The day Merle Haggard died, I found myself talking to a friend who has served as a makeup artist in Nashville’s music industry for more years than she would like to admit. “When people ask me how long I’ve been working in the business,” she said, “I tell them I’ve been doing this since Merle Haggard was the best-looking man in country music.”
The contrast between the young musician and the elderly singer was stark—from fresh-faced movie star appearance to a stooped, haunted cragginess. It was as though the early Haggard was the anomaly, not the old Merle. He aged into his voice—a voice that conveyed from the very beginning defiance, resolve, disillusionment, and weariness. He wasn’t just Haggard; he was haggard.
Johnny Cash once told Haggard, “You’re the guy people think I am.” Cash recorded albums at San Quentin; Haggard was there in the audience, as an inmate. He was the son of “Okie” migrants to California, fleeing economic devastation and treated in their new home as immigrants often are—with stereotypes and derision. He was imprisoned at an early age, though not quite (as he sang in “Mama Tried”) doing “life without parole,” and was pardoned by California Governor Ronald Reagan. Like many in his band of outlaw troubadours, he found marrying much easier than staying married. When he sang, “She was always there, each time I needed you,” it sounded like he knew what he was talking about.
