That 1975 album of tear-jerkers and murder ballads, which established Nelson as a “superstar recording artist,” is so “old-fashioned” it sounds “like a tale told around a cowboy campfire.” And it is for that reason millions of fans can’t tear themselves away from its compelling narrative and achingly sad, homespun laments-including myself, a few friends, and a stranger on a schedule who came to the door. And for the next thirty minutes, no one says a word as the album tells its mournful tale of betrayal and bloody revenge, a story, writes Allmusic “about a preacher on the run after murdering his departed wife and her new lover.” It’s an album that remains-with its “brief song-poems and utterly minimal backing”-perhaps “the strangest blockbuster country produced.” “Is that Red Headed Stranger,” he asks? Yes. He pauses behind his clipboard, hearing the music from inside the house. Someone puts on a Willie Nelson album, and there is a knock at the door.
On an ordinary afternoon, a group of friends sit around listening to records.
