Merle Haggard was in his early twenties, serving a possible 20 years in prison when San Quentin guards found him, drunk off his own beer, after he'd fallen into a latrine. "They handcuffed my ass and took me to where they gas people," he said. It's one of many heartbreaking stories in Merle Haggard: Learning to Live With Myself, a new PBS documentary about the country legend. The film features interviews with Keith Richards, Kris Kristofferson, John Fogerty, and Robert Duvall, and examines the hardships of Haggard's Bakersfield, California upbringing. He lost his father at age nine, spent his teenage years escaping from youth institutions and later penned 38 Number One country classics.
"It's about how this guy is trying to accept himself and deal with everything that happened to him in his life when he was young," says director Gandulf Hennig, who also directed 2004's Gram Parsons: Fallen Angel (Learning to Live With Myself debuts tonight at 9 p.m. on PBS as part of the American Masters series). Hennig followed Haggard on the road over three years, and filled the doc with fascinating archival footage of Haggard's earliest performances in the Sixties. Rolling Stone spoke with Haggard about the documentary, his upcoming album with Willie Nelson and why he wants to retire.
Rolling Stone profiled you extensively last year, and now you're the subject of a documentary about your life. What has it been like to discuss your past outside of your songs?
Well, I was pretty impressed with all I've been through, actually. You know it may help somebody in some way. It's the source of my songs and it has to be talked about. That's the way I approach it. I've gotten more tender, easier with age. My emotions are brought about easier now than they used to be. I'm not as tough as I used to be.
You're a private person — you didn't mind the cameras?
I'm an old performer. I've been around a lot of cameras. I figured that's their job. My job is something else. I'm not shy to the camera. I don't pay no attention to them. I've got a job to do. I see people get mad at camera people in the tabloids and all that. I don't get it. It's not the cameraman, it's them. They don't understand.
In the film, you return to the Boxcar, where you lived when you lost your father when you were nine. Was it hard to drive back to go back there?
Yeah, it's always hard to do that. I've been back there several times and it's in a state of deterioration. Not just the place where I live, but the whole town. The whole region needs to be bulldozed over, fixed up and sold. It's gone. What I experienced there, there is no resemblance. It was a neat, clean. Even though there was oil, the oil companies cared more about it. It was a community that I think everybody would have been proud to have lived in. Well, now it looks like we're trying to copy Los Angeles. You know what I'm talking about.
Also, in the south, you drive around and it's Walmart, Cracker Barrel and Waffle House in every town.
Yeah. It's not really that — there's a lack of pride in the backyard. The backyard is a disaster. That's the way it is at the Boxcar. My mother would have puked. She wouldn't have allowed it. It was a Boxcar, but it was real clean. You didn't have to look to see that it was clean. Now, it is what it is. And it's horrible. And it's beside a whole bunch of other ones that are just like it. If you rose up above in a helicopter, as far as you could see it'd be the same deal. I'm glad it's about time for me to retire or... I can't whip nobody's ass. I'm too old for that, man. It makes me want to jerk somebody up and say “Why don't you clean this motherfucker up? Don't you have any pride? Why don't you brush your teeth?"
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