I’m thinking about Townes Van Zandt tonight. Someone on Facebook sent me a video of him singing Tecumseh Valley with Nanci Griffith. I watched the video and tears came to my eyes as my heart and mind were flooded with images and memories.  

When my son was very young, I introduced him to Pancho and Lefty, a song popularized by a duet of Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard. Unbeknownst to most, it had been written several years earlier by Townes Van Zandt, an underappreciated singer/songwriter who never made it big with the public but was revered by other artists and folk/country  cognozenti.  My son loved the Willie/Merle recording like I did; for a while he had even insisted I call him Lefty. I don’t know if he remembers those times but I know he  must remember Townes, because Townes is hard to forget.

In the late 80’s, my son was six or seven and he then (and for many years thereafter) got a kick out of going with me to various Chicago restaurants I frequented. His favorites were the steakhouses where I was known by name to various servers and hosts. He felt like we were big shots, not knowing my status was such primarily because I was a generous tipper, secondarily due to my having represented several of the regular patrons of these establishments, and not because I was anyone special. On a particular early evening, I took him to O’Brien’s, a favorite steak joint of local politicians, lawyers, and entertainers. It was located on Wells Street in Old Town in the midst of the then-dying Chicago folk music scene. We were seated at a small table when two scruffy looking middle aged guys walked by. One was Fred Holstein, a local folkie and club owner who I knew very casually and minimally as I had defended a friend of his on a marijuana case a couple years earlier. Fred noticed me, stopped and said hello. He introduced his companion as Townes Van Zandt, and me as a local criminal lawyer. After shaking hands with Townes and telling him how much I admired his music, I turned to my son and told him that Townes had written Pancho and Lefty. My little boy responded “No. Willie Nelson.” Townes, who was flamboyantly already drunk or high, laughed and then feigned anger at the affront. Townes said, “Willie stole that song from me, kid. I am Pancho.” My son immediately replied, “I’m Lefty.” We all laughed and Townes told my boy that he had a little boy at home about the same age and that he missed him. As the two folkies moved on, Townes asked me for my business card, saying you never know, he might need me some day.

As my son and I eventually got up to leave, Fred approached me again and suggested we stop at his club not far away on Lincoln Avenue. He said Townes was going to do a little set and he was going to do Pancho and Lefty for my son. Tired as my little boy was, he wanted to hear “Pancho” sing. When we arrived at the dark and dank and nearly empty “Holstein’s” (very soon to close its doors forever), we sat at a side table so as to make my youngster as inconspicuous as possible. Soon, Townes appeared and accompanied only by his acoustic guitar, sang to a few sad-looking people at the bar, me, and my young son. He did If I needed You, then Tecumseh Valley , and introduced the next song as “for little Lefty there who thinks Willie and Merle’s version is better.” With a glint in his half-closed eyes, and in his kinda gruff alcohol-ravaged voice, he continued, “It probably is, but I wrote it!” He sang Pancho and Lefty. After a smattering of applause, he ambled over to the bar, My son and I waved our thanks and goodbyes to him and I took my half-asleep boy home to his bed and his pillow which I’m sure was filled with dreams of cowboys and outlaws.

Townes Van Zandt called me the very next day. Said he had a legal matter to discuss with me. I met him  that afternoon at a bar on Clark Street near my office. We discussed some problems he was having with his manager and also some questions he had about the legal status of his latest marriage. I told him these matters were outside my expertise, gave him some curbside advice, and suggested he contact a lawyer back home in Tennessee. We then spent a couple hours talking about Dylan (who he seemed to admire but for whom he also expressed some envy), women, and his own labyrinth of addiction. He thought that root music, genius, madness and drugs were  inextricably associated. He seemed sad and compromised, fundamental in his outlook, but very bright and somehow still hopeful. And he was funny with a sharp offhand wit. In that period of fewer than 24 hours, for his vulnerable humanity and his singular genius, he had become a hero for me.

I never saw or talked to Townes Van Zandt again. Of course, I listened to his music constantly and intently for a while thereafter. After he died young (supposedly of a heart attack, but certainly drug/alcohol related) in the late 90’s, I began to listen to his music again. I thought that, fittingly, like him, it was sad and compromised, fundamental, but still somehow hopeful. Also like him, it is a sheer revelation. If you get a chance, take a listen and, while you’re at it, say a prayer for Pancho.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YtzgwNDZAs4&feature=share