I interviewed Kris Kristofferson numerous times. This first one, published in The Tennessean daily newspaper in Nashville on July 12, 2003, delighted the wordsmith/actor/songwriter and his wife, Lisa, so much that we ended up striking up a long and loving friendship. I'm glad Kris has retired after more than a half-century of baring his soul in song and, to a lesser extent, onscreen. I am proud to be his friend. I think he and Lisa like me OK, too. I told my friend, Peter Cooper, Wednesday night that Kris's work will live on forever. "He's like Mark Twain," I said.
Here's my story from that day:
Kris Kristofferson, at 67, has found peace on the slope of a Hawaiian volcano.
That solace comes mainly because of family - his top priority now that he has trekked a life's journey that includes death, drugs, divorce, depression and, of course, superstardom.
Many of the highs and lows came in Nashville, a town he tumbled into with a writer's satchel of dreams back in the 1960s.
His most recent trip here was in May, when he and his third wife, Lisa, brought their five children to town for the funeral of June Carter Cash, wife of Johnny Cash, the man who exposed Kristofferson to the world.
"They made me feel like a part of their family back when I was a janitor at Columbia studios," Kristofferson says.
"It's just not gonna get any better. It's definitely gonna get worse. You can't pick up a newspaper without finding a new one. The closer they are, the harder it hurts.
"I felt so bad for John, because jeez, he'd been in the hospital (so much) and then June died. They were so close. It was a real soul partnership."
The fact that Cash was the sparkplug for Kristofferson in the early days of his writing career is well-chronicled. His Sunday Morning Coming Down is one of Cash's most loved and seemingly autobiographical songs.
Cash also introduced Kristofferson to the world at the Newport Folk Festival and on his network television show.
"I was just talking with John, asking about how he is holding up after June died. He said he's dealing with it better: but 'I don't cry all the time now.' "
Cash, his buddy says, is finding solace in the recording studio, giving him a reason "to get up in the morning. He's a strong man."
Kristofferson, speaking on the telephone from a high school football buddy's house in Donner Lake, Calif., pauses. "Almost every day, it seems like you lose somebody. Waylon, June. . . . You can't help but get reflective.
"I feel very lucky. Very blessed to be able to keep recording. I've been doing some things at my house in Maui."
Just like Cash, Kristofferson finally found his own soul-mate in Lisa, mother of five of his eight children. "We've been married 20 years now," he says.
Lisa is the driving force behind convincing Kristofferson to release a new album, Broken Freedom Song: Live From San Francisco, out this week on Nashville-based Oh Boy records. The concert at the Gershwin Theater was recorded so there would be a song or two for Kristofferson to contribute to a Bread & Roses charity benefit album. That organization, located in the Bay Area, brings live entertainment to people isolated in hospitals, convalescent homes, AIDS facilities, senior centers and more.
Lisa Kristofferson heard the whole concert recording and suggested her husband release it as a live album. "Actually, it's only about half of the concert. I was thinking it would be longer, but I guess it's hard to market a double-record these days.
"It's kind of hard for me to compare my own records, but I think I've done some pretty good ones and this one compares to them," he says.
The album reflects on politics and on hurt.
The politics may be a bit left-leaning, but Kristofferson, who was raised a military brat and went on to be an Army captain and helicopter pilot, also this year was named the American Veterans Association's veteran of the year.
"It would have made my daddy proud," he says, in a press release about that honor. "I grew up in a time when people believed in duty, honor and country. My grandfathers were both officers. My father was a general in the Air Force. My brother and I were both in the Army. I've always felt a kinship with soldiers; I think it's possible to support the warrior and be against the war."
This is a fellow who has waged war against depression and demons personal and chemical, finally holding them at bay. And he gives most of the credit to Lisa and their children.
In fact, to the children and wives with whom he has spent any part of his life. His eight children range in age from 8 to 40, and he even has a pair of granddaughters.
"Fortunately we're all friends now," he says, adding that just recently, he and his newest brood were in North Carolina for the wedding of his daughter, Casey, the product of his marriage with Nashville-raised singer Rita Coolidge.
Long gone are Kristofferson's rowdy days at Tootsie's and on Music Row, where he lived in a condemned apartment and when his name was in the Nashville telephone book.
"I think I paid like $50 a month for the apartment," he says. "It was right across from the Tally-Ho Tavern. I was workin' there some at the time to try to provide for my family."
Those were the wild days, when the outlaws roamed Music Row and Kristofferson wrote about it in songs:
"And I may smoke too much, drink too much /Every blessed thing too much /It's a low-down life, but it ain't gonna pass me by."
Such excess is in his long past now. "Ever since I had that bypass surgery (1999), my wife keeps me on a pretty short leash. I drink maybe a glass of wine now. That's all. "
That's a pretty substantial life change. "I followed William Blake's words for a long time: 'The road of excess leads to a palace of wisdom.'
"I feel so lucky to be above the ground now. Health's good. I get to go out and run four miles every day and work around my place. It's up in the mountains, on the slope of a volcano on Maui. It's a small town, nobody there. Just me and my family."
