The Most Beautiful Man in the World

I have to admit: I’ve always been in love with Kris Kristofferson. Last night we went to see him play in San Feliu de Guixols. It was a magical night. Kris was alone, without a band. Just him and his guitar and a lifetime of songs.

Kris didn’t seem to have an easy time with the weather conditions. It was windy and a bit chilly — terribly problematic for a lone singer. But there he was, alone on a huge stage, in an open-air venue, buttoned up in a black denim jacket and jeans. His voice held up well, sounding richer than ever.

His guitar, a music stand, and a big bottle of orange juice and a handkerchief were the only protection from the cold wind.

Kris blew his nose often between songs, holding the handkerchief in one hand and covering his entire face with it. During one of these pauses, a woman shouted, “Guapo!!” Kris looked up, startled, and laughed out loud. “I can’t believe you people pay good money to watch an old fart like me blow his nose onstage.”

That’s Kris Kristofferson — ever so humble, ever so human, ever so charming. A beautiful man.

I remember watching a documentary on Scorsese, and Scorsese is talking about the filming of “Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore”, in which Kristofferson played the romantic lead. Scorsese says about Kristofferson — in effect — that he’s one of the most beautiful people he’s ever known in his life. Scorcese comments on his own neurotic, high-strung, conflictive nature, and talks about how Kris would see him grappling with some problem on the set, about to lose his temper or have a nervous breakdown. Kris would go up to Scorcese, look directly into his eyes and say in that deep, tranquil voice of his: “Marty, what can I do to help?” Scorsese describes Kristofferson’s compassion, his positive energy, and the calming effect that Kristofferson had on Scorcese, his polar opposite. Scorsese the director describes Kristofferson the actor almost if he were some kind of Buddha. It’s a quality that’s apparent in Kris’s art, whether it’s his music or his acting.

Getting back to the concert:

Last night, he granted the request of someone from the audience to play his hit, “Sunday Morning Coming Down”.

It’s a song about losing your family and waking up with nothing but your pain and a bottomless loneliness. It’s about having to drink from the moment you wake up to anesthetize yourself from that pain. Yet once you’ve had your first beer of the morning, you walk out onto the street and smell the smell of fried chicken — familiar, family smells — that bring you right back to what you’ve lost, and what you’re running from.

I recently talked to someone who said this: “NEARLY ALL EMOTIONS SUCK.” Unless the emotion is joy, most emotions are uncomfortable, and many are unbearably painful. When they happen, they feel like a bottomless pit, with no way out, with no end in sight.

Kristofferson nailed that sensation in this song. He also nailed the allure of alcoholism as a survival mechanism. And how a simple thing like the smell of fried chicken can bring back all that pain in a crushing avalanche of memory.

After the show was over, Kris made himself available to sign autographs. There he was, behind a crude chicken-wire fence that separated him from the pushy crowd holding up papers, cowboy hats, and album covers for him to sign. It was like watching an animal in the zoo. I entered the fray and watched Kristofferson, his face worn with fatigue, diligently signing things, rapid-fire, one after the other. I felt bad for him, that after giving his all in a long solo show, he couldn’t relax immediately afterward. But he just kept signing and saying “Thank you” and shaking the occasional hand through the fence without complaint. A real pro.

“Kris, you’re gonna get carpal tunnel!” I shouted. He paused in the middle of signing, looked up, and his face broke into that contagious grin. “I’ve already got it,” he said, laughing.