It was hardly a normal start to a musical enquiry such as we are accustomed (now) to address in this feature. It was a very worried looking Willie Nelson who burst through the door to the consultation room and – not bothering to take a seat – spilled out his concern. With his hands firmly planted he leaned across the desk and gave us the full life and death – quite literally for once – nature of his problem. “See,” he drawled, “there’s a pistol packin’ mama hot on my trail. She could be here any moment.” He flopped into the chair “all I was doin’ was drinkin’ beer in a cabaret” he confessed. “Well, maybe I was dancin’ with a blonde as well”. Now though, it seems that all his appeals to “lay that pistol down” have had no beneficial effect.
Naturally we marshalled our advice as quickly as we could – there were suggestions of catching jet planes – clearly Willie didn’t have time for a fast train. Or perhaps some elaborate gesture of apology. Whilst we threw ideas back and forth there was a sound of a commotion in the outer office. Fortunately agony Aunt Amy LaVere shimmied out and very quickly put an end to what was starting to look like a dangerous situation. When she returned she murmured to us the gist of the solution she’d hit upon: simply an explanation that killing him wouldn’t make the love go away.
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