As the fragile, fifty-four year old reel to reel tape is slowly decaying in a cardboard box in a climate controlled storage shed, I feel rushed to discover its origin. I worry that the change in humidity from its previous years will speed the process of self destruction. My attempt to find the history of this lost recording is becoming more futile with every turn. No one seems to know anything about it.

I’ve had contact with journalists, archivists, authors, and family members. The frustrating realization is that the one and only living person that does know, is eighty-eight years old. He’s Willie Nelson himself and he’s hard to reach. He also may not even remember the recording session. It was a long time ago and possibly non-profitable and uneventful.

I have even questioned the reality of its existence myself, and I have the damn tape. Did my dad deep fake this before there was any technology available to do that? No, he could barely check the oil in his car. Is this some kind of delusional hoax? No, it’s very real. It’s a real tape inside a real cardboard box for over fifty years.

I’m left to ponder the meaning of it all, the timing of it, and my own, one sided relationship with Willie Nelson. If you know me or my mother, you have already heard our Willie stories. Mostly, they are just my mom’s stories based on actual experiences with slightly rough edges from the passage of time.

But I have to fatefully wonder, of the three artists on the recording, why is Willie the last survivor? The only one I have any connection to.

Why does it appear that I happen to have the only existing copy of this recording? Why did my dad even have the tape? Why did he choose to keep it way back then? Was it rare even then? Did he have a plan? He left no clues and no other legacy when he died in 1995, ironically due to alcoholism.

Why, after all these years, did no one in my family know about this? I had even asked my brother, years ago, who had access to reel to reel players in the radio station where he worked, to go through that box of old tapes and he never did it.

Why has my own pursuit of being an aspiring songwriter and musician allowed me to have the sound engineering knowledge and equipment to hear this tape?

And after years of drinking and promising myself I’d quit if I won the lottery, then realizing that maybe if I just quit first, I might deserve to win the lottery, why then did I discover the tape?

And why did I wind up living just a few miles from Luck, Texas? Willie Nelson’s ranch and recording studio. I’m from west Texas and New Mexico.

All of this weirdly smells of destiny, or even just an unlikely coincidence, and I can’t just ignore it.

The history of Willie Nelson and my family is unique. Part of why I feel so incredibly comfortable talking with members of the Nelson family is that I feel connected. I have to remind myself that they do not feel that way. They don’t know me, or my mom or my dad. They didn’t grow up hearing stories about me and feel almost related to me. At one point, when I was about twelve, I honestly felt I needed to ask if Willie was my father. He is not, and it’s physically obvious, but I had to ask.

I also realize how creepy and intrusive that is to Willie’s actual family and I profoundly apologize. Amy Nelson has a song about certain ladies that were attracted to her famous dad. I really hope that wasn’t inspired by my mom. I would never tell Amy that, but I wish I could apologize just the same.

My dad was an early fan of Willie. Mostly because of the Jazz influence and beautiful poetry Willie examined in his music. My dad promoted him through the radio station where he worked, KROB, and took on a personal interest in expanding his career. I’m sure my dad was just one of many, but I’m actually proud of him for doing that. I share his taste in music and Willie Nelson is amazing. But for whatever reason, my dad moved on from that era. We left south Texas a few months after I was born. My mom seemed to relive those exciting and special days for years and years after, while my dad rarely spoke of any of it.

If you mention Willie Nelson to my mom, you will first hear the story of how my nickname is Willie Bush. Named after Willie Nelson and Johnny Bush. It was a joke my dad had told the both of them shortly after I was born in Corpus Christi in 1968, coincidentally around the same time the recording was made.

The real question, with every turn of the lack of knowledge of this recording, is what do I do with it before it turns to dust?

The unknown list of living people that were around back then is getting smaller every day. If I’d had the tape a few years ago, I could have presented it to Poodie Locke, Willie’s road manager, in his partially owned bar right down the road from my home. I was in there quite a bit back then. He would’ve at least listened to me and the recording and possibly gotten an answer from Willie himself. Poodie was someone I considered a friend although we barely knew each other. Like the t-shirts states, ‘I know Poodie too’.

As of now, I have annoyed most of Willie’s kids to the point they won’t talk to me anymore. One of them even denies it’s Willie on the recording or that he’d ever done anything for Pearl beer, even though there are concert posters out there that prove otherwise. Another daughter was obviously uncomfortable with me, but the nicest person I think I have ever met. She also offered some good advice and a link on Facebook.

They seem to be very protective of their dad, and the business of their dad. It’s completely understandable, especially with his age, and the virus floating around, but I wish someone would at least listen and allow me to ask questions from a safe distance. I have given them the opportunity to get involved and they are not interested at all. I also have had no response from the Jennings and Haggard families. I would think they too would be interested.

Maybe it’s a legal issue? Someone could tell me if that was true. I don’t know enough about who owns what here anyway. I do fear that someone might ransack my property looking for it. Either to steal it or destroy it. I know there’s a fiercely competitive history between Lone Star and Pearl brewing companies. This recording could suggest that Pearl is the original national beer of Texas after all. 

It has also occurred to me that they don’t believe me. I could be a grifter, a scam artist, a swindler. It’s probably true that there are crazy people who contact them with wild schemes quite often. I just hate that I’m possibly perceived as another psycho.

So my options right now are to sell the rare tape and be done with it forever. I could start touring with a band. It’d be like I won the lottery.

Or destroy it in the name of militant sobriety and vengeance for all the alcoholism that’s attributed to messing up my life and countless others.

Or continue to dig for the hidden story, annoying anyone I must, to get the answers.

Or, I could start a mystery podcast. Maybe I should ask a Nelson to help me with it? That could be fun and expensive.

Or maybe convince Pearl beer to challenge Lone Star as the official beer of Texas in a devious marketing battle. I mean, at least Pearl survived prohibition.

Or, I could write this article you’re reading right now. Maybe you could give me a better solution.

Or, I could release it for free to the world to hear on my YouTube channel, helping to attract visitors to my own bitter, original music for fractions of pennies with every view and stream.

The opportunity is endless, but my biggest pressure is to not blow it. I truly believe I have something special.

I’ve wanted so much more out of life, through music, or whatever and I think this is an actual opportunity. I don’t want to exploit anyone, or cheat anyone. I don’t want to steal anything. I’ll share what I need to. I just want a chance to live my life, better. I want to be able to provide for my own family and actually help people and contribute something to the world. I still believe I have potential and purpose.

Opportunity has eluded me my whole life even though I’ve been hunting it down. My dysfunctional childhood and lack of guidance dealt a lousy hand. Few people really know just how hard it is to become a success from near zero. I don’t like placing blame on others, but there’s truth to it. I also have plenty of blame for myself and my own bad choices. I’d love another chance before I die or arthritis cancels my guitar playing hands.

And here it is, a legacy dropped in my lap from my deceased father. It was ignored for years and I just happened to take the initiative to discover it. And even if it turns out to be somehow worthless, illegal, or just too boring to make anything out of, it will not have been useless. The fact that I’ve explored all these thoughts is adventurous enough, maybe.

The opening bid is five million dollars, if you’re interested. I already have the money divvied up to family and taxes in my mind.