Kris Kristofferson was a walking contradiction. A Rhodes Scholar who swept floors at Columbia Records. An Army Ranger who turned down a teaching gig at West Point to become a "Nashville cat." By the time he sat down to record The Silver Tongued Devil and I in early 1971, he wasn't just another aspiring songwriter; he was a man who had already lived three lifetimes and had the gravel in his voice to prove it.
If his debut album, Kristofferson, was the earthquake that shook Nashville’s foundations, this second record was the aftershock that proved the first one wasn’t a fluke. Honestly, it’s the record that solidified the "Outlaw Country" blueprint before the term even had a marketing budget. You’ve got these raw, literary lyrics paired with a voice that sounds like it’s been dragged over five miles of unpaved road. It’s perfect.
The Man Behind the Mask
The title track, "The Silver Tongued Devil and I," is basically a psychological autopsy set to music. Kris wrote it about a guy sitting in the Tally-Ho Tavern—a real-life Music Row dive where he used to tend bar. The "Devil" isn't some external demon; it’s the version of himself that comes out after a few too many drinks. It’s that silver-tongued charmer who says all the right things to a woman while the "real" Kris watches in horror, knowing he’s about to break a heart or his own reputation.
It’s heavy stuff for 1971. While most country artists were singing about cheating or trucks in a very "A-B-A-B" rhyme scheme, Kristofferson was bringing William Blake and Shakespearean duality into the honky-tonk.
Why the Sound Was Different
Producer Fred Foster took some risks here. He didn’t just stick to the "three chords and the truth" mantra. On The Silver Tongued Devil and I, you start hearing violins and even a horn section. It sounds "countrypolitan" on the surface, but the grit of Kris’s vocals keeps it from feeling like a Nashville pop sell-out.
The lineup on the record was a "who’s who" of session legends:
- Norbert Putnam on bass (the guy was a machine).
- Jerry Carrigan on drums.
- Charlie McCoy pulling double duty on harmonica and vibraphone.
- Billy Swan and Bobby Dyson holding down the low end.
There’s even a guest vocal from "The Lady," who was actually Joan Baez, though she wasn't credited by name on the original sleeve. That kind of cross-pollination between the folk-activist world and the Nashville scene was unheard of at the time. It made the album feel dangerous.
Breaking Down the Tracks
The album is only about 32 minutes long, but it covers a staggering amount of emotional ground. Take "Lovin' Her Was Easier (Than Anything I'll Ever Do Again)." It’s arguably one of the most beautiful songs ever written in the English language. It didn't even hit the country charts initially, but it became a Top 30 pop hit. Think about that. A guy with a "frog voice" (his words, not mine) was charting next to the Bee Gees because the song was just that undeniable.
Then you have "The Pilgrim, Chapter 33." This is the ultimate tribute to the Nashville songwriters Kris admired—people like Chris Gantry and Bobby Bare. He calls the character a "walking contradiction, partly fact and partly fiction." It’s basically a self-portrait and a mission statement for the entire Outlaw movement.
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The Vietnam Angle
Most people forget that "Good Christian Soldier" was on this record. Written by Billy Joe Shaver, it’s a quiet, devastating look at the Vietnam War. Kristofferson, being an ex-military man himself, gave the song a weight that a "protest singer" never could. When he sings about learning how to die while playing cards, it feels like a punch to the gut.
The Legacy in 2026
Looking back from 2026, The Silver Tongued Devil and I feels less like a vintage country album and more like a time capsule of a changing America. It was the bridge between the old-school Grand Ole Opry world and the gritty, drug-fueled, poetic realism of the 70s.
It wasn't just a "sophomore slump" dodger. It was a commercial smash, going Gold by 1973 and hitting number four on the Hot Country LPs chart. It proved that you could be smart, literate, and still sell records to people who worked for a living.
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How to Listen Today
If you’re just getting into Kris, don't just stream the "Best Of" collections. You lose the narrative.
- Listen to the album in order. The flow from the title track into "Jody and the Kid" is intentional.
- Read the lyrics. Seriously. Treat them like poetry.
- Watch the live versions. There’s a 1999 "Austin Sessions" version of the title track that’s much more stripped back and haunting. It shows how the song aged with him.
The album ends with "Epitaph (Black and Blue)," a song inspired by the death of his friend Janis Joplin. It’s a somber, organ-heavy finish that leaves you sitting in the silence after the needle lifts. It’s not a "happy" record, but it’s a truthful one. And in a world of AI-generated hooks and over-polished production, that truth is exactly why we’re still talking about it fifty-five years later.
To truly appreciate the impact of this work, your next step should be to compare the studio version of "The Pilgrim, Chapter 33" with the live performances from his later years; you'll hear how the "walking contradiction" eventually found a way to live with both sides of himself. Drawing a line from this album to the work of modern artists like Sturgill Simpson or Jason Isbell will show you just how much of the current Americana landscape was built on the foundation Kris laid down in 1971.