Talking Peace with Kinky Friedman

BY AUSTIN STAMBAUGH
HONKY TONK TIMES CONTRIBUTOR
ART BY Glenn Hughes
ISSUE 24, March 2024

On the way to Echo Hill I followed Phill. Thursday it was going to be. I followed his silver van in my Ford Focus as we set out through the Texas Hill Country. Long accelerations up tall slopes and hairpin turns led us to the valley where Kinky lives and operates a youth camp. We were surrounded by mammoth rocks, wide ferns, and tall paper trees. The leaves of the trees were so green they were almost black.

First getting there I met a whole crew of Kinky’s family and friends. Since I was there with Phill (Phillip Brush:- Texas Songwriter/Western Express), they all warmed up to me right away. Phill told them that I wrote for a magazine – which was true – but really, this was more of a surreal expedition with no expectations. I didn’t come with any criteria, I just simply had to be here at this ranch to visit Kinky. So I thought up a good reason to be there and I figured out I wanted to know most of all what brings him peace. That was the only question I had in the bag: what brings you peace?

I sat at the kitchen table and I shook Kinky’s hand and he welcomed me. Phill sat beside me and the Friedmans, the extensive family of dogs that live in the house. The dogs laid on the floor all around us. Kinky started talking and adjusting with his cigar and his coffee. I asked him if he cared if I recorded him and he said no so I put my phone down on the table out of sight. The sound of a lighter flicked on and on repeatedly and Kinky said he was planning to release a new album all about death. There were five hit songs and a few choice guests from Rodney Crowell, Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Amy Nelson, and more. Billy Swan was a guest writer. The drawing card he says is that it’s all new material. He said he was sitting around and couldn’t write a song and then something unleashed it and that something was death. When he says the words out loud the place swirls around and everyone acts busy and they go in the other rooms to talk on their cellphones. 

“How do you know when you’ve finished a song?” I asked. “I guess you don’t,” he said.

A picture of a beautiful girl slightly sepia’d like the 1980s hangs in the kitchen on the wall beside us. We look at the picture for a brief moment and we begin to talk about her. He doesn’t know how old she was but tells me her name was Kasey. She could have been 23 or 27 and after a silence he says her story is just pure heartbreak and he loved her more after he lost her. Then he went on talking about the new album.

“I looked around and every single person in the new album was dead. The colorful ones … the good ones. I didn’t intend for that to be but they are and they remain,” said Kinky. The room kind of stilled in navigation and I felt like it was the right time to ask my question so I did.

“Kinky, I’ve been wanting to ask you – here in your life now, what brings you peace?” 

He was quiet for 10 seconds then began to speak. “The obvious answer is not a good goddamn thing and I’m just looking at my list – the fuck it list. That’s pretty much what I have going on. The fuck it list can be pretty effective at times – effective at pro ducing songs.” 

“Is there any release date as of now?” I asked. “I’m ready to go. Let’s do it. Let’s get started. I think my producer David Mansfield is ready. What are we gonna do? The people will tell us and the shows will tell us what to do.” “Is there anything that you’re hoping for with your work moving forward?”

“I’m really not the guy to answer that. If I could answer it then I’d tell you if it was a hideous misstep or a brilliant effort.” 

We paused for a short break and Kinky went to lunch with his family. I went with Phill to drop Sara off at Bandera. When Phill and I returned we had the whole ranch to ourselves and we spent all of our evening playing fiddle and guitar trying to write a song about Texas with the tagline of “Drop Sara Off At Bandera.” We hit the ranch swimming hole called “The Deep Water” where tall grass grew on the river bottom and it felt like you were getting tangled in a rope every time you touched the floor. Phill called it “grassy grass.”

Afterwards, we waited for Kinky and his family to return from their outing. I was just happy to be there. We listened for Kinky’s vehicle and once we heard it coming down the road it was near 9 p.m. Kinky and his whole family carried grocery bags inside and it only felt natural to hold the door open. Before he walked through the doorway he shook my hand and told me, “thanks for being here.” I felt I had done something right despite my being careful not to do too much.

We all talked and laughed inside the living room and I witnessed “The Feeding of the Friedmans” – a moment where each dog is given a rather liberal serving of canned dog food. The food looked so good, it honestly looked like something I’d eat. I got kind of hungry looking at the dog food. Kinky sat in his recliner chair and let me listen to the new album song by song. The entire house was proud and excited to show me the music. Floyd set up a bluetooth speaker on the living room table as the family talked back and forth about what song should play first. The answer was a song called “Poet of the Motel 6” that pays tribute to Kinky’s lifelong friend Billy Joe Shaver. Next was the beautiful ballad “Hummingbird Lānai” and when the opening line was sung, Kinky held his fist in the air to pay homage to its eloquence. The song with the most emotional reaction was “Ban jo, Sophie, & Me.” When the song played, tears rolled down Kinky’s face as he was flooded with the memory of his pets that had passed on. After the song I made a comment about it being beautiful. Kinky misheard my words, looked right at me and said, “Here comes a fungus.” 

Photo by: Simone Devries

The whole room cracked in laughter. His niece Amanda said, “No Kinky he was trying to compliment you.” As everyone continued to laugh. She wrote his phrase “Here Comes A  Fungus” in her sketchpad. After the record was over, we all started saying goodbye and goodnight as it was near after midnight. Kinky said he was hungry and wanted some food so Phill went into the kitchen and microwaved some Vietnamese leftovers. Kinky offered me a soft drink and I snagged a Sprite. I sat down at the kitchen table again after everyone went to bed. It was me, Phill, and Kinky now. The air was settled and calm. I was unsure if the seclusion to talk would come around again and now seemed like a good time. So I started the recorder back and set the phone on the table out of the way. The microwave hummed as we started talking. 

“Do you have any advice for young songwriters?” I asked him. Three paper plates were laid on the table. “Well, I’d say, this is a turn around and go home business, if you can afford to do it. If you can afford the pain then you’re locked in anyways. You’re going to be a songwriter. Which is why we’re killing ourselves doing this. Because we’re better writers than most other writers,” Kinky said. 

“Thank you for all the hard work you’ve done over the years,” I said. 

“Well it’s more of a matter of resentment because you have to. It’s really an insane profession. Don’t take music or life too seriously. You’ll do better and you’ll be happier. Look at a guy like Willie Nelson. He was most of his life a very depressed man. He was never a glad handed happy kind of guy. I mean, every time I’ve seen him before, even in the old days he was like that. He still is. More down than up. So that’ll be enough. There ya go and there ya be. If you do a little better than you think, then you might have a real low-budget successful outfit,” said Kinky. “I hear your plans to tour are also tied in with getting a man out of prison. Can you talk a little bit about that?” I asked. 

“Leonard Peltier. I might write some beautiful prose if I can sustain it. For a man who’s been in prison for 40 fuckin’ years I don’t see how there’s much anybody can do for him. He’s a desperate man at the end of his road.  

Willie Nelson sees him and he’s probably done more for him than most anybody and even he’s not giving help. He’s realized it cannot be done or whatever. I don’t see much forward motion.” said Kinky. 

“I think that’s a great reason to go out on the road and spread the cause.” I said. 

“I’d like to do some good in the world if I possibly can – if it’s practical. I’m gonna crash in a little while and if we’re in agreement there are several better ways to do this. If there’s not, then whatever,” Kinky said. 

“I can spread the word out in Tennessee. I can raise awareness of what’s going on,” I said. 

“There are pretty good resources in public promotion. If I do it right I should be able to help Leonard Peltier. I’ve got a weird kind of form now. I’m in a better position than I thought,” said Kinky.

After all was said and done I told him I’d be gone by the time we all woke up in the morning. Phill and I did the dishes as Kinky went into the other room to sleep. When he walked away I kept thinking that our talk seemed like cowboys around an old fire, in the way that it felt too dark to see and our words cut through it all. The way he talked to Phill and me was not like he identified us by our names as much as he identified us by our kinds. We were people of the written word. We were writers. I felt good for a few days afterwards, like I belonged. Like I was a small piece of a bigger picture. There ya have it Life is a flash and not a good thing is gonna bring us peace. The entire world needs us. So many of us are blind in our own heartbreak and misery. We are walking around in our sleep. The power we have now to get the work done is worth far more than the money we could ever hope to save. Let’s pick up that pencil and write a song that changes the world.

In a Florida penitentiary, an indigenous rights activist Leonard Peltier has been serving a double life sentence since 1977. Leonard is still serving time from a conviction given from a biased jury whose practice has been long obsolete. He is considered a political prisoner who now is an old man with a walker and declining health. Despite the initial sentence of a double manslaughter charge, he is determined still of his innocence and his wrongful imprisonment. To say he has served his time is an understatement. He doesn’t have many living years left. How do we help get him out of prison? Write the governor and the state attorney general of Florida and demand his immediate parole. Write a song. Get him out.

Kinky in his home with Austin by his side