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Hank.

He took over my life in a major way when I was twelve years old.

My father owned an MGM album titled Hank Williams—The Drifting Cowboy. On the cover was an artist’s depiction of Hank’s face in pasty white against a brown background. It was a record like many released in the years following his death. None of the hits were there, no “Cheatin’ Heart” or “Lovesick Blues”—instead, offered up was a collection of musical fingernail clippings dredged from the vaults, a ...