‘I think I’m getting better’: The evolution of Rodney Crowell

Three decades have come and gone since Rodney Crowell’s brief reign as country music’s “it” boy. Although his reputation as a first-class songwriter and record producer was already well-established by the late 1980s, it was his unlikely run as a chart-topper – five consecutive No. 1 songs – that turned the native Texan into a star by traditional standards. Gold records and Grammys.

To paraphrase Bob Dylan, he threw it all away. Commercial success, he says, made him miserable, with its incessant demands and its unwavering artifice. It wrecked his storybook marriage to Rosanne Cash, it messed with his health, both physical and emotional. It made him question whether he’d really wanted the brass ring at all.

Starting with 2001’s The Houston Kid, Crowell’s approach to musical celebrity has been to put the songs first, the public persona second. His autobiography, Chinaberry Sidewalks, was published in 2011.

The man who gave the world “Please Remember Me,” “Song For the Life,” “Shame on the Moon,” “Leaving Louisiana in the Broad Daylight,” “Till I Gain Control Again,” “After All This Time,” “Lovin’ All Night,” “Making Memories of Us” and a dozen other hits by country (and rock, and pop) singers is finally content. Restless, in the way of all prolific artists, but happy.

With Emmylou Harris

With the exception of the two albums he made as a duo with his old friend Emmylou Harris, and an unlikely (but rollicking fun) Christmas collection, Crowell – who’ll perform Friday (Jan. 31) at the Capitol Theatre with his acoustic trio – has kept his eyes on a singular prize, what author Dan Levitin describes in his book Successful Aging (it’s on Rodney’s nightstand at the moment): “Our brain chemistry is such that after age 40 we shed the insecurities of our youth, and focus on ‘the singularity of our thought processes.’”

In other words, stardom be damned. That’s not what I’m doing this for.

You’ve been busier for the fast 10 years or so than you’ve ever been. You’re cranking ‘em out.

The transformation for me started with The Houston Kid – which, at the same time I started writing Chinaberry Sidewalks. So what I learned puttin’ words on the page, trying to construct a chapter, brought me face to face with a real passion for writing and self-editing.

I’m far more interested in my internal journey now than I am my external journey. And the internal journey, because I am more fascinated with it, I think that’s why I’m more productive. Because I don’t care so much about, you know, what an album cover’s gonna look like, or that kind of thing. I used to be insecure about those things. I suppose most people are when they’re young.

But that’s out of the way. And I love the work – that’s probably it more than anything. And I’m at the end of a decade in my 60s; time is more compressed, and I have less of it. So it is important that I produce art. The motivating factor behind it, for me, is that I think I’m getting better.

Driven by the notion that I’m getting better, I want to stay on it, you know? I want to stay on it because I just may at some point get as good as I’ve always wanted to be.

You’re on the road with the Texas album. What comes next?

Well, I’m working on something right now. You go through period of working on something where you go “oh, this is absolute shit.” And then you get at euphoria of like, “Man, this is good.” So I’m working on something that I want to believe – and as far as I can tell, there’s good reason to believe – that is what I’ve been trying to get to all along.

I made Texas, which was not personal. It was a good, fun thing to do. But while I was making that record, some songs started coming to me in waves. And by the time Texas was done, I was overtaken by these songs and I thought “I have got to get somewhere and get these down.”

We all thought Close Ties was that record. It was very autobiographical.

Well, you know, Close Ties was born of grief. Guy and Susanna Clark died, and I was expressing that. Which was very personal. I can’t give too much away on it because its evolution is still in process, but I’ll just say it’s the most spiritually-focused thing that I’ve done.

Music writers have taken to calling you ‘The Elder Statesman of Texas Singer/Songwriters.’ Are you comfortable with that? Do you feel like “Hey, I’ve earned this”?

Well, I’ve certainly earned my place. I’ve earned it through dedication to getting better. Somebody might listen to those early records I made and they’re locked into the certain sound of it. But I can hear the Rodney Crowell (1981) record and think “There’s two songs here where I delivered.” Not as a songwriter, but as a performer. I developed fairly early as a songwriter, and I have songs I wrote in 1972 that still stand today.

But as a performer and recording artist, it has been a slow, steady development. I didn’t find my voice until I was about 50. And then I had the good luck and pleasure to hook up with Emmy, and we toured for three years or so. It was a perfect opportunity for me, because I was singing and holding the stage with one of the great vocalists of our time. So I needed to step up and deliver on my end, from my perspective.

Emmy would say to me “Hey, I love the way you sing. I always have.” And I’d say “I know, but … I’m getting better, and you’re helping me right now get better.”

I might have sped up and started releasing more records after that because I felt like I could deliver.

Is life better when you’re not chasing that golden calf any more? When you work on your own timetable?

Well, I have a lot of freedom. I’ll just go down to my business manager and say “I’m gonna make a record. Find me the money.” It’ll come from somewhere in my own financial … portfolio, in as much as I have one. And I’ll put it out, and maybe I’ll make a few dollars. And that’s all good.

I made enough money back in my commercial heyday that I don’t have to think about that.

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