Today ’70s Outlaw-country is revered as a corrective to Nashville’s overly slick tendencies, but at the time this predecessor of the Alt-country genre was a scene defined by struggle; filmed in late ’75 and into ’76, the outlaw documentary Heartworn Highways wasn’t released theatrically until 1981. Featuring singer-songwriter heavyweights Guy Clark, Townes Van Zandt, Rodney Crowell, Steve Earle, and more, the movie has developed an understandable cult following over the decades while being frequently hard to see; on April 16 for Record Store Day Light in the Attic’s 40th anniversary box set remedies this with panache, its contents including a DVD and double LP amid a fiesta of creative packaging.
I guess it’s possible to review the soundtrack to Heartworn Highways without delving into the movie’s content, but as Light in the Attic’s box set contains both, separating the film and its OST frankly doesn’t make a lot of sense. At the core of James Szalapski’s cinema verité portrait and providing sizable enduring appeal are Clark, Van Zandt, Steve Young, Crowell, and Earle; if Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Merle Haggard, and Kris Kristofferson can be said to constitute outlaw-country’s success, then the subjects of Heartworn Highways shape up its fringe/underbelly.
However, the movie’s reach is ultimately much broader, as the time spent with these youthful outsiders gets complemented by the recollections and informal performances of an older generation, specifically bar owner Big Mack McGowan with former Uncle Dave Macon sideman Glenn Stagner and enigmatic vocalist Peggy Brooks.
Szalapski also profiles all-around controversial personality David Allen Coe en route to a gig at the Tennessee State Penitentiary, the highly productive outlaw-country songwriter’s movements ranging from an intimate display of his talent as a singer-songwriter to the delivery of a rambling and somewhat desperate monologue to the captive crowd regarding his own experience behind bars; it all contrasts interestingly with a packed high school gym show by an all-business Charlie Daniels Band.
Portions of the film delve into Larry Jon Wilson’s country-funk, Barefoot Jerry’s lap steel-driven studio wizardry, and Gamble Rogers’ storytelling/singer-songwriter hybrid to fruitful effect, yet key to Heartworn Highways achievement are its excursions into activity and opinion: Clark repairing a guitar, Van Zandt’s friend Uncle Seymour Washington pontificating in the defense of whiskey, Big Mack McGowan opining that Johnny Cash has “shot his wad” as an artist, Coe driving his own tour bus and gabbing on a CB radio. In turn, the dialogue sequences on the soundtrack are a definite plus.
Prior poster and VHS-DVD box art smartly utilized the image of Van Zandt, but if Heartworn Highways has a star it’s Guy Clark; he reappears throughout the trim 90 minutes and seems to be a mentor of sorts to Crowell and Earle. A solo version of “L.A. Freeway” from Clark’s classic ’75 LP Old No. 1 opens the album, its emotional warmth and sharp execution indicative of the whole.
Clark lands a total of five numbers on the soundtrack, three from Old No. 1 and two from its superb follow-up Texas Cookin’. He’s in such strong form across the bunch that it’s difficult to pick a highpoint, but upon reflection the especially rich “Desperadoes Waiting for a Train” takes the honors. Curiously, it’s part of the ample DVD bonus footage rather than appearing in the film itself.
The movie’s early minutes offer an enlightening glimpse into the studio construction of Larry Jon Wilson’s groover “Ohoopee River Bottomland,” its similarity to Tony Joe White heightened by both artists’ association with Monument Records. Said label is also tied to the work of Barefoot Jerry as their contribution to the film is missing from the OST; Wilson does make the cut (the greater disappointment is the lack of the Charlie Daniels Band’s absolutely smoking “Texas”).
Townes Van Zandt lends the soundtrack two of its finest moments, a tense “Waitin’ Around to Die” (“the first song I ever wrote”), his girlfriend singing along and Uncle Seymour Washington brought to tears as he plays, and a gorgeously spare “Poncho and Lefty,” probably his most famous tune providing the DVD another bonus.
David Allen Coe’s material originates from The Mysterious Rhinestone Cowboy, his oft-terrific ’74 Columbia debut after two LPs for Shelby Sumpter Singleton Jr.’s SSS International label. Rendered solo, “I Still Sing the Old Songs” is the better of the two, engaging in the reliable “remembrance and address to departed loved ones” motif without subjecting the earlobes to a stream of weepiness. Coe’s Tennessee State Pen plunge into “River” is taken at a quicker pace than his studio version, and is a solid effort underscoring his desire to satisfy an audience.
Rodney Crowell’s “Bluebird Wine” is a brisk number highlighting the introspective folk angle driven home even deeper by the intensity of Steve Young’s “Alabama Highway” (passing just last month he’s noted as the writer of “Seven Bridges Road,” a song first recorded by Joan Baez). Captured later at a Christmas Eve party attended by Clark, Crowell, Earle, Clark’s wife Susannah and others, Young’s reading of “I’m so Lonesome I Could Cry” chalks up a standout.
The comedic imagery inspired by Gamble Rogers’ “Charlie’s Place (Gamble’s Story)” additionally brings folky coffeehouse anecdote slinging to mind, though “The Black Label Blues,” a Steve Goodman-like ode to Jack Daniels (whiskey is a recurring theme here), is equally suitable for folk fests and in bars, which is where Heartworn Highways finds him.
The solo acoustic “One for the One” by a young John Hiatt makes the soundtrack and appears as a DVD bonus, and there are three formative but sturdy cuts by 19-year-old Steve Earle, who also played on Clark’s Old No. 1 during this period. As his own debut didn’t emerge until 1986, Earle can be assessed as a powerful link between the outlaw trailblazers and alt-country’s eventual flourishing, with Van Zandt and Clark figuring as strongly.
Crowell’s loose but affecting run-through of “Silent Night” from the aforementioned shindig closes out the record. Light in the Attic’s edition is a true collector’s item, coming in a custom wood box with an 80-page booklet, illustrations from Austin’s Kerry Awn, a reproduction of the original poster, a speed corrected region free DVD, a double album in a Stoughton tip-on gatefold jacket, and a download card for the entire OST. The grade below pertains to the music and movie only; considered together they remain an essential slice of American music history.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A
