Let’s go back to 1967, when I was but a twinkle in my emotionally intoxicated and love-struck parents eyes.

A warm evening in South Padre Island and a romantic sway in the humid breeze combined with a cocktail or three that lead to an embrace filled with passion that would produce a second child. It was me. A sequel to my brother. I already had a preconceived alliterated name. My father always wanted a boy named Sam and I was created to complete the comical Vaudevillian duo characterization of his children as ‘Sam and Sid’. As it were, Sid would arrive in March of 1968 to accompany his brother born approximately three and a half years prior.

Simultaneously, a Texas raised songwriter with a farm home still in Ridgetop, Tennessee, but relocating to Houston, was testing the live music market in south Texas. My dad, Raymond, had big ol’ ears that caught the nasal twang and jazzy, country, folk fusion of a sharp and steely eyed poet. My dad was instantly enamored with the unique quality and originality of the unknown singer.

My dad was an employee of a radio station in Corpus Christi, Texas. He sold advertising spots. He was a news and sports announcer, disc jockey, and did whatever else people did at radio stations back then. But when my dad heard the subtle, intrinsic style of Bob Wills western swing entangled with the likes of Ray Price’s crooning melodies, stirred up with Django Reinhardt’s jazz licks on a gut-string guitar, and combined with the unparalleled thought provoking lyrics of the outward brained, philosophical troubadour, Willie Nelson, he decided to become a music promoter and booking agent as well. My dad was aggressively inspired. He never did this for anyone other than Willie.

Willie had been playing in Ray Price’s band and was starting to get out on his own. Willie’s own team of band members and managers were soon to be sleeping on the couch and floor, parking the band R.V. in the driveway, throwing birthday parties in the backyard, and just killing time in between shows. There’s even a story of a stolen donkey after someone was left behind at a gas station. It might’ve been Fiddlin’ Frenchie Burke left behind by the bus driver. Ther e was another fellow named Crash Stewart. I’m not sure what he did, but I always liked the name. It was an exciting time, forging seemingly lifelong friendships and making music. They were gigging from town to town all across south Texas, from Laredo to Bandera, building what would someday be a world famous musical empire from the ground up.

My mom became somewhat obsessed with Willie, as did countless others. At that same time, Willie was the father of a brand new daughter while still married to the mother of his previous three children who were still in Ridgetop, Tennessee. His wife found out about the new daughter when she received a hospital bill for the birth. There was a moment, about twelve years later, when I questioned if Willie was also my father. Fortunately and unfortunately,  he is not. 

Beyond the music he was a personality like none other. Willie had contagious charisma and unfathomable wit. His intelligence matched my father’s along with his ability to blend with the ordinary and average mind of anyone around him. And during those days, he was a drinker, which was also a common catalyst for some amazing adventures. It was a time in my parents’ lives that had to be difficult to maintain with any resemblance of normalcy. I believe they failed in the most fun way ever.

But honestly, how could any young couple with babies and toddlers be a part of the entourage of wild musicians? The musicians themselves usually left their babies and wives at home. I assume the strain of late night dance halls and alcohol consumption must’ve placed a high burden on trying to raise a family. It seems the balance proved too difficult to maintain, so eventually my dad took a job in San Antonio as the head of Wilkins Broadcasting School. This was when you needed a license to be on the radio. He was still involved in the rising career of Willie Nelson, but was becoming less engaged as time passed. It wasn’t long after that my dad made the odd decision to move far away to New Mexico and have us live among the Navajo Indian Reservation. I will never know what happened that inspired that convoluted brainstorm.

The main friendships that remained for years after were with Willie’s former band members, Johnny Bush and Fiddlin Frenchie Burke. Willie was catapulted into another dimensional level of popularity and had to leave many good people behind. It’s just the nature of the business. Johnny Bush stayed in touch for a long time and Frenchie would even come visit on occasion. I have especially fond memories of Frenchie Burke and a deep admiration and respect for Johnny Bush.

Willie has always felt like a family member to me. It’s a very strange thing to separate his musical genius and legacy from the man behind the stories I grew up with. I didn’t really discover his incredible music catalog until much later in my life. There’s a touch of delusion and fantasy entwined with the success of someone your dad helped make it to worldwide stardom. It has affected my entire life and perspective of reality, especially through the eyes of my mom.

The point of all this story is to tell the one story about me as I have been told repeatedly by my mom for my entire life.

My special nickname….

The day I was born, Willie Nelson and Johnny Bush visited Spohn Hospital to see me. As my dad handed out the cigars in the lobby, Willie and Johnny asked what he named me? Without missing a beat, my dad confidently said, ‘Willie Bush’. A questionable name that surely raised their eyebrows in fear that he was actually serious.

Willie Nelson and Johnny Bush around 1968. *unknown photographer for picture credit

THE PEARL BEER TAPE

A side story here is about a rare reel to reel tape recording I found a few years ago in a cardboard box. The box was full of random recordings of my family, radio programs, stage performances, comedy routines, and monologues by Will Rogers and Paul Harvey. And a surprisingly very special recording of three, one minute advertisement songs for Pearl Beer. One by Willie Nelson, another by Waylon Jennings, and another one by Merle Haggard.

The makings of these recordings is an ongoing investigation. I have contacted and inquired many sources and no one knows anything about it. The people involved in the late sixties recordings are most likely gone from this world, including my dad who stuffed the tape into a box more than fifty years ago.

The tape is available for purchase for an enormous amount. I’m not being greedy. I just want enough to give a lot of it away. As of now, I have the only existing tape that I am aware of. It is not on the internet anywhere. Of course, I haven’t shared them in their entirety. I also do not have any legal rights to profit from the recording outside of selling the physical tape.

Lukas (Willie’s son) suggested I put it all online and see if anybody claims ownership. Amy (Willie’s daughter) suggested I send it to an auction house. Susie (Willie’s daughter) said her dad never did anything for Pearl and to never contact her again. The curators of Pearl in San Antonio and the Nashville Country Music Hall of Fame have no information. John Spong from Texas Monthly Magazine and the One By Willie Podcast was interested in doing the story but the pitch hasn’t made the cut yet. Pearl beer is mostly defunct with failed micro-brewery reboots. I have not been able to contact Willie, the one person that would know anything about it, but I’m still trying.

The Pearl Beer tape on my YouTube channel

I’ve been told that Pearl and Lone Star both had contracts for the 4th of July picnic. Lone Star was featured on the posters and Pearl was on the handbills. I saw one of these for sale at the Paul English estate auction in New Braunfels, Texas. Artwork was by Danny Garrett.