Buck and Merle

I’ve spent a thousand miles of thumbin’

Yes, I have worn blisters on my heel

Trying to find me something better

Here on the streets of Bakersfield.

--”The Streets of Bakersfield,” by Buck Owens

They were worried about Buck, the old boys with the unmistakable Dust Bowl faces who squeezed together in the outdoor bleachers. Buck Owens had fought a bout with throat cancer a couple years back, and now there were reports of a little growth on the back of his neck.

They were worried, too, about Merle. There had been a bankruptcy filing and some messy business with the IRS, forcing Haggard to peddle rights to hit songs, past and future, to Sony. Poor Merle, many said sadly: doomed to spend his last years on that old silver bus, rattling around America, singing “Okie from Muskogee” and “Mama Tried” until he dropped. An alternate assessment was that Merle wouldn’t want it any other way.

Buck and Merle had come up together here a long time ago, playing at honky-tonks such as the Lucky Spot and Clover Club. The trend in country after World War II was toward softer, slicker music--Nashville. Owens and Haggard kept it rougher, grittier, reflecting their place, time and people, developing what came to be called the Bakersfield Sound.

Haggard had worked as one of Owens’ Buckaroos, and then the two went their ways. For 37 years the two Bakersfield legends never set foot together on the same stage. A feud was rumored. Haggard had married Bonnie Owens, Buck’s former wife. Also, there seemed ample grounds for professional jealousy--Haggard envious of Owens’ business acumen, Owens of Haggard’s stronger musical reputation. In any case, it was to end Friday night at the Kern County Fairgrounds, in Bakersfield.

*

The concert had been arranged in a rush. The local buildup was furious. “Country’s super summit,” the Bakersfield Californian called it. Five thousand people bought tickets for nearly $20 a pop. The crowd was a mix of old-timers who knew a lot about Buck and Merle and picking cotton, too, and younger fans who, in addition to the legends, anticipated a guest appearance by Dwight Yoakam. The old ones took seats in the grandstands. The younger set headed down by the stage to dance.

Backstage, Buck and Merle--with help from Bonnie Owens, who no longer is married to Haggard but sings with him--had downplayed the rift angle. Coincidence, they said of the separation. Asked to describe his “association” with Owens, Haggard replied: “Association? We’ve been married to the same woman. I’ve had a hand in raising his kids. He might have raised a couple of mine. . . . I’d call it more than an association.”

Whatever, they picked a sweet night to get together again. It had rained the day before, knocking down the dust. A faint breeze blew off the Sierra, making it seem more like early April than mid-June. Smoke from pre-concert barbecues lingered over the pavilion.

Owens came out first. Aglitter with rhinestones, he waded into “Act Naturally,” and the crowd roared. He cut to the tender “Together Again,” and the first fight broke out. He sang “I’m a first generation gen-u-ine California Okie,” and cowboy hats flew into the air. Bakersfield loves Buck. Unlike Merle, who lives in Mount Shasta, the 65-year-old Owens still maintains his base here, the well-to-do owner of television and radio stations: The man who wrote “The Streets of Bakersfield” now spends most mornings on Bakersfield’s finer golf courses.

*

Merle, the wandering son, received a cooler reception--in part because he hit stage 45 minutes late. His remedy was, as always, his music. He did his drinkin’ songs, his ramblin’ songs, his love-gone-wrong songs and, most winningly, his Bakersfield songs. Then he called Buck and Dwight Yoakam on stage.

They performed a new one called “Beer Can Hill,” a place outside town where teen-agers here first taste the stuff of country ballads--drinking, fighting, etc. Then they performed it five more times, struggling to nail down a music video. In the process, they lost much of the crowd. It was past midnight before the taping ended and they broke into one last song:

Hey, you don’t know me, but you don’t like me.

You say you care less how I feel.

How many of you that sit and judge me,

ever walked the streets of Bakersfield?

For this one, the remaining old-timers had moved down closer to the stage. This was the song they had come to hear. This was a song they knew. They swayed to the music and softly sang along, and their old eyes burned. Those eyes told all that needed to be told about a time, a place and a music, about Buck and Merle and Bakersfield.