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 BILLY JOE AND EDDY SHAVER MILES AND MILES OF HONKY-TONK SOUL October / November 2000 By David Ensminger
When his son Eddy, whose nimble, bluesy guitar is the core behind Shaver's sound, ambles up with his heavy-metal hairdo drooping down over his shoulders, Billy relaxes a bit. In truth, they haven't always been this close, but now there's a very real sense of shared vision between them, like they're beating around the old porch again, singing along to scratchy LPs. And while Willie Nelson makes the front cover of Texas Monthly as artist of the century, Shaver—a legend in his own right who embodies the outlaw country subculture that gave rise to the likes of Nelson and Waylon Jennings—lives in a trailer in Waco, Texas. He is mostly alone and overlooked, without even a mailbox (he has keys to a church, where he picks up correspondence). But he is as candid and garrulous as a 60-year-old maverick can be. You've been lying low recently. Billy Joe: My wife [to whom he was married three different times] passed away. We buried her in August [1999]. She took up so much room. She was a huge, great person. My best friend. It's really lonesome without her, because she was so dynamic, so much fun. It was harder to take than I thought. But I'm getting better. We went out and worked a good bit right after she passed, but we worked so much that the band went sideways. The drummer quit. You first became interested in music from the kids who lived at the black settlement across from your grandma's place in Corsicana, Texas? They were cotton pickers. There was pretty much always someone there playing music. They played a lot of bottleneck, mainly because their guitars were so beat up. I was influenced a lot by that. Has black music influenced you in other ways? All the way, just about. You'd be hard-pressed to beat Willie Dixon or Muddy Waters. They're about as good as it gets. We listened to more black music than anything else back then. Are you a country band? Eddy: They always ask us are you country or are you this, because you know they want to bag you, especially since the '70s. But I like to play rock clubs, where the young guys can hear us play. Critics and labels want to push you into a niche? That's when you quit. We've quit many times, in terms of certain labels. What's a true honky-tonker anyway? I don't even know where the word came from. You've put out seven records in 20 years, which is not much for a country player. But when we put out the live record, Unshaven [New West, 1999], critics noticed it and said it had more guitar firepower than most rock that year. Brendan O'Brien [the producer] from Pearl Jam recorded it. He just turned the tape on and let us play. Eddy: That was the great thing about using him. Some producers wanted to bring in fiddles and stuff, but I've been playing the stuff for 15 years and nobody's going to mess with my live show. It came out the same time that Jason and the Scorchers released their first record on Mammoth, which had a huge rock sound. Eddy: Sure. There was a lot of influence, I believe, from people like Jason and us to get back to that sound. Each record breaks people's expectations. You've done polished studio work, a live record, an acoustic record. Eddy: And the new record [no title or label yet] sounds totally different. On Highway Of Life and Victory we had a much more acoustic feel, and I felt it was time to really get out and slam again. And basically, since Tramp On Your Street, we've been successful in terms of getting to play the cool clubs. But how do those clubs feel when you do pull out the quiet Victory material? Eddy: They love it. We usually stick it in the middle, and it works well because the sounds complement each other. Do you think when you made Victory you were taking a chance, perhaps even alienating some of your audience, because of its heavy religious overtones? I was supposed to do that record. It was a deal with god. But I wish I would've waited a bit, because it caused our last record, Electric Shaver, to sit in the can, because they were made at the same time. It was supposed to come out first, but it ended up in the can, and everybody in Nashville listened to it, because someone gets a tape every time. I'm tired of stuff like that, because I wish I could make a record and put it out right then. Usually it's fresh and different then. In the past, you would stay up three or four nights in a row, because you were so full of songs. Even at 60, you're still brimming with songs. It's so easy, I'm so full of songs. It's like a hobby for me. I'm not really doing it for any other reason, except perhaps because it's the cheapest psychiatrist there is. And god knows I still need one. Eddy: And with him the unexpected is the expected. Some say that the reason you haven't gained a wider audience is because you have simply made far fewer records than most country artists, and they have been quite different from each other. But we've self-destructed a lot too, and stepped on a lot of people's toes and got into trouble. Eddy: We're happy to be at a point where we can go to good-sized rock clubs, but also still play smaller, more homey places and have full crowds. That's a great deal for us. Some people in Nashville pay producers all kinds of money and even produce videos, but don't pull the same size crowds as us and don't sell the same amount of records. When New Country took over and kicked out the older generation, it left a lot of people stranded, especially older musicians. Do you think Nashville is ageist in this way? It's true. Eddy: But as Brendan said, we're really the only power trio out there with a great country singer—there's nothing else like it in the country. The closest thing is probably Joe Ely. Eddy: Right. And we're not playing huge places, but we're happy, because we're in that same cool niche as him, and that's where we want to be anyway. I can go out and play my style of guitar to the crowds, and they understand it. Last year, we were playing venues with 500-600 people all the time, and really rocked it up, almost too much. We were going like crazy and burned some players out. Not me. But it ran some of the younger guys out. They couldn't keep up. [laughs] Eddy: You spend 12 or 15 hours getting to a place where you play for an hour and a half, and only have an hour in your hotel room between the sound check and the set, day in and day out. And we do it all in the van because we're so broke. Eddie: But that way, without buses and stuff, you come back with a little money. When you knew that Eddy wanted to play music, did it thrill you or scare you? I was happy about it. Dickey Betts saw it more than I did. He gave Eddy two guitars when he was 13 or 14, one that belonged to Duane Allman, and the Strat he stills plays today. Eddy slept with them for two years! He fell in love with them, and Dickey said, "This guy is gonna be good." Is part of your success and productivity these past years due to your collaboration with Eddy? Yeah. And we draw to us world-class players. I mean, guys who play with me will go on the road for a long time and not get paid as much, just because they want to play with me, and they want to say that they played with me. Some of them stay for just a little while, and go and get a real job. Eddy sometimes jokes that we should have called our band the Stepping Stones. You're a good reference? Yeah, we train them and they always go and get them really great jobs. Eddy, what made you commit to your dad? Eddy: The music finally really came around to where I wanted it. We have tracks like "Hottest Thing In Town" that are great, driving tracks that are totally live, and you can tell they are three-piece songs—there's no rhythm on the solos, you can tell I drop out and come back in for the rhythm part. This, in part, was the sound I was looking for, so I was happy. He started with me when he was about 14. I could have gone with what they call traditional music, but you know my songs are as country as they can be, and traditional just means you stick a fiddle or steel guitar in there and call it traditional. But we didn't want to, because it didn't feel right. I loved The Apostle, with you and Robert Duvall. It was fun. He's really easy to get along with, and he's a fan, too, on top of that. It was my first movie, and probably my last. First time I met him, at Antone's in Austin, he was doing Lonesome Dove and brought a bunch of people to see us and I met him briefly. He's a big fan of Waylon Jennings, who put out Honky Tonk Heroes in the early '70s. I wrote 10 out of the 11 songs on that record. He said he loved my work, and I thanked him and said what great work Waylon Jennings was doing, but he told me, "You're the man." About eight years later he sent word to me to try out for the part. I went to the reading and sure enough, I got the part. The first thing he told me was, "Billy, every chance you get, don't act." Part of me was that character. As a director, he had the right character already, so I didn't have to work too hard, I could just be myself. Role casting, I believe they call it. Do you ever feel pressure, from the record companies or the public, to put out THE record? That's when I walk away. What's the most important thing that happens when you make a record? Well, it all has to happen so fast because we always got such cheap budgets, we don't get another swipe at it, so I have to make sure to do my part correct. Do those limitations make it a better or worse record? In a way I think it helps because when you first write a song, it's strong. And after you play it awhile, it's not as exciting as it was. Jerry Lee Lewis, who's done a few of my songs, if he doesn't get it by the second take, he usually just says, "Next." There's something about that. And me, sometimes I get real upset with engineers, because I think I'm doing a take, and they haven't begun to roll the tape. I give them everything I got the first time. I try to get it right the first time. You've said that one of greatest things for you is to hear others do your songs. I love it. But do you feel neglected when Willie plays a 10,000-seater and does your songs? That's just the way the cards are dealt. What's the most important thing you're leaving behind, the idea of your life or your songs? I'll never be as big as those songs. When I first came to Nashville in '66, I knew they were bigger than I was. How early did you start writing? I was just a kid when I started poetry and stuff, but you couldn't let anybody know you did that 'cause they'd call you sissy and stuff. Even playing guitar and singing was considered sissy here in Texas. But Texas was a hotbed for music, like Bobby Fuller and Buddy Holly. Not in my neighborhood. How young were you when you knew you would be doing this? When I first started talking, I guess. When I was about five. Was your grandmother, who raised you, supportive? She didn't get in my way. I just sang what I knew. We didn't have a radio for a long time, just heard the people across the track [the black settlement]. I just listened to them and sang what I knew without instruments. Everybody got a kick out of it. I used to sing and sell papers on the corner in Corsicana, Texas. I thought I would make it by singing. And then the songs started coming. Has anything changed about the way you write songs in the past 30 years? No, not really. I always believe that simplicity don't need to be greased. I stick with that because I know my limitations. I wouldn't say I'm limited, but I stay in the simple thing that the most common person can understand. It's real hard to do. It's not easy to keep it simple. Do you think that some people come to the shows and are uncomfortable about how important religion is to you? All I know is it's just the deal I made. When you accept Jesus Christ you have to tell people about it. It's akin to someone having really good dope: You don't want to sit there and smoke it by yourself. That's where it is with me, he's the one that made us all number two. And I have to share that, but I ain't gonna knock nobody around about it. I just lay it out there and if they want it, fine. If they don't, they can just move on. What songs really stand out for you and never get old? Lyrically, I would say "Old Five And Dimers" is very close to Plato for me. What about "Georgia On A Fast Train"? It's fun. It's a favorite of mine. I always thought it would be a big hit, but it never was. Tom Petty does it at live shows, but hasn't recorded it. And Bob Dylan did a really different version of "Old Five And Dimers." Did you ever meet Elvis, who also covered one of your songs? When I was 17 I met him on my birthday, and he ended up doing my song. He even died on my birthday, August 16. It was kinda strange. I wish I would've gone and seen him, it was always an open invitation. I knew I could, but I put it off. What's coming up for you guys this next year? I don't know. We're gonna keep on working, like we always do. We have to, to make a living. I don't feel like I got time to quibble about things. I'm getting old now, and I'm just realistic about things. It matters to me just to get more of the music out, and I'd like to live in a style I'm not accustomed to! Money is necessary, because it's so hard to get really good players to come with me. But I always do get the best, and they stick with me as long as they can, but in the end they can make more money for less work by moving on. Any more film work? I don't know. Robert called me the other night and told me he had some stuff lined up. It would be fun working with him. But I don't know if I could work with anyone but him, because he's so down to earth and good at it. When I first got my role in The Apostle, it wasn't that big, it just developed that way. Who were your country heroes back in the late '60s? I loved Waylon Jennings. What about Merle Haggard? Oh yeah. I've met him three times, but he never remembers who I am! When you first went off to Nashville, had you recorded at all? Did you know anybody? I knew I was good with words, and wrote poems and stuff. I left Houston with $10 in my pocket and tried to hitch a ride to LA, but I couldn't get one. Finally, I walked over to the other side of the road and caught a ride to Memphis. You could've been a rock-&-roll star instead! Well, I don't know about a star. The guy pulled around the city, because he knew it was too far to walk, and set me down in the direction of Nashville, and gave me $10. I said, "Man you can't do that, I don't know if I could ever pay you back." He said, "Pass it on," which I have many times. I caught a lift on a truck loaded with cantaloupe, and smelled like 'em for a day or two. But I got to Nashville, where I sang for drunks at a few bars and made some bills. I did that for awhile, then went home to Texas and my wife. For more on Texas Musicians click here |
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