Waylon by Waylon Jennings, Lenny Kaye

after the tour was over, making sure we stayed out there, finishing up the dates. Everybody pointed the finger
     at everybody else. It’s not us, it’s GAC. It’s not GAC, it’s Irving Feld. I couldn’t believe people would act so unfeeling.
     If that was the way things were, I didn’t want any part of the business. I thought, I don’t ever want to go out in the world
     when there’s people like that.
    We stumbled through the rest of the tour. We got lots of telegrams from other performers, like the Teddy Bears and Jimmy Bowen.
     Frankie Avalon and Jimmy Clanton came in to substitute for the three stars. I thought Clanton was trying to walk off with
     Buddy’s guitar, and I got it back. I was about to whip his ass but Tommy came between us. I was so torn up I would have whipped
     anyone’s ass.
    Dion took care of me as best he could. I was out there all alone, lost and scared to death. I had no clue. It seemed to take
     forever, crawling through Ohio and Iowa and Illinois. In Chicago, we played the Aragon Ballroom, and a girl named Penny took
     me under her wing. She was the wife of a Chicago disc jockey, and when we got to Springfield, she took me out to see Lincoln’s
     house. She looked so much like JoAnne Campbell, and tried to act like her. Years later, I was out in California, playing at
     the John Wayne Theatre, and there was a picture of JoAnne on the wall. It got me thinking of Penny. That night we stopped
     on Santa Monica Boulevard for coffee. This girl across the room was looking at me, and finally she got up and came over.
    “You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked.
    “Yes, I do. I was talking about you this afternoon.” It was Penny, and when I looked over at a calendar on the wall, I saw
     it was February 3.
    One of the strangest things that happened was when “Bill Parsons” came on that tour. He had a song out called “All American
     Boy,” which was kind of a takeoff on the Elvis theme—“Get yourself a guitar, put it in tune / You’ll be a-rockin’ and a-rollin’
     soon”—that ended with the singer going into the army. I was trying to drink a little then; I was all messed up. He was rehearsing,
     and I was watching him. Finally I said, “That ain’t you doing that record.” He sounded more like Ernest Tubb.
    “No, he’s in the army now,” replied “Bill.” “His name is really Bobby Bare.” Later, Bobby played such a big part in my life,
     and still does, and that was the first time I’d ever heard of him.
    Tommy and I never got along after Buddy died. I think he was jealous of the friendship Buddy and I shared. Dion said, “Waylon
     should sing,” but Tommy immediately sent for this hotshot Elvis-looking guy named Ronnie Smith to take Buddy’s place. Buddy
     hadn’t been that crazy about Tommy himself, and I guess Tommy didn’t think I had very much to give to the world.
    He slipped me the first pill I ever took. We were going home, on our way back to New York. After the last show, I had a beer,
     and for a joke, Tommy put a couple of Benzedrines in when I wasn’t looking. I was awake all the way from Chicago to New York,
     my mind racing, thinking all these horrible things. The bed started moving and shaking. I didn’t know what was wrong with
     myself or the world. Everything I’d hoped for was gone.
    I had no intention of ever playing another note. When we got back to the train station, I put the bass and amplifier in a
     locker at Grand Central Station, mailed the key to Maria Elena, and walked away.
    I’d known very few people who had died, and I was heartsick about missing Buddy’s funeral, especially since they’d promised
     to fly us down and back, and give us what Buddy would have normally gotten if we’d just finish the tour for them. They never
     gave us half of our money, and screwed us around besides.
    It just broke me up. It seemed like, of all the people on the tour, me included, fate picked the best ones and killed them.
     As I look