Heroes happen when you need them

Merle Haggard and Kris Kristofferson blew through town a couple nights ago.

They shared the stage for the entire almost-two-hour set, which was a cool surprise. I’ve seen them both before and thought Haggard was okay (he spent too much of his set on anti-Bush rants, in this left-winger’s opinion) and Kristofferson was sublime.

I came away thinking the same thing after this joint appearance. Kristofferson hit the stage first, dressed in black, his head framed by a halo of unkempt white hair and scraggly beard. He floated out to a single spotlight and dedicated the first song to our young men and women in harm’s way overseas. The crowd ate it up of course, but Kristofferson is a vet himself. I give him the benefit of the doubt.

After that, Haggard and his five- or six-piece band strolled out to thunderous ovation. Kristofferson stepped back and Haggard and the band belted out a couple big hits (I really should’ve taken notes) before the place got quiet as a church again, and Kristofferson did another couple of his poignant, incisive, delicate compositions. Repeat for about 100 minutes.

Occasionally Haggard would join in on guitar during one of Kristofferson’s turns, and for a number of songs, Kristofferson was ably backed up by Haggard’s band, which included Haggard’s son Ben on lead guitar.

Kristofferson, on the other hand, was a comic disaster on backup guitar and vocals. Early in the show he turned to face the mic and stabbed himself with the fiddler’s bow instead. During Haggard’s hits, Kristofferson just hung back and tried to not get in the way. A couple of times he was advised during the song what song the band was playing. (The Missus scored us third row orchestra seats, so we heard everything, including stage banter that Kristofferson forgot to do into his microphone.) Most of his attempts at singing harmony, I would swear he was only mouthing the words. It’s probably just as well. Kristofferson sings crazy low and he isn’t always particularly choosy about what note his voice lands on.

Haggard’s fine, smooth baritone was still in evidence, but the man himself seemed incapable of drawing fully upon it. He still sang circles around Kristofferson! But it was sad to see his son looking on worriedly as a coughing fit forced Haggard to turn his back to the audience and get a drink of water. He mentioned being a cancer survivor after stopping a song in progress and insisting they start over. He was great. He was up for anything—doing one fan’s shouted request off-the-cuff—and as spry as I’d probably be if I had to stand basically still on my feet for two hours every other night.

Kristofferson split his parts of the set between big hits he’d written that other people have made famous (Me and Bobby McGee, Help Me Make It Through The Night, Sunday Morning Coming Down), and tender ballads from his last couple of albums that apparently nobody but The Missus and I had ever heard before. No matter what song he sang, every time he stepped up to the mic, the venue immediately went from being like a rowdy honkeytonk to a hushed house of worship. Which is actually apropos, considering most of Kristofferson’s rich output of recent compositions are poignant ruminations on issues related to faith, family and mortality.

Seriously, This Old Road and Closer To The Bone are a couple of the best CD purchases I’ve made in recent years, and I’ve bought a lot of CDs.

All too soon, the concert was over. I had a bad feeling when Haggard whipped out Oakie From Muskogee, and sure enough, that was it. Afterwards, with a wave of their hands, the two legends left the stage while the band played them out.

On the walk back to the car, The Missus and I agreed that Haggard was still good, but Kristofferson was great. In his case, having a limited vocal instrument works to his advantage. The audience is forced to pay attention to hear him, and when they listen that close, they hear the words.

And then Kristofferson has them.