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Clip: Lee Hazlewood's goodbye

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  • Carl Z.
    One Last Walk for the Man Behind These Boots By SIA MICHEL Published: January 28, 2007 HENDERSON,
    Message 1 of 1 , Jan 28, 2007
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      One Last Walk for the Man Behind 'These Boots'

      Published: January 28, 2007

      HENDERSON, Nev.

      LEE HAZLEWOOD is ready to die. Suffering excruciating pain from renal
      cancer, Mr. Hazlewood, the reclusive singer, songwriter and producer
      doesn't have much time left, maybe a year if he's lucky. So he has
      been preparing for what he calls his impending "dirt nap."

      He has decided he wants to be cremated, and to have his ashes strewn
      on a Swedish island where he composed some of his favorite songs. He
      has chosen his epitaph: "Didn't he ramble," referring to his
      loner-drifter nature. He has already given away most of his gold and
      platinum records, which he earned making hits for Duane Eddy, Dean
      Martin and Nancy Sinatra, including "These Boots Are Made for
      Walkin'," one of the most famous pop songs of all time. He has
      released his swan song, the quirky album "Cake or Death," which hit
      stores last week. And he married his longtime girlfriend, Jeane
      Kelley, in a drive-through ceremony in Las Vegas.

      "It was like going to McDonald's," Mr. Hazlewood said of their
      November wedding, sitting in his living room in a small, tidy house.
      "You stay in the car and go up to the window. The preacher was a
      Frenchman. Afterwards my granddaughter threw rose petals on the hood."

      Mrs. Hazlewood, smiling, said: "He just wanted to make me a legal
      woman. After 15 years together."

      Mr. Hazlewood, who was married twice before, kept cracking dark jokes
      about his health ("Dying really drives your price up"), though he
      stressed that being "ready to go doesn't mean you're through with your
      life." He dotes on his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, whose
      pictures adorn a wall in the TV room, next to a huge portrait of
      himself, wearing shades. But, he said: "I'm 77. I've been around long
      enough now. I've lived a pretty interesting life — not too much
      sadness, a lot of happiness, lots of fun. And I didn't do much of
      anything I didn't want to do."

      True, he is one of the more iconoclastic figures of 20th-century pop,
      a cantankerous, hard-living innovator who walked away from fame and
      fortune whenever he felt like it. One of the major hitmakers of the
      '50s and '60s, he helped Duane Eddy shape twang-rock, transformed
      Nancy Sinatra into a megastar and, on his LHI label, released what is
      widely considered the first country-rock record, by Gram Parsons's
      International Submarine Band. And he made a series of beautifully
      oddball solo albums that were mostly unheard in America, until a
      member of Sonic Youth reissued them in the '90s.

      Today Mr. Hazlewood is sadly unsung, which is partly his own fault. He
      spent decades trying to disappear, flitting between Europe and the
      United States — particularly those states with no personal income tax.
      "I'm kind of a bum," he said.

      His quirky genius stems from a desire to make sounds he never heard
      before; he summed it up as "not normal" music. In the '50s he was
      inspired to stick a microphone and an amp in a grain elevator, to
      capture the spooky reverb effect heard on Mr. Eddy's classics. Some
      conspiracy theorists think he inspired Phil Spector's "wall of sound"
      (the two men briefly worked together), or that Mr. Spector even stole
      the production technique from him.

      "Phil was not influenced by me at all," Mr. Hazlewood said
      emphatically. "His records were just genius, and if you think I would
      have come up with the wall of sound and given it to Phil Spector,
      you're out of your mind."

      Mr. Hazlewood's own music grew increasingly experimental over the
      years. Born in the tiny town of Mannford, Okla., he favors vaguely
      country-western pop with sweet melodies and symphonic orchestration,
      sung in a stunning baritone as deep and sticky as a tar pit. "I think
      his voice has the kind of stature that Johnny Cash's had," Beck said.
      "It has a gravity that allows him to be sincere and tongue-in-cheek at
      the same time. It's that immense voice of experience, not expecting
      any kindness from humanity other than a spare cigarette."

      Mr. Hazlewood's wry tales feature boozers and misfits, stooges and
      undertakers, summer wine and dames on death row. There are O. Henry
      endings, cheesy voice-overs and concept albums about Loserville
      ("Trouble Is a Lonesome Town," 1963) and bad breakups ("Requiem for an
      Almost Lady," 1971). Today his sound is often called cowboy
      psychedelia, best represented by the trippy "Some Velvet Morning." But
      it's a genre of one: no one else has ever sounded quite like him.

      He had a knack for mainstream pop too. Dean Martin interpreted his
      jaunty wandering-man lark "Houston," a huge hit in the mid-'60s. They
      bonded over a love of scotch: Mr. Martin was a J&B man, Mr. Hazlewood
      drank Chivas Regal. "Here's Dean Martin drinking J&B and I'm drinking
      something which is twice as much money and twice as good," he said,
      shaking his head with mild disgust. "I didn't drink to get drunk. I
      drank as a reward, and I only drank the good stuff."

      Soon Frank Sinatra wanted him to fix the floundering career of his
      daughter Nancy. Despite a decade-plus age difference, Mr. Hazlewood
      and Ms. Sinatra hit it off; they remain close friends. He thought that
      she was too cutesy, that she needed to seem more like
      truck-driver-dating jailbait. "He was part Henry Higgins and part
      Sigmund Freud," Ms. Sinatra said by telephone. "He was far from the
      country bumpkin people considered him at the time. I had a horrible
      crush on him, but he was married then."

      Romance rumors swirled, but they never had an affair, Mr. Hazlewood
      said, "and now we're old enough to tell you if we did."

      When he played her "These Boots Are Made for Walkin'," a song he'd
      written in 1963, she knew it could be huge as soon as she heard the
      descending, quarter-tone bass line. By 1966 it was a No. 1 hit, and
      she was known as a sassy go-go-boot-wearing sexpot who doesn't let any
      man push her around. She and Mr. Hazlewood recorded a long string of
      chart-hogging duets — "Sundown, Sundown," "Jackson" — transforming a
      short 30-something with a bushy mustache into an unlikely pop star.
      "He called us the beauty and the beast," Ms. Sinatra said.

      She hated being alone, so they shared a dressing room during tours.
      The problem was, Mr. Hazlewood walked around naked, which was fine
      with her but didn't sit well with visiting journalists. She begged him
      to put on some underwear.

      "In those days I didn't wear shorts, ever," Mr. Hazlewood recalled.
      "Showing my butt is not any big thing with me, never has been."

      Ms. Sinatra said: "Nature boy. He was proud of his assets."

      Luckily her father didn't mind. "We got along great," Mr. Hazlewood
      said. "Frank thought I was about two-thirds funny, and I thought he
      was about 90 percent clever. He had names for everyone. He called me
      Country. But I could never get used to hearing someone call Frank
      Sinatra Daddy." The two men worked together on "This Town" and
      "Somethin' Stupid," a hit duet with Nancy.

      In 1969 Mr. Hazlewood was asked to work his magic on the bombshell
      actress-singer Ann-Margret. They posed naked for the artwork of the
      album "The Cowboy & the Lady." Well, almost: she's wearing a
      strategically placed umbrella, and he's wearing a gun.

      "We were extremely cold," Ann-Margret said in a telephone interview,
      "but we had such fun. He had that darling, aw-shucks demeanor, but he
      was sharp — and a bad, bad boy." (No affair, Mr. Hazlewood said: she
      was married.)

      Then, at the height of his success, Mr. Hazlewood shocked everyone in
      1970 by suddenly moving to Sweden, where he lived for much of the
      following decade. He recorded some of his finest solo work there (like
      the gorgeous "Cowboy in Sweden") but his career never regained

      "It was crazy," Ms. Sinatra said. "And he really left me in the lurch.
      He kept shooting himself in the foot all the time, and I never knew
      why. He was always his own worst enemy."

      MR. HAZLEWOOD could barely sleep the night before his interview,
      wracked with organ-deep aches that even "doping up" didn't ease. He
      was told he had cancer about a year and a half ago, and has since lost
      a kidney. The operation left him with a large, unsightly bump on his
      side. "If you're going to die of cancer, you might as well have a
      hump," he said.

      Nonetheless he looked and sounded surprisingly good, dressed like a
      young rocker in baggy black pants, tinted shades and a baseball cap
      with an embroidered dragon. He seemed much younger than 77, given his
      sarcastic asides and tales of Viking skeletons and fights at Hollywood
      restaurants. Far from prickly, he was charismatic and
      self-deprecating, asking his wife to finish some stories because "she
      tells 'em much better."

      He doesn't listen to much music anymore, though he said he loved Beck
      "before I even knew that he was a fan." Beck was turned on to his
      music by Steve Shelley of Sonic Youth, who gave him a tape in the
      early '90s. Meanwhile rockers like Pulp's Jarvis Cocker were saluting
      his music as forgotten art, not kitsch. A few years later Mr. Shelley
      got permission to reissue some of Mr. Hazlewood's out-of-print albums
      on Smells Like Records, his indie label; they sell about 5,000 to
      10,000 copies each per year, according to the label.

      "This all surprised the hell out of me," Mr. Hazlewood recalled. In
      1999 he released a comeback record with a self-sabotaging title:
      "Farmisht, Flatulence, Origami, ARF!!! and Me."

      "I don't know if I was born to be in this business or not," he said.

      He originally wanted to be a doctor. He was raised "like a Gypsy," as
      his father was an oil wildcatter and the family followed him around
      Arkansas, Kansas and Texas, settling in Port Neches, Tex., during Mr.
      Hazlewood's high school years. One grandfather was a judge, married to
      a teacher who was half American Indian; the other was a rancher who
      taught him how to ride horses and herd cows.

      "I had the happiest childhood on record," Mr. Hazlewood said. "People
      tell me I'd have been a much better songwriter if I had a sad one."

      Mr. Hazlewood studied medicine, but left school to serve in the Korean
      War. Later a stint at broadcasting school led to a songwriting hobby
      and a radio D.J. gig in Arizona. By the mid-'50s he was championing an
      unknown guitar virtuoso named Duane Eddy.

      Mr. Eddy appears on "Cake or Death," reinterpreting the original,
      pre-Nancy version of "These Boots," which has a ghostlier melody few
      have heard before. An eccentric collection of new songs, covers and
      reworkings of Hazlewood classics, the album is far from a soft-focus,
      navel-gazing meditation on death. Mr. Hazlewood is going out the way
      he lived, fearless and cranky: he slams the Iraq war on "Baghdad
      Nights," mocks gated-community types in "White People Thing" and
      proudly salutes his liberal beliefs — "I never did vote Republican" —
      in the bluesy "Anthem." "Fred Freud" imagines Sigmund Freud's
      down-home American brother and features Mr. Hazlewood's favorite
      lyric: "No kisses or posies can kill your neuroses."

      But at the end he suddenly grabs for the heart: the melancholy,
      string-driven ballad "T.O.M. (The Old Man)" presents a dying singer
      who accepts that the world will be just as beautiful without him. He
      wrote it for his new wife, the only woman he said he was ever in "real
      love" with. A former military police officer, she is no-nonsense and
      extremely kind. "I kept waiting for love to get boring, and it never
      did," he said.

      In the song he wonders "what forever will be like." And he's still not
      sure. "I think that any part of you that's good or interesting might
      go back to this collective something that started it all off," he
      said. "And that's as deep of an explanation as I can give you."

      Suddenly he shouted out to Mark Hazlewood, his son: "Are you up there
      eavesdropping? Well, you should be, because you're going to have to do
      this for me when I'm dead."

      Everyone started laughing. Black humor is the family's coping
      mechanism. "We all joke about my death in this house," Mr. Hazlewood
      said. "Even the grandkids."

      But later, as Mrs. Hazlewood drove a reporter to a taxi stand at a
      nearby casino, she confessed: "This is so hard on all of us. I really
      don't want to lose him. I can't even imagine living without him."

      "I've been thinking of getting a glass vial of his blood," she added.
      "So I can clone him when the time and technology is right." One day
      21st-century pop could get a lot stranger.
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