There were many debates throughout the process, but one bears retelling. Finally, after months of phone calls, email threads, and one long, often heated summit meeting in January, we arrived at this list. A byzantine scoring system was devised, and then a smaller group-the writers with bylines below-started assigning points to records. We also formed the Committee, a group of fourteen knowledgeable fans-including Willie biographer Joe Nick Patoski, noted country historian Rich Kienzle, and songwriters Robert Earl Keen, Jack Ingram, Bruce and Charlie Robison, Monte Warden, and Damon Bramblett-who contributed ranked lists of their favorite records. We excluded bootlegs and collections made up exclusively of previously released material-no greatest hits records-and still the number we arrived at was staggering: 146 distinct, proper albums. The first step alone was a monster just identifying every album was a massive undertaking. Our plan was to listen to, rank, and review every Willie album. Late last summer, Texas Monthly set out to right the record. A fan might feel justified in thinking that the ten Willie albums they already own are all the Willie they need. He cut his first tracks in 1954 his latest album, First Rose of Spring, is due in July, and he seldom slowed down in the 66 years in between. Then there’s the matter of the sheer amount of music he’s released. So they don’t give those records a chance. Some people assume that his collaborations with lesser-known artists must be of lesser quality that his pro-weed songs of the 2010s-“Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I Die” and “It’s All Going to Pot”-must be novelties, that his 2005 reggae album, Countryman, must be a bad idea from beginning to end. Many fans tend to think that Willie’s early Nashville-sound records aren’t worth a listen because he hadn’t grown his hair out yet. But like a bad biopic, the story is oversimplified. It’s a remarkable story, a meaningful inspiration for millions of fans, a great thing to think about when you listen to Red Headed Stranger. And through it all, he has made his way by staying true to himself. He’s collaborated with everyone from Waylon Jennings to Bob Dylan to Carlos Santana to Mavis Staples to Steven Tyler to Snoop, which is a laughably small sampling of his many duet partners. He’s recorded hard-core country, western swing, gospel, flamenco, full-on orchestra, small-combo jazz, and solo acoustic music. He grew that appeal worldwide with the pop mega-stardom that came in the eighties, and then, in the three decades that have followed-right up to today-he’s done pretty much whatever he’s wanted, as often as he’s wanted, which has been extremely often.
There was his earthy rebirth in Austin in the seventies, when he started playing by his own rules and helped invent the outlaw subgenre that made country cool for a younger, rock-bred audience. There was the huge, early-sixties success writing songs like “Crazy” and “Hello Walls” for big country stars, then the failed attempt to become one himself over the rest of the decade, his talents an ill fit for a stiff Nashville mold. The contours of the career that brought him to those heights are familiar. Willie’s also one of the most important musical artists in American history, a first-name-only giant like Elvis and Ella. Willie Nelson may be the most important figure in country music history if he’s not, only Hank Williams matters more.
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