From the newest issue of rolling stone:
The Last Outlaw Poet
Kris Kristofferson's all-American journey has taken him from the Army Rangers to Nashville to Hollywood - with a few stops in the gutter along the way
ETHAN HAWKEPOSTED APR 07, 2009 1:30 PM
Standing backstage at the Beacon Theatre in New York, leaning against a crumbling brick wall in the dark, I could barely see Kris Kristofferson standing to my left. Willie Nelson was in the shadows to my right. Ray Charles was standing beside Willie, idly shifting his weight back and forth. A bit farther along the wall were Elvis Costello, Wyclef Jean, Norah Jones, Shelby Lynne, Paul Simon and respective managers, friends and family. Everybody was nervous and tight. We were there for Willie Nelson's 70th birthday concert in 2003.
Up from the basement came one of country music's brightest stars (who shall remain nameless). At that moment in time, the Star had a monster radio hit about bombing America's enemies back into the Stone Age.
"Happy birthday," the Star said to Willie, breezing by us. As he passed Kristofferson in one long, confident stride, out of the corner of his mouth came "None of that lefty shit out there tonight, Kris."
"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Kris growled, stepping forward.
"Oh, no," groaned Willie under his breath. "Don't get Kris all riled up."
"You heard me," the Star said, walking away in the darkness.
"Don't turn your back to me, boy," Kristofferson shouted, not giving a shit that basically the entire music industry seemed to be flanking him.
The Star turned around: "I don't want any problems, Kris — I just want you to tone it down."
"You ever worn your country's uniform?" Kris asked rhetorically.
"What?"
"Don't 'What?' me, boy! You heard the question. You just don't like the answer." He paused just long enough to get a full chest of air. "I asked, 'Have you ever served your country?' The answer is, no, you have not. Have you ever killed another man? Huh? Have you ever taken another man's life and then cashed the check your country gave you for doing it? No, you have not. So shut the fuck up!" I could feel his body pulsing with anger next to me. "You don't know what the hell you are talking about!"
"Whatever," the young Star muttered.
Ray Charles stood motionless. Willie Nelson looked at me and shrugged mischievously like a kid in the back of the classroom.
Kristofferson took a deep inhale and leaned against the wall, still vibrating with adrenaline. He looked over at Willie as if to say, "Don't say a word." Then his eyes found me.
"You know what Waylon Jennings said about guys like him?" he whispered.
I shook my head.
"They're doin' to country music what pantyhose did to finger-fuckin'."
Kris Kristofferson is cut from a thicker, more intricate cloth than most celebrities today: Imagine if Brad Pitt had also written a Number One single for someone like Amy Winehouse, was considered among the finest songwriters of his generation, had been a Rhodes scholar, a U.S. Army Airborne Ranger, a boxer, a professional helicopter pilot — and was as politically outspoken as Sean Penn. That's what a motherfuckin' badass Kris Kristofferson was in 1979. And now if you go online and watch the video for his 2006 song "In the News," it's obvious he is still very much that man.
The son of an Air Force general, Kris walked to grade school barefoot in Brownsville, Texas. He graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Pomona College, studied William Blake and Shakespeare at Oxford, became a U.S. Army captain, was assigned to teach literature at West Point and then abruptly dropped out of the Army to become a songwriter.
Forty years later, Kristofferson is a unique figure in the history of American music and cinema. The late Sixties and the Seventies saw a creative explosion for American artists. Cinema and rock & roll were in a full-blown renaissance, and Kristofferson stood dead center in both revolutions. He wrote a Number One hit single for Janis Joplin, played at Jimi Hendrix's last concert, appeared on The Johnny Cash Show with other "new discoveries" like Neil Young, Joni Mitchell and James Taylor, won three Grammy Awards, starred in films directed by the likes of Martin Scorsese, Paul Mazursky and Sam Peckinpah, and became one of the hottest male actors in the U.S. after appearing in A Star Is Born.
Then he played the lead in one of the largest commercial failures in film history, Heaven's Gate. Kris took the bullet and was shunned from the mainstream, disappearing back into the counterculture.
Today, Kris' songs have been recorded by more than 500 artists, and he has acted in more than 70 films. In 2006, at the age of 69, he released what is perhaps his finest album, This Old Road. I had been at Willie Nelson's 70th birthday concert to introduce Kristofferson, whom I had directed in the movie Chelsea Walls in 1999. After both of those experiences, I was enthralled by this man who had lived through so much success and so much failure, both personal and professional, and who had survived with his dignity intact, if not actually heightened. This Old Road motivated me to pitch Kris the idea of my making a documentary about him.
"With all that's happening in the world today, why would you want to make a film about me?" he asked over the phone. "Let me take you around to a few places I know, and we'll find some real subject matter."
I told him that I was aware the world was full of suffering but that I had just seen an old documentary about Woody Guthrie and I was damn glad someone made it.
"Yeah, I'd like to see that," he said, grudgingly. "It's just that whole hero-worship thing that bugs me. The cult of personality, you know?"
I explained that I was born in Austin, Texas, in 1970, to a 20-year-old father who did, and still does, a killer cover of "Me and Bobby McGee." My dad plays the song slower than Janis Joplin did. He pores over the lyrics, enjoying each rhyme, his voice heavy with that song's melancholy sense of loss. "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose," my dad will repeat, and then often add, "That may be the best song ever written." One Sunday morning, we skipped church to go see an early showing of the film Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid. For me, Kris has always been a part of the landscape of my country — an amalgamation of John Wayne and Walt Whitman.
As an artist who has tried more than one genre from time to time, I told Kris I felt I had a lot to learn from him, and that I didn't want to let the opportunity slip away. Eventually we agreed on a compromise: an in-depth interview about his life and work.
I've just got to wonder
what my daddy would've done
If he'd seen the way they turned his
dream around
I've got to go by what he told me
Try to tell the truth and
stand your ground
Don't let the bastards get you down.
— "Don't Let the Bastards Get You Down"
It's an awkward thing to invite your hero to your house. Early in September 2008, Kris, 72, is seated on my red couch in his black jeans, gray T-shirt and a pair of ancient cowboy boots. As a music fan, I had dreamed of the encounter, but the unforeseen interloper is my own need to express myself, asking questions quickly and then just as rapidly answering them. Periodically, I let him speak.
"What does it feel like to survive a lifetime in the arts with your integrity intact? Why does masculine energy so often manifest itself as idiocy? Why is male sensitivity so often linked with perceived weakness?" I continue, "How do I talk about my beliefs about the war to my brother who just returned home from his second tour in Iraq and one in Afghanistan, when in truth I admire him so much and am actually envious of the courage of his convictions? How do you enjoy your life and at the same time stay responsible to all those who don't have enough to eat? Who are your heroes?" For a moment, I wait for an answer, then decide to plow forward. "I mean, what happened to the great Southern-progressive Democrat? My grandfather helped kick the Ku Klux Klan out of West Texas." I tell him this as if he's interviewing me. "What did LBJ mean when he signed the Civil Rights Act saying, 'I just lost the South for the Democratic Party for the next 50 years?' Where are the voices like his? How does one be, as Johnny Cash said, 'a dove with claws?'"
Kris just kind of laughs. I expect him to say, "I agreed to be interviewed, not to be your goddamn guru!" But he doesn't. He takes a long beat, then says, "Yeah, that used to piss Shel Silverstein off."
"What did?" I ask.
"That whole 'dove with claws' thing. He just thought, 'What the hell is that?' " Kris smiles. He has an easy way about him, slow to speak and gentle in his movements.
"Why do you think Cash said it?"
"I think he was feeling the very thing that you're talking about — that if people think you are against the war, that in some way you're a pussy."
For the rest of Ethan Hawke's profile of Kris Kristofferson, check out the latest issue of Rolling Stone on newsstands now.
http://www.rollingstone.com/news/story/27113898/the_last_outlaw_poet
The Last Outlaw Poet
Kris Kristofferson's all-American journey has taken him from the Army Rangers to Nashville to Hollywood - with a few stops in the gutter along the way
ETHAN HAWKEPOSTED APR 07, 2009 1:30 PM
Standing backstage at the Beacon Theatre in New York, leaning against a crumbling brick wall in the dark, I could barely see Kris Kristofferson standing to my left. Willie Nelson was in the shadows to my right. Ray Charles was standing beside Willie, idly shifting his weight back and forth. A bit farther along the wall were Elvis Costello, Wyclef Jean, Norah Jones, Shelby Lynne, Paul Simon and respective managers, friends and family. Everybody was nervous and tight. We were there for Willie Nelson's 70th birthday concert in 2003.
Up from the basement came one of country music's brightest stars (who shall remain nameless). At that moment in time, the Star had a monster radio hit about bombing America's enemies back into the Stone Age.
"Happy birthday," the Star said to Willie, breezing by us. As he passed Kristofferson in one long, confident stride, out of the corner of his mouth came "None of that lefty shit out there tonight, Kris."
"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Kris growled, stepping forward.
"Oh, no," groaned Willie under his breath. "Don't get Kris all riled up."
"You heard me," the Star said, walking away in the darkness.
"Don't turn your back to me, boy," Kristofferson shouted, not giving a shit that basically the entire music industry seemed to be flanking him.
The Star turned around: "I don't want any problems, Kris — I just want you to tone it down."
"You ever worn your country's uniform?" Kris asked rhetorically.
"What?"
"Don't 'What?' me, boy! You heard the question. You just don't like the answer." He paused just long enough to get a full chest of air. "I asked, 'Have you ever served your country?' The answer is, no, you have not. Have you ever killed another man? Huh? Have you ever taken another man's life and then cashed the check your country gave you for doing it? No, you have not. So shut the fuck up!" I could feel his body pulsing with anger next to me. "You don't know what the hell you are talking about!"
"Whatever," the young Star muttered.
Ray Charles stood motionless. Willie Nelson looked at me and shrugged mischievously like a kid in the back of the classroom.
Kristofferson took a deep inhale and leaned against the wall, still vibrating with adrenaline. He looked over at Willie as if to say, "Don't say a word." Then his eyes found me.
"You know what Waylon Jennings said about guys like him?" he whispered.
I shook my head.
"They're doin' to country music what pantyhose did to finger-fuckin'."
Kris Kristofferson is cut from a thicker, more intricate cloth than most celebrities today: Imagine if Brad Pitt had also written a Number One single for someone like Amy Winehouse, was considered among the finest songwriters of his generation, had been a Rhodes scholar, a U.S. Army Airborne Ranger, a boxer, a professional helicopter pilot — and was as politically outspoken as Sean Penn. That's what a motherfuckin' badass Kris Kristofferson was in 1979. And now if you go online and watch the video for his 2006 song "In the News," it's obvious he is still very much that man.
The son of an Air Force general, Kris walked to grade school barefoot in Brownsville, Texas. He graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Pomona College, studied William Blake and Shakespeare at Oxford, became a U.S. Army captain, was assigned to teach literature at West Point and then abruptly dropped out of the Army to become a songwriter.
Forty years later, Kristofferson is a unique figure in the history of American music and cinema. The late Sixties and the Seventies saw a creative explosion for American artists. Cinema and rock & roll were in a full-blown renaissance, and Kristofferson stood dead center in both revolutions. He wrote a Number One hit single for Janis Joplin, played at Jimi Hendrix's last concert, appeared on The Johnny Cash Show with other "new discoveries" like Neil Young, Joni Mitchell and James Taylor, won three Grammy Awards, starred in films directed by the likes of Martin Scorsese, Paul Mazursky and Sam Peckinpah, and became one of the hottest male actors in the U.S. after appearing in A Star Is Born.
Then he played the lead in one of the largest commercial failures in film history, Heaven's Gate. Kris took the bullet and was shunned from the mainstream, disappearing back into the counterculture.
Today, Kris' songs have been recorded by more than 500 artists, and he has acted in more than 70 films. In 2006, at the age of 69, he released what is perhaps his finest album, This Old Road. I had been at Willie Nelson's 70th birthday concert to introduce Kristofferson, whom I had directed in the movie Chelsea Walls in 1999. After both of those experiences, I was enthralled by this man who had lived through so much success and so much failure, both personal and professional, and who had survived with his dignity intact, if not actually heightened. This Old Road motivated me to pitch Kris the idea of my making a documentary about him.
"With all that's happening in the world today, why would you want to make a film about me?" he asked over the phone. "Let me take you around to a few places I know, and we'll find some real subject matter."
I told him that I was aware the world was full of suffering but that I had just seen an old documentary about Woody Guthrie and I was damn glad someone made it.
"Yeah, I'd like to see that," he said, grudgingly. "It's just that whole hero-worship thing that bugs me. The cult of personality, you know?"
I explained that I was born in Austin, Texas, in 1970, to a 20-year-old father who did, and still does, a killer cover of "Me and Bobby McGee." My dad plays the song slower than Janis Joplin did. He pores over the lyrics, enjoying each rhyme, his voice heavy with that song's melancholy sense of loss. "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose," my dad will repeat, and then often add, "That may be the best song ever written." One Sunday morning, we skipped church to go see an early showing of the film Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid. For me, Kris has always been a part of the landscape of my country — an amalgamation of John Wayne and Walt Whitman.
As an artist who has tried more than one genre from time to time, I told Kris I felt I had a lot to learn from him, and that I didn't want to let the opportunity slip away. Eventually we agreed on a compromise: an in-depth interview about his life and work.
I've just got to wonder
what my daddy would've done
If he'd seen the way they turned his
dream around
I've got to go by what he told me
Try to tell the truth and
stand your ground
Don't let the bastards get you down.
— "Don't Let the Bastards Get You Down"
It's an awkward thing to invite your hero to your house. Early in September 2008, Kris, 72, is seated on my red couch in his black jeans, gray T-shirt and a pair of ancient cowboy boots. As a music fan, I had dreamed of the encounter, but the unforeseen interloper is my own need to express myself, asking questions quickly and then just as rapidly answering them. Periodically, I let him speak.
"What does it feel like to survive a lifetime in the arts with your integrity intact? Why does masculine energy so often manifest itself as idiocy? Why is male sensitivity so often linked with perceived weakness?" I continue, "How do I talk about my beliefs about the war to my brother who just returned home from his second tour in Iraq and one in Afghanistan, when in truth I admire him so much and am actually envious of the courage of his convictions? How do you enjoy your life and at the same time stay responsible to all those who don't have enough to eat? Who are your heroes?" For a moment, I wait for an answer, then decide to plow forward. "I mean, what happened to the great Southern-progressive Democrat? My grandfather helped kick the Ku Klux Klan out of West Texas." I tell him this as if he's interviewing me. "What did LBJ mean when he signed the Civil Rights Act saying, 'I just lost the South for the Democratic Party for the next 50 years?' Where are the voices like his? How does one be, as Johnny Cash said, 'a dove with claws?'"
Kris just kind of laughs. I expect him to say, "I agreed to be interviewed, not to be your goddamn guru!" But he doesn't. He takes a long beat, then says, "Yeah, that used to piss Shel Silverstein off."
"What did?" I ask.
"That whole 'dove with claws' thing. He just thought, 'What the hell is that?' " Kris smiles. He has an easy way about him, slow to speak and gentle in his movements.
"Why do you think Cash said it?"
"I think he was feeling the very thing that you're talking about — that if people think you are against the war, that in some way you're a pussy."
For the rest of Ethan Hawke's profile of Kris Kristofferson, check out the latest issue of Rolling Stone on newsstands now.
http://www.rollingstone.com/news/story/27113898/the_last_outlaw_poet
