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Heartworn Highways
Directed by Jim Szalapski
Catfish Entertainment
By Jud Block
 Very few people seem entirely
satisfied with the time they are currently living through. Nearly
everyone I know, myself included, either wishes they could have
existed in another era or that they had been old enough to appreciate
an experience trivialized by the ignorance and arrogance of youth.
You can place me unwaveringly into the latter category. Way back
in the days before cell phones ruled the Earth - - a quark-sized
smudge on the time-space continuum known as the '80s - - I was
attending James Martin High School in Arlington, Texas. And during
my junior year, a buddy and me had the chance to drive into Dallas
to see the then cutting edge Cowboy Junkies play. When we got
to the theatre, we were disappointed to discover that before
we could hear Margo Timmons mumble her way through "Sweet
Jane" that we would first be subjected to some guy named
Townes Van Zandt. Well, when this scraggly-looking old guy walked
onto the stage with just a guitar and started singing slightly
off-key, me and my buddy mocked the hell out of him and felt
pretty damn good about ourselves once it was all over and done;
basically, thanks to naivete and a teenagers' inability to see
anywhere beyond himself, I had pissed away my one and only chance
to see a Texas songwriting legend and a man who would one day
become a major influence on nearly everything musical in my life.
But now thanks to the re-release of Jim Szalapski's legendary
documentary on DVD, Heartworn Highways, we are all offered
a rare insight into the genesis of what became known as the Outlaw
movement in country music as well as the seminal figures that
shaped Texas music and today's alt-country artists - - and for
some of us, perhaps, a chance to go back, in a way, and pay penance
for our minor musical sins.
One of the most important aspects of the film is that the
viewer is unhindered by the ramblings of a narrator; instead,
you are provided a seat at a kitchen table, on a tour bus or
backstage with some of Outlaw country's rising "stars"
and allowed to draw your own conclusions as to what may be motivating
these men to create the music they have chosen to play. Their
stories are told through their words without the dilution of
a middleman to explain or surmise, and that is from where the
power of this documentary comes. Well, that and the classic music
that pervades it. As Heartworn Highways opens, a familiar
guitar riff is heard accompanied by a voice that is at once known
and foreign. Then a very young Guy Clark emerges on the screen
playing "L.A Freeway." It's then that the goosebumps,
which will rarely take leave from that point, first appear. The
anachronistic image of his youthful face and that elderly voice,
which Guy seems to have always had, is one of the more striking
in the entire film. I was also amazed at how much Jack Ingram
resembles the young Guy Clark - - one of the many connections
between what these musicians in the '70s and some of our modern
alt-country, Americana troubadours were and are trying to do.
But this is just the first step the film takes into the music
and the lives of its makers.
We are allowed to go into the studio with one of the documentary's
biggest surprises, at least for me, since I'd never heard of
him before, Larry Jon Wilson. We see how a song comes together
as Larry Jon guides a group of session men in order to get just
the right sound for his Tony Joe White style country blues. We
see Townes Van Zandt, with trusty whiskey bottle in one hand
and a rifle in the other, as he gives a tour of his property
and displays an unexpectedly keen sense of humor considering
the melancholy of his songs. And he introduces Uncle Seymour,
a 70-something-year-old blacksmith (in the word's most literal
sense), who provides us with another of the film's most powerful
scenes when he is moved to tears as Townes plays "Waitin'
Around to Die." Then there's a trip to Guy Clark's workshop
where we stand right next to him as he repairs another musician's
guitar and waxes on about why bone is preferable to wood when
making a bridge. Basically, the documentary does a damn good
job of balancing the man with the musician; of course, back then
no one knew that Guy and Townes would one day be legendary, but
today it is nice to see a three-dimensional image of these nearly
mythic figures. Then there's David Allan Coe . . .
This documentary won't help much in convincing you of David
Allan's stability, but it should go a long way into explaining
his genius. His portion of the film, of course, revolves around
going to play a show at a penitentiary in Tennessee. The tales
he tells about his life before, during and after - - but mostly
during - - his incarcerations illuminate his music much better
than the pimp daddy Kid Coe ramblings on his recent Billy Bob's
DVD. And if his song about his grandfather doesn't cause you
to get a little misty, then you probably killed yours. The only
moment that really caused me to hesitate centers around what
DAC chose to wear for his prison performance. Hey, I know he
was the original Rhinestone Cowboy and flamboyance has always
been part of his style, but looking like Gary Glitter as you
tell a story about barely escaping your own personal tunneling
while in prison. . . .Well, anyway, the man is a great, misunderstood
songwriter, and his complexity becomes even clearer through the
lens of this film.
The final scene of the documentary takes place at a jam session
in what looks to be Guy Clark's kitchen. Having Guy Clark, Steve
Young and Rodney Crowell sitting around playing songs all night
would be memorable enough, but what makes this particular scene
even more so is the presence of an extremely young Steve Earle.
Looking like the washed out stoner kid who everyone avoided in
school, he belts out the first ever recorded version of "Mercenary
Song." His slight awkwardness and obvious adoration of those
around him is in direct contrast to his modern pompous didacticism,
but he hadn't discovered a little portion of the Truth yet. Toward
the end of the evening Steve Earle starts singing "Silent
Night" and slowly the rest begin to join in. Truly, an almost
religious experience.
For anyone out there interested in the roots of Outlaw and
modern Texas music as well as the influences behind today's alt-country
artists, Heartworn Highways is your Rosetta Stone. My
only complaint would be that Steve Young should have been featured
more instead of being relegated to the relatively minor role
of side man. But that oversight is quickly forgiven when, as
the credits begin to roll, you are struck by just how much of
the veil over these now legendary musicians has been lifted.
Contact Jud Block at jud-at-rockzilla.net
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