Introduction:
There are certain voices in American music that carry the weight of history the moment they cross a telephone line. Otis Gibbs once recalled interviewing legends like Ray Charles and Barry Gibb and feeling an immediate shock of recognition—voices so distinct they seemed to fill the room despite coming through a phone speaker. Merle Haggard belonged unmistakably to that rare category. Weathered, seasoned, and carrying the dust of a thousand honky-tonks, his voice announced itself before he ever said his name.
During a feature interview for Performing Songwriter magazine, songwriter and journalist Bill DeMain spent half an hour on the phone with Haggard discussing the golden era of his career—the 1960s and 70s. Among the many memories shared, one story stood out above all, a chapter that linked Haggard’s troubled youth to his later rise as a country icon.
Before he ever stepped onstage with a Telecaster, Haggard was a restless kid drifting through reform schools and run-ins with the law. By his late teens, a botched armed robbery attempt landed him in San Quentin. It was there, in the unforgiving concrete world of prison, that he found the spark that changed everything. Johnny Cash came to perform for the inmates, and Merle—already quietly writing songs and picking guitar—watched in awe. Cash’s presence lit a fire he didn’t know he still had. After the show, he managed to shake Johnny’s hand. Cash offered a few simple words of encouragement, but to a young man desperate for direction, they were life-changing. Merle vowed then and there to earn an early release through good behavior and build a real career in music.
Fast-forward a decade to 1969. Haggard, now a rising star, was backstage preparing to appear on The Johnny Cash Show. He told Cash, “You won’t remember this, but we met at San Quentin.” Cash froze, then immediately recognized the moment for what it was—not a scandal to bury, but a truth to own. He insisted they talk about it openly on the show. Producers had no warning, but when Cash brought it up on-air, Haggard told the story plainly, without shame. To Merle’s surprise, Cash was right: by confronting it publicly, he removed the power of tabloids and critics to use it against him. What could have become a dark secret instead became part of the Haggard legend.
Beyond his past, Merle spoke candidly about the realities of the road, the Bakersfield sound, and even the amphetamines that fueled the relentless creativity of mid-60s touring musicians. He never glamorized it—he simply acknowledged that the energy and focus it gave him shaped some of his most prolific songwriting years. That frankness, that refusal to varnish the truth, was part of what made him who he was.
Bill DeMain never got to meet Haggard in person, but that brief phone call became a cherished memory—made even more poignant when Merle passed away just ten months later. For a moment, through a phone line, he shared not just stories, but the soul of a man who lived harder, fell farther, and rose higher than most ever will.
And if you want to hear Merle at his purest? DeMain recommends going straight to Swinging Doors (1966)—the raw, Telecaster-sharp Bakersfield sound at its finest, forged in noisy working-man bars and carried by a voice that could only belong to Merle Haggard.