On Her New Album, Lucinda Williams Is Driven, Not Comfortable
In January 1997, the poet Miller Williams stood on the steps of the Capitol at President Bill Clinton's second inauguration and read a poem he'd written about our country:
We have memorized America,
how it was born and who we have been and where.
In ceremonies and silence we say the words,
telling the stories, singing the old songs.
We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.
Williams' daughter has taken us places and told stories as an Americana singer. Her name is Lucinda Williams.
The place she takes us on her new album is the South, where as a girl she traveled around with her poet father.
"We were very close," Williams tells NPR's David Greene, "and the literary world and the music world were part of my psyche at a very young age."
She says she loved watching her dad operate. He was known for plainspoken poetry, and he socialized openly with African-Americans in a time and place where that was frowned upon. He also hung out with iconic writers like Flannery O'Connor, and was proud of his Southern roots.
"I remember him kind of not really being accepted by the New York poetry world, or what have you," she says. "It wasn't cool to be from the South back then, like it is now. ... I grew up being very aware of my Southern roots."
Lucinda Williams' dad encouraged her to write music, often editing her lyrics. Her music can be dark, feisty and full of heartbreak, and she sings from personal experience.
"I was involved with a few guys who were quite a bit younger than I was," she says. "Like, I would be 40 or 41, they would be 21. Oh, my god, isn't that shocking?! ... They didn't know how old I was. You know, they wouldn't know until later."
Williams searched for love for a long time, and she has found it. She's married to her manager, Tom Overby. At 63, she's churning out songs that critics say are up there with some of her best. And while she has seen other musicians lose their inspiration after finding happiness, she says she doesn't let herself become comfortable.
"You know, I have my moments of being comfortable, but I'm driven," she says, "and I have pain, I have sadness. And, of course, the older you get, the more loss you experience. The more loss and pain you experience, the more you need your art."
Williams recently experienced the kind of loss of which she speaks: About a year ago, her father died. In his final months, he suffered from Alzheimer's. One song on The Ghosts of Highway 20, "My Love Could Kill," addresses the disease.
"I was so angry, and so I personified the disease in this song," she says.
As Lucinda Williams searched for a way to say goodbye to her dad, she began turning his poems into music. In Arkansas, not long before his death, they gathered friends together and her dad did a reading of his poem "Compassion," which they recorded. Later, Williams herself sang a version of the poem.
She became even more determined to honor her dad's work after he told her how much the disease had taken from him. She recalls a day when her father explained that he had lost his ability to write poetry.
"I couldn't believe what I'd heard," Williams says. "And I just started sobbing and sobbing. It was as if he'd said, 'I can't see anymore.' It just shattered me."
Poetry, she says, was such a central piece of her father's identity. "That's why it's such a horrible disease," she says. "Because it kills people slowly like that. It just takes pieces of them and kills them off bit by bit by bit. And it seems to attack the most brilliant, creative minds."
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Transcript
DAVID GREENE, HOST:
Let’s turn to a story that begins with a poet. His name is Miller Williams. And in January of 1997, he stood on the steps of the U.S. Capitol at Bill Clinton's second inauguration. And he read a poem he’d written about our country.
(SOUNDBITE OF ARCHIVED RECORDING)
MILLER WILLIAMS: We have memorized America, how it was born and who we have been and where. In ceremonies and silence, we say the words, telling the stories, singing the old songs. We like the places they take us. Mostly, we do.
(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "THE GHOSTS OF HIGHWAY 20")
LUCINDA WILLIAMS: (Singing) I know this road like the back of my hand. I know this road like the back of my hand.
GREENE: Williams’ daughter has taken us places and told stories. This is her, the American singer Lucinda Williams. The place she takes us on her new album is the South, where, as a girl, she traveled around with her poet father.
(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "THE GHOSTS OF HIGHWAY 20")
L. WILLIAMS: (Singing) I know this road like the back of my hand.
We were very close. And the literary world, the music world, was part of my psyche at a very young age.
GREENE: She and her dad grew especially close, in part because of her mom's illness.
L. WILLIAMS: She was diagnosed with manic depression and paranoid schizophrenic tendencies. And of course back then, they didn't have the medication that we have now. So I was very lucky. I bonded with my dad, so I had him. He was my rock.
GREENE: He was known for plain-spoken poetry. And he was proud of his Southern roots.
L. WILLIAMS: I remember, you know, him kind of not really being accepted by the New York poetry world or what have you, you know. It wasn't cool to be from the South back then like it is now, you know? Just kind of making fun of that stereotype - Hollywood still does it. Every time there's a sort of an ignorant, backwoods sheriff, they have a southern accent. (With accent) Well, you better get your ass over here right now, boy. I grew up, you know, being very aware of my Southern roots.
(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, “BITTER MEMORY”)
L. WILLIAMS: (Singing) Go away, bitter memory. I feel finally you stay away from me.
GREENE: Lucinda’s dad encouraged her to write music, often editing her lyrics. And her music can be dark, feisty and full of heartbreak. She sings from personal experience.
L. WILLIAMS: I was involved with a few guys who were quite a bit younger than I was. Like, I would be 40 or 41. They would be 21 or something. Oh, my God, isn't that shocking?
GREENE: I’m not shocked. There’s no shock here.
L. WILLIAMS: They didn't know how old I was. You know, they wouldn't know until later.
(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, “BITTER MEMORY”)
L. WILLIAMS: (Singing) Let me show you to the door, bitter memory.
GREENE: Lucinda Williams searched for love for a long time, and she has found it. She's happily married to her manager, Tom Overby. She's 63 years old and churning out songs that critics say are up there with some of her best. She told me she has seen other musicians lose their inspiration after finding happiness.
How do you not let yourself become comfortable in the way you're talking about?
L. WILLIAMS: Because I'm never comfortable. You know, I have my moments of being comfortable, but I'm driven. And I have pain. I have sadness a lot. And of course, the older you get, the more loss you experience. The more loss and pain you experience, the more you need your art.
GREENE: Well, speaking about sadness and loss, I know you lost your dad just about a year ago…
L. WILLIAMS: Yeah.
GREENE: …And I'm really sorry about that.
L. WILLIAMS: Thank you.
GREENE: His final months he was suffering from Alzheimer's. And there's a song on this album that I feel like really captures that disease in a way…
L. WILLIAMS: …Called "If My Love Could Kill."
(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "IF MY LOVE COULD KILL")
L. WILLIAMS: (Singing) If my love could kill I would kill this.
Because I was so angry. So I personified the disease in this song.
(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "IF MY LOVE COULD KILL")
L. WILLIAMS: (Singing) Slayer of wonder, slayer of words, murderer of poems, murderer of songs.
GREENE: As Lucinda Williams searched for a way to say goodbye to her dad, she began turning his poems into music. In Arkansas, not long before his death, they gathered friends together, and her dad did a reading.
L. WILLIAMS: Tom had the good sense to videotape it. I had my dad read his poem "Compassion."
(SOUNDBITE OF ARCHIVED RECORDING)
M. WILLIAMS: Have compassion for everyone you meet, even if they don't want it.
L. WILLIAMS: And then I sang that.
(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "COMPASSION")
L. WILLIAMS: (Singing) Have compassion for everyone you meet, even if they don't want to. What seems conceit is always a sign, always a sign.
We were sitting on the sun porch and having some wine at the end of the day. And I don't know how we got on the subject, but he said, I can't write poetry anymore. And I couldn't believe what I had heard. And he said very matter-of-factly, I can't write poetry anymore. And I just started sobbing and sobbing. It was as if he'd said, I can't see anymore. It just shattered me, you know, because it was all wrapped up in… Sorry.
GREENE: No, no, take your time.
L. WILLIAMS: It was just so much of who he was. That's why it is such a horrible disease - because it kills people slowly like that. You know, it just takes pieces of them. It kills them off, bit by bit by bit. And it seems to attack the most brilliant, creative minds.
(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "DUST")
L. WILLIAMS: (Singing) Sadness so deep the sun seems black.
GREENE: Well, Lucinda Williams, it's an honor talking to you. I really enjoyed it.
L. WILLIAMS: Thank you.
GREENE: Lucinda Williams - her new album is called "The Ghosts of Highway 20." Transcript provided by NPR, Copyright NPR.
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