TOWNES VAN ZANDT FINISHED THE RECORD THAT COULD HAVE CHANGED HIS LIFE. THEN THE STUDIO KEPT THE TAPES FOR TWENTY YEARS. By 1974, Townes Van Zandt had already made six albums in five years. “Pancho and Lefty” was out. “If I Needed You” was out. Songwriters in Texas and Nashville knew what he could do, even if country radio had not figured out where to put him. He went into Jack Clement’s studio in Nashville to make what was supposed to be his seventh album. The working title was Seven Come Eleven. The sessions had songs like “Rex’s Blues,” “No Place to Fall,” “Loretta,” “Two Girls,” and “Buckskin Stallion Blues.” Townes was still young enough to believe this could be the record that pushed him past the small rooms, the cult following, and the people who only knew him as the strange Texas writer with the dark songs. Then the money trouble started. Kevin Eggers, the man handling Townes’ label and business, did not pay the studio bill. Jack Clement held the tapes. The album was never released. The songs sat there while Townes kept moving through the 1970s with less money, less structure, and more drinking. Some of the material was rescued later. Six songs reappeared on Flyin’ Shoes in 1978. But the original record was gone from the moment it mattered most. Seven Come Eleven finally came out in 1993 under another name: The Nashville Sessions. By then, Townes Van Zandt was no longer a young singer waiting for a breakthrough. He was a cult figure. Other people had made his songs famous. Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard had taken “Pancho and Lefty” to No. 1 ten years earlier. The record that might have changed his life arrived after the life had already gone another way.

“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.”

TOWNES VAN ZANDT FINISHED THE RECORD THAT COULD HAVE CHANGED HIS LIFE. THEN THE STUDIO KEPT THE TAPES FOR TWENTY YEARS.

By 1974, Townes Van Zandt had already made six albums in five years.

“Pancho and Lefty” was out.

“If I Needed You” was out.

Writers in Texas and Nashville knew what he could do, even if country radio still did not know where to put him.

Townes had the songs.

He had the voice.

He had the kind of reputation that made other songwriters stop talking when he started playing.

But he still did not have the record that could carry him out of the small rooms.

The Seventh Album Was Supposed To Be The One

That year, Townes went into Jack Clement’s studio in Nashville to make what was supposed to be his seventh album.

The working title was Seven Come Eleven.

The sessions held songs like “Rex’s Blues,” “No Place to Fall,” “Loretta,” “Two Girls,” and “Buckskin Stallion Blues.”

It was not a collection of leftovers.

It was Townes still young enough to believe the next record might be the one that changed the shape of his life.

The one that pushed him beyond the cult following.

Beyond the small clubs.

Beyond being known only as the strange Texas writer with the dark songs.

Jack Clement Had The Room. Townes Had The Songs.

Jack Clement’s studio was not some anonymous place where records went to be processed.

Clement had worked with Johnny Cash. He understood artists who did not fit neatly inside the safe version of Nashville.

For Townes, the room gave the songs a chance to become something more than late-night legends passed between writers and serious listeners.

The tapes held a version of him still standing near the edge of a bigger life.

Not yet broken down by the years ahead.

Not yet turned into the myth people would tell after the fact.

Just Townes, in a studio, making a record he thought might finally open the door.

Then The Bill Did Not Get Paid

The trouble was not in the songs.

It was in the money around them.

Kevin Eggers, the man handling Townes’ label and business, did not pay the studio bill.

Jack Clement held the tapes.

And the album was never released.

That was all it took.

No dramatic public collapse.

No final meeting where somebody told Townes the record was dead.

The songs simply sat in a studio while the years kept moving without them.

Townes Had To Keep Moving Without It

Townes went on through the 1970s with less money, less structure, and more drinking.

The record that might have helped steady his path was locked away at the moment he needed it most.

Some of the material came back later.

Six songs reappeared on Flyin’ Shoes in 1978.

But the original album was gone from the moment it mattered.

The sequence was gone.

The timing was gone.

And the young Townes who had walked into Jack Clement’s studio believing the record could change his life was already becoming somebody else.

Twenty Years Passed Before The Tapes Came Back

Seven Come Eleven finally surfaced in 1993 under another name: The Nashville Sessions.

By then, Townes Van Zandt was no longer a young singer waiting for his breakthrough.

He was a cult figure.

A songwriter other artists had carried farther than he ever could on his own.

Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard had taken “Pancho and Lefty” to No. 1 ten years earlier.

The world had started catching up to the songs.

But the record that might have changed his life arrived after the life had already gone another way.

What Those Lost Tapes Really Hold

The deepest part of this story is not only that a Townes Van Zandt album sat unreleased for twenty years.

It is that the tapes captured a moment before the road got longer, darker, and harder to turn around on.

A young songwriter.

A room in Nashville.

A stack of songs that could have opened a different door.

Then an unpaid bill.

Then silence.

Townes Van Zandt eventually became one of the most revered writers in American music.

But somewhere in Jack Clement’s studio, for twenty years, sat the record that might have let him become that while there was still time for it to change his life.

Video

Country Music

WILLIE NELSON’S NASHVILLE HOUSE CAUGHT FIRE ON CHRISTMAS EVE. HE RAN BACK INSIDE TO SAVE HIS GUITAR — AND A POUND OF MARIJUANA — THEN LOST MORE THAN 100 UNRECORDED SONG TAPES AND DECIDED HE WAS DONE WITH NASHVILLE. By 1970, Willie Nelson had spent years trying to make Nashville work. The city respected him as a songwriter. Patsy Cline had made “Crazy” famous, and Faron Young had taken “Hello Walls” to No. 1. But Willie’s own records still struggled. Producers often smoothed out the loose timing, sparse arrangements and unusual phrasing that made him sound different. Then his house in Ridgetop, Tennessee, burned. Willie later remembered arriving while the fire was already well underway. He ran inside and rescued his Martin guitar, the instrument that would become known as Trigger. He also grabbed roughly a pound of Colombian marijuana, later joking that he did not want firefighters finding it and turning it over to police. Trigger survived. A large part of his archive did not. Willie said more than 100 tapes containing songs he had written but never recorded were destroyed. With his marriage also falling apart and his Nashville career frustrating him, the fire became part of a larger break. He returned to Texas. For a time, Willie considered leaving music altogether. Instead, he found Austin changing around him. Hippies, cowboys, rock musicians and country players were beginning to share the same rooms, and audiences cared far less about whether Willie fit Nashville’s idea of a country star. He bought a used bus and went back on the road. Within a few years came Shotgun Willie, Phases and Stages and Red Headed Stranger. The stripped-down sound Nashville had tried to reshape became the center of his identity. The fire destroyed a house and more than 100 song tapes. But it also marked the point when Willie stopped trying so hard to fit Nashville — and started building the career that finally sounded like him.

Country Music

BOBBY BARE TOLD SHEL SILVERSTEIN HE COULDN’T FIND ANYONE WILLING TO WRITE THE CONCEPT ALBUM HE WANTED. TWO DAYS LATER, SHEL CALLED HIM BACK: “I’VE GOT YOU AN ALBUM.” By early 1973, Bobby Bare had already spent more than a decade moving between labels, hits and near-misses. What he wanted next was different. Bare had heard Joe South’s Introspect and became fascinated with the idea of making a country album that felt like one complete world rather than a collection of unrelated singles. He asked songwriter friends to help build one. Nobody really wanted the job. Then Bare ran into Shel Silverstein at a Country Radio Seminar party on a Saturday night. He complained that he could not get anyone to understand what he was trying to make. Silverstein listened. On Monday, Bare’s phone rang. Shel told him he had an album’s worth of material ready. The songs became Bobby Bare Sings Lullabys, Legends and Lies. Bare produced the record himself and kept the performances loose, surrounding Silverstein’s strange characters, jokes, dark turns and children’s-story simplicity with an almost living-room feel. The album even used audience reactions to make parts of it sound like a gathering rather than a conventional studio record. The gamble worked. “Daddy What If,” sung with Bare’s five-year-old son Bobby Jr., reached No. 2 on the country chart. “Marie Laveau” went to No. 1 — the only chart-topper of Bare’s career. The album reached the country Top 10 and became one of his biggest records. More importantly, the weekend started a partnership that lasted for decades. Bare eventually recorded well over a hundred Silverstein songs, returning to him for later projects whenever he wanted material that sounded unlike ordinary Nashville product. Bobby Bare went looking for one album. What he found was the writer he would keep calling for the rest of his career.

Country Music

BOBBY BARE CAME OUT OF THE ARMY WITH HIS BIGGEST HIT CREDITED TO SOMEBODY ELSE — AND STILL COULDN’T GET HIS OWN CAREER MOVING — UNTIL HARLAN HOWARD AND HANK COCHRAN PUSHED CHET ATKINS TO LISTEN. After two years in the Army, Bobby Bare returned to recording with a strange problem. “The All American Boy” had already climbed to No. 2 while Bare was in basic training, but the record had been released under Bill Parsons’s name. Fraternity Records later began putting Bare’s name on singles, yet none of them became the breakthrough he needed. Meanwhile, some of Bare’s old California friends had moved to Nashville. Harlan Howard and Hank Cochran were becoming successful songwriters, and both believed Bare was being overlooked. Bare later remembered that they effectively “ganged up” on RCA executive and producer Chet Atkins, repeatedly telling him how good their friend was. Atkins finally agreed to meet him. Bare walked in without much leverage. He had already been through Capitol, Challenge and Fraternity, and the one giant record carrying his voice had made somebody else look like the star. Chet listened anyway. Bare recalled Atkins telling him to come back in a week: there would be a contract, they would find songs, and they would make a record. RCA signed him in early 1962. The change came quickly. Atkins let Bare push against Nashville convention. When Bare wanted horns and strings on “Shame on Me,” Atkins allowed it. The single became Bare’s first major country hit under his own name. Then Bare heard Billy Grammer’s recording of “Detroit City” while driving. He later joked that the song hit him so hard he nearly wrecked the car. Bare cut his own version, and in 1963 it reached the country Top 10, crossed to No. 16 pop and won the Grammy for Best Country & Western Recording. A few years earlier, Bobby Bare had watched his own voice become famous under somebody else’s name. This time, Nashville finally knew whose voice it was.

Related Post

You Missed