the time was right for a tribute to me. The first thing I needed was a title. Every tribute record requires a classic-sounding, moderately pretentious title. Fortunately, I had a of them. Fast-forward ten years or so. As fate would have it, we did both. Since Hank Williams was working a package show with Johnny Horton and Faron Young, we decided tribute me the best centerpiece for our aural table would be Willie Nelson.
We sent Willie a dozen vintage Kinky songs from which he was to select one tune to record for us. We waited for the gestation period of the southern sperm whale, but nothing happened.
When a tribute album gets off to this kind of a slow start, the honoree can often become somewhat dispirited. I thought that possibly my own precisely timed country music death might increase interest in the project. After Willie, we selected artists who, like him, walk their own ro. Fortunately, they turned out to be the kind of stars a hopeful little Jewboy could make a wish upon. The only pain, disappointment, and humiliation I felt was when I was turned down flat by one particular person. The artist who rejected me was k.
As far as the actual recordings went, the artists chose their own song, studio, city, and planet. On a tribute record, particularly, the honoree should be either dead or working in Branson—anywhere but lurking around the studio. Instead, I retired into a rather petulant snit, only emerging two years later, when everything was completed. I left the recording duties in the much more capable hands of Kacey, who served as supervising producer and turned out to be a pretty fair engineer as well.
Of course, with a name like Kacey Jones, I was not all that surprised. Money was an issue, of course. Johnny coughed up some bucks and officially became our executive producer. With my artistic feelers hurt now that the artist in me had been overtaken by the loan shark, I proceeded to fat-arm my friend John McCall in Austin. John ponied up more bucks and officially became, along with Johnny, co-executive producer of Pearls in the Snow. As time went by, I repeatedly assured both former friends that the album would definitely be a financial pleasure.
At about the two-year point, I changed my tune slightly. The final responsibility I had before the CD was released was to obtain participation agreements from all the artists. A kinkajou, by the way, is a cuddly little Central American mammal with a prehensile tail.
So it was, with contract in hand, that I accosted Willie Nelson on his golf course one fine afternoon late last summer. As a Jewish record company president, I will not f— you. But when all tribute me said and done, every tribute album is really a tribute to all that has gone before. Just prior to Pearls in the Snow being released, Tribute me was playing a tape of it for Willie on his bus on the way to Gruene Hall, where he was doing a benefit for flood victims.
Both of us were now straying rather dangerously off the reservation.Tribute me
email: [email protected] - phone:(539) 340-5400 x 9496
Ready to give the most meaningful gift on earth?