Red Rocks will see a lot of green tomorrow. Willie Nelson, the “Red-Headed Stranger” who once sparked a “big fat Austin torpedo” on the White House roof (when invited in 1980 by Jimmy Carter), rolls into Colorado this week with his outlaw country menagerie. Medical marijuana has technically been legal in this state for over ten years now; Nelson’s been medicating since he was 10.
I have a somewhat optimistic theory about singing. Unless actual deafness is involved, I believe that almost anyone can learn the mechanics of it. Timbre, the character or personality of a person’s voice, is an entirely different animal. Everyone is born with a different one, and some just happen to be more pleasing to more ears than others. Willie Nelson’s was the first to pleasure mine.
I still remember it like was this morning—riding in my then best friend’s dad’s Volkswagen Rabbit along a gravel road as “Always on my Mind” came on the radio. Not a single other recording artist affected me even the slightest until I caught the Michael Jackson bug in fifth grade. Country music might have a metric shit ton of self-proclaimed haters, but Nelson’s instrument transcends genre, in my opinion, not to mention time and space.