Introduction:
In a quiet, thoughtful conversation from 1987, Merle Haggard opened a window into the life of a performer whose songs defined working-class America. At 50 years old, Haggard was not only one of country music’s most respected voices but also a man in reflection—of the road behind him and the uncertain path ahead. With honest, sometimes raw insight, he discussed his stage routine, personal trials, and the convictions that shaped his art.
Preparing for a show, Haggard explained, was more than just rehearsal—it was preservation. “If my health is all right,” he said, “I like to take sound checks, I like to participate in everything I can to make it better.” His process included playing guitar daily, revisiting new material, and conserving his voice by limiting conversation. “You can’t do anything as long as you used to,” he admitted with the wisdom of age, “but I can still sing as well as I ever could—just not as long.” He would sleep on the bus, avoid the routine of motels, and skip excess distractions in favor of focus.
Stage fright, for Haggard, was no longer a persistent visitor, though the first night back on the road after a break always brought nerves. After a two-month hiatus from performing, he recalled the uncertainty of remembering lyrics and fearing that songs might blur together on stage. But once the first show was over, confidence returned. “When the show’s been good, it’s easy to pull out something new.”
A bandleader with a trusted group of musicians, Haggard could change course mid-show, calling out new songs with nothing more than a key and a tempo. “It works surprisingly well,” he noted. “People sense it’s new and forgive the mistakes.” Though never drawn to comedy in his sets, he knew that music—not monologue—was why the audience came.
The conversation ventured beyond music. He reflected on the passing of his father when he was just nine—a loss that left a void he tried to fill through rebellion and the outlaw lifestyle. Haggard detailed his troubled youth, brushes with the law, and eventual incarceration at San Quentin. Yet even in prison, music stayed with him. His pardon years later, signed by then-Governor Ronald Reagan, became a symbol of redemption.
As he turned 50, the milestone weighed on him. He recalled Johnny Cash calling to check in during a rough patch, a gesture of friendship that marked Haggard’s place among country’s greats. Though not free from pain—his struggle with cocaine nearly cost him his life—he credited his wife, Debby, with pulling him back from the brink. “She saved my life,” he said simply.
Songs like Footlights captured that bittersweet blend of longing and responsibility. “I’ve never gone on stage without giving everything I have,” he said. At 50, Merle Haggard was still chasing something bigger than applause. He was chasing truth, and in doing so, gave voice to millions who saw their own stories reflected in his.