Classic ‘Heartworn Highways’ Documentary Gets Sequel 39 Years Later
April 23, 2015 - fall Denim
There’s a stage in a strange 1976 Heartworn Highways that’s spin a executive heartbeat of a cult film that chronicled Townes Van Zandt, Guy Clark, Steve Young, David Allan Coe and others as they lived, wrote strain and filled their lungs with fume and strain in Nashville, Tennessee. Van Zandt is sitting in his wood-paneled kitchen in a denim shirt, plucking “Waiting Around to Die” on a cherry red guitar. His partner sways, though “Uncle” Seymour Washington, a late blacksmith innate to former slaves, usually nods as his eyes, circled by tree-rings of wrinkles, spin bloodshot and fill with tears.
“I attempted to kill a pain, we bought some drink and hopped a train,” Van Zandt sings. “Seemed easier than usually watchful around to die.”
Less than 10 years after a assassination of Martin Luther King Jr., we wouldn’t consider a spare child from Texas competence have many to contend to a male whose family twice hold onto leisure by a thin, fraying string. But they did. Van Zandt didn’t usually pronounce his denunciation — he sang it. Washington upheld divided shortly after; he sought service too mostly in drugs and alcohol. Seemed easier than watchful around to die.
Forty years later, during a museum in Nashville, a expel of Heartworn Highways Revisited has collected for a premiere. Wayne Price — from Brooklyn, not Tennessee — destined a follow-up to a film, that follows a opposite throng — including John McCauley, Jonny Fritz, Langhorne Slim, Andrew Combs, Robert Ellis, Bobby Bare Jr., Shovels Rope and Nikki Lane —who are formulating a new era of lyrical, narrative-driven songcraft. Like what a 1981 documentary The Decline of Western Civilization meant to fledgling punk bands, a strange Heartworn Highways serves as a executive roadmap for these artists who ceremony a difference and worlds of Van Zandt and Clark — all a approach down to their denim shirts.
But a film doesn’t open adult with a nation song. Rather, it’s McCauley, many famous for his work in a sometimes-raucous Deer Tick. Even in a womb, he says, he would flog to whatever strain his mom played. Later, he brings his immature daughter, with thespian Vanessa Carlton, to a celebratory post-show during Nashville’s City Winery, where he bops her along during associate co-star Shelly Colvin’s set.
“I theory like Lady Gaga,” he says, laughing, “I was innate this way.” Price saw McCauley as a de facto Guy Clark figure — a one who brings everybody together — and Fritz, who shows adult next, as a Van Zandt, for his skewed, offbeat clarity of humor. “They’re unequivocally different,” Price tells Rolling Stone Country. “But they’re dual generations that are both unequivocally absolute songwriters.”
There’s a memorable onslaught to conclude in Nashville: what creates country, what creates pop, what creates an “outlaw.” What defines this group, even. But a choice to core around McCauley speaks loudest: this is about writers with a story to tell, who live and die for a consequence of a song, not a sold genre.
“Indie stone pulled a songwriting out of strain for a minute,” says Ellis after a premiere. “It was kind of depressing.” His executive balance in a film is “Tour Song,” about a bold realities of life on a road, juxtaposed with scenes of him and his former mother creation guacamole in their aged Nashville home. There’s no normal chorus, and he picks a mile a minute. Like Van Zandt and Clark, Ellis came to Nashville looking for a village of artists — he found it, though he found other reduction delicious things too. Like Bare Jr. comments in a film, Kris Kristofferson, if he were usually entrance adult today, would be partial of this organisation — not removing cuts on Music Row.
“Nashville is one of a usually places I’ve been where people still do give a shit about songs,” says Fritz, seated subsequent to Ellis on a high bar stool. “And where people stay adult compartment 5 a.m. geeking out about songs. I’ve lived a lot of places, and I’d never lived anywhere like that.”
There’s copiousness of geeking out about songs in Heartworn Highways Revisited, but mostly usually a lot of songs. It’s also a glance into how these artists indeed live — a debate of the inside of Fritz’ large red Dad Country van, that he jokes is like CMT Cribs, copiousness of time during vital room picking sessions, and dual unequivocally special visits behind to a homes of Clark and Coe, that are equally humorous and bittersweet. In one scene, Fritz is reminding Coe of a strain he’s given lost — Coe would rather sing about “itty bitty titties,” anyhow.
And during Clark’s house, McCauley and Fritz are tucked into his subterranean workshop, surrounded by canisters of tobacco and aged cassette tapes — 3 years ago, when filming took place, Clark had usually suffered a fall, and his face, black and blue, still shows a wounds. They’re deeper than usually a manifest scars. He lights a cigarette, after explaining how his dear mother Susanna “smoked herself to death.” She’s a theme of “My Favorite Picture of You,” that he plays for a duo, afterwards launches into “The High Price of Inspiration.”
“Inspiration with no strings,” he sings, his voice husky from a years though not a grade reduction powerful, “I’d like that even more.” Fritz blinks and dips his conduct usually so, as if to think, “How on earth do we write lines like that?” There’s many moments like that opposite a film as a artists watch any other: as they gawk during Ellis’s fingers fast glow on his guitar, on McCauley as he annals “In Our Time” with Carlton, to another internal artist, Josh Hedley, as he sings by a campfire.
“I fell in adore with Josh during this process,” says Price, on a songwriter and fiddler who’s played for Justin Townes Earle and Fritz, among many other internal friends. He’s wavering to name who stood out as a subsequent dermatitis star, but, with Hedley, he comes close. “He was always unequivocally funny, and we consider that, in time, maybe Josh, if he ends adult rising his solo career, competence finish adult it.”
Price wasn’t primarily a fan of Van Zandt, Clark or many of a new talents he detected during filming, though he sealed adult after descending in adore with Heartworn Highways in one viewing. “I had unequivocally small trust in Wayne,” says Fritz, “like, ‘You small Brooklyn shithead!’ But it incited out great.”
“Its easy to romanticize a time duration and stage prisoner in Heartworn Highways,” says Colvin. “And as a writer, we wish and dream that we too can find a place to giggle and carouse and write among others who wish a same thing. Being a partial of Heartworn Highways Revisited made me conclude a fact that I’ve found it.”
It’s one thing everybody agrees on — what creates this sold village so special, and such an relate of a strange Heartworn Highways crowd, is usually that: community. Everyone is related somehow: one impulse Fritz is filming Combs for his Eighties-riffing VHSessions (“No one knows how to pronounce it,” he laughs), a next, they’re all during internal bar Dino’s, where other equally colourful faces on a stage — including Caitlin Rose and Steelism’s Spencer Cullum Jr. — all join in for some beers and karaoke.
“Whether or not this organisation fashioned their possess existence after a strange crew, or it happened super organically, we don’t know,” says Price, who worked with strange producers Graham Leader and Brian Devine on a film. “But we felt many times when we was in a entertainment of these guys that there unequivocally was a intercourse and genuine mutual adore that we saw in a strange film.”
Clark still knows his crony Townes’ tunes too. At a finish of a film, Hedley, Fritz, Colvin and Ellis accumulate around to hear him sing Van Zandt’s classical “To Live Is to Fly,” during internal leather-goods emporium Peter Nappi. Everyone knows a words, and, in one pan, a camera lands on Hedley. It’s another “how on earth do we write lines like that?” moment, and it’s transparent that no one in this organisation is quite meddlesome in proof this or that. They usually wish write and compensate reverence to good songs.
Like, perhaps, a ones that McCauley writes. Deer Tick’s not widely famous as a songwriting band, and is infrequently lampooned for what appears, on a surface, to be “party” songs. Heartworn Highways Revisited cracks this open. McCauley’s not undiscovered — he’s hosted shows during Carnegie Hall — though maybe his words, and his low-pitched ability that sounds zero like Clark or Van Zandt or any of them though builds on a same tradition of low-pitched poetry, is a genuine solid in a rough.
“The Americana overthrow is ostensible to be about songs,” says Ellis during a party. “John McCauley is a best songwriter among us. And if you’re going to respect someone, it should be him. But since what [Deer Tick] do is also desirous by Nirvana, it doesn’t get a same sentimental thing as if we were desirous by George Jones.”
Over a march of filming, McCauley spotless up, cut his scraggly hair, gave adult binge celebration and met his now mother — in one scene, they’re cooking meatballs in her New York unit before a integrate changed behind to Nashville to have their baby. He was ill of being famous as a crazy dipsomaniac man — he wanted to have a family, a genuine life. He was sick, maybe, of watchful around to die.
“I can’t tell we because we adore stone roll,” he says, in a singular impulse vocalization directly to a camera. “I can’t tell we because we adore jazz, we can’t tell we because we adore nation music. But we can assure we that we do.”