Friday, October 21, 2011

My Dad Is Selling Willie Nelson's Tour Bus - From

Need a piece of history, why not buy Willie Nelson's tour bus, read on.
Link to original article over at Vice Blog

By Kara-Lis Coverdale

My dad is a wheeler n' dealer so I'm used to seeing cool stuff come and go. As the offspring of a compulsive bargain hunter you learn to enjoy the stuff you've got because you never know when it's going to get sold so your dad can buy other cool shit. Still, that doesn't make it any less of a massive bummer when the time comes to say goodbye to something especially awesome, like Willie Nelson's tour bus. 

When Dad and his buddy Kenny first brought home Honeysuckle Rose (as Willie calls all of his tour buses) from God knows where, their first priority was to fix it up. As you'd imagine, THC residue and weed stems were all over the place, Willie's poo particles were still on the toilet, and there was an annoying clank that came from the upper flourescent light cover above the front sofa. Dad and Kenny vacuumed the stems and crystals and changed the toilet, but left the clank alone.

One day when they were driving down the road, the clanking got to be too much for Dad to handle. He ripped off the light cover, stuck his hand in, and pulled out a tin roach box full of dank pot, a few guitar picks, and shitty filters. Cha-ching! Sadly it's gone now, and I'm still pissed they just threw it out with the rest of the clean up.

Anybody's celebrity lips could have been on those roach relics, like Dolly Parton or even that douchey Toby Keith character. I like to think it was Snoop D-O Double-Gee.

This thing should probably be in the fucking Rock and Roll Hall of Fame or something, but instead it sleeps in the far bay of Dad's workshop, only to come out for family day trips and stuff. Sometimes we'd drive it down to Port Dover when we craved orange pop and fish and chips, and other times we'd just drive it to local community shebangs like the Freelton Turkey Draw or the Valens Pancake Breakfast. Dad and his buddies also took it to NASCAR races. When a Southern gate-keeper dude sees a driver in an XL cowboy hat driving this chromed out, teepee-muraled ride they think, "Gosh darn there are rock stars in that thang!!" so they were almost always let in free and often got escorted to the best parking spots on the raceway (trackside real estate is hella redneck rich). Whenever the Dodge tailgaters down below would get jealous and start booing, Kenny would just stand off the side of the bus and throw cans of Coors Light and Old Milwaukee like wedding confetti.

A shot of the masterfully airbrushed rear.

Google won't tell me who this mural artist "Rainmaker" is, but he paints nice belts and decently accurate appaloosa horses.

This is pretty badass chrome placement. To get to the rumbling junk in the trunk you have to pass the menacing talons of the great bald eagle. In so doing you are reminded of the great American liberty to drive an old and hugely inefficient carbon emission vehicle that literally spews out black shit across the country.

A shot of the bathroom.  This is the mirror where Willie would guage the caliber of knot on his bandana.

And this is where he pooped (presumably he shit pure freedom).

Sleeping on the top bunk of a tour bus seems like a good idea until you remember that hot air rises.

I like to imagine Willie and friends kicking back in this back-bus entertainment suite to watch the episodes of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman he was in while blasting Ray Charles and rippin' it down the 401.

Recently we let Grammy-winning producer Daniel Lanois stay on the Willie Bus (he was playing a festival nearby and knew my dad's friend Kenny somehow) and he told us "Goddamn it's good to be on an Eagle again." When we picked it up the next day there were feather boas and glitter all over the place (P.I.M.P).
Alas, my dad has decided to get rid of old Honeysuckle Rose. So I guess what I'm saying is that if you have around $65,000 to drop on the Willie Bus, you should hit up the Collectors Car Auction in Toronto this weekend. To whoever buys it: You have torn from my grip one of the most epic pieces of American music history ever. I hate you. Treat her well.