The great songwriter, performer and not-too-bad-at-all actor, Kris Kristofferson, died at the weekend at the age of 88.
An impressive career in so many areas was only part of the story, with his activism, social conscience and general decency, not to mention his academic, sporting and military records, elevating the Texan to the status of cultural giant while more questionable moral pygmies, such as Toby Keith, will struggle to justify even scant attention.
You can read more about him here.
A decade ago, on what turned out to be his final tour of Australia, he offered a chance to touch the hem, metaphorically. Some of us were lucky to be able to do so.
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KRIS KRISTOFFERSON
State Theatre, April 11, 2014
AS WITH HIS MENTOR, inspiration and drinking companion, Johnny Cash, these days there is something of the grand old man of music and letters about Kris Kristofferson. But as ever, it is done his own way.
The silver-tongued devil is now a silver haired one but he still has charisma; and instead of some biblical presence delivering with gravitas, he is more avuncular and embracing, his (never the greatest) voice less secure but not yet gone.
The songs of course remain consistent gems of concise storytelling about people getting by and sometimes getting done. From the deeply familiar Me And Bobby McGee and For The Good Times through the pungency of Broken Freedom Song and Duvalier’s Dream to the sentimental, but no less potent for that, Daddy’s Song and Jody And The Kid, Kristofferson’s best songs reach you directly and stay for good.
The “Kid”, his daughter Kelly, joined him with voice and banjo for several songs in the second set and their unspoken interplay was a pleasure. Almost as much as hearing Kristofferson singing about having a “stomach full of empty” and how “hearing Joni Mitchell is as good as smoking grass”.
They might be nearly 50 years old those songs but they feel more like 50 years young, a long life ahead of them yet.
That said, as a friend of mine put it, a little bit more care would have been appreciated: having the guitar tuned throughout the first set; fewer mistakes and flubs; a Sunday Morning Coming Down that held its shape and lived up to its quality. Odd too was the way some songs ended abruptly and others were launched into almost before the last chord of its predecessor had stopped resonating in the room.
And I at least would have enjoyed much more chat - some yarns and more scene setting. Though he did declare that he wasn't a funny man (witty lines in many songs notwithstanding), don't tell me there aren't some stories to tell about these songs, about some of the people who covered them, about some of the people he drank with, played with, loved with.
So not perfect. Not great either, as a concert experience. But none of us left unhappy and certainly none of us left feeling like we hadn't caught a hefty dose of songwriting quality, sung with charm and a twinkle in the eye. And hey, he’s 78, he isn’t resentful of anything (except maybe crass capitalism) and he was with us for two hours.
Maybe then, in the circumstances, it really was the best of all possible worlds.
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