Dear Kris Kristofferson,
It’s your boy Rocco. I see you’ve decided to join the Great Gig in the Sky. I didn’t know you personally, but my dad did. So, I’m taking the time to write down a few things for both him and you, reflecting on what it was like growing up in the early '70s in the Southwest. Back then, your songs could be heard from Laredo to Lubbock, Roswell to Ruidoso, and all the way to Snowflake, Flagstaff, Needles, and eventually down in the Canyon where all the “no-good bearded hippie types” lived.
I’m pretty sure a lot of folks don’t know that you worked for Uncle Sam and were a Special Forces Captain flying choppers. They also might not realize that about 11,846 U.S. helicopters served in Vietnam during the time you were still lacing up boots. The records show 5,607 of those choppers were lost. That’s almost half. I don’t know if that’s what made you finally say, “fuck this shit” and head for Nashville, but I wouldn’t blame you if it was.
That must’ve been something—living hand to mouth, writing songs, trying to get ahead. By then, you were well into middle age and rejected by damn near every place you tried to get a gig. The Good Ol’ Boy Network still had its fat pinky-ringed fingers on most of the clubs and venues, with their ostrich-skin cowboy boots on the desks of every radio station west of the Mississippi. If you didn’t know someone on the inside, your chances of performing or getting on the air were slim to none.
But there were a few brave DJs and club owners who told those ten-gallon hat West Texas Mafia tubs of shit to “go fuck themselves.” They played what they saw fit and booked who they wanted. My old man was one of those holdouts. I remember him talking about the time this scruffy, scrawny-ass hippie showed up looking for a gig. He said, “He didn’t look like much, but when he started playing, he could take over the whole damn room. That sumbitch sang country songs like Merle Haggard while looking like Woodstock wasn’t over.” So, he gave you a few nights.
You slept out in the parking lot in that shitbox Oldsmobile, all dented up, busted mirrors, broken taillights. In the mornings, you’d come in when my dad opened the bar, sit down at the long end with a ruffled stack of papers, scribbling out song lyrics, smoking and toking like a mad bastard. Sometimes, half-drunk, you’d curse to yourself, then jump up and say, “fuck this!” before throwing the papers across the bar and storming out. You’d go back to that car and start kicking and punching it like a lunatic. So, that explained the dents. My old man was tempted to bounce your ass out, but as he was picking up your mess, he read some of what you’d written. He knew right then that you were the real deal. Boy howdy, I’d sure love to have some of those songs now.
I can tell you this: my dad listened to “Sunday Morning Coming Down” on repeat for years after you finally put your Helo skills to use by landing on Johnny Cash’s lawn to pitch your songs. I just wonder where you parked that Oldsmobile. Until then, I’m sure my old man’s happy to have someone up there who can keep up with him on the smoking and drinking. I figure you can have as much as you want in the afterlife. Meanwhile, I’ll be here, looking for my cleanest dirty shirt.
Rod’s Boy, Rocco
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