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Hank Williams' last ride: Driver recalls lonesome end Kevin Glackmeyer/AP In a Montgomery museum this month, Charles Carr sits behind the wheel of the Cadillac he was driving in the wee hours of New Year's Day 1953, when singer Hank Williams died in the back seat.

MONTGOMERY -- Just before sunrise on New Year's Day 50 years ago, a sleek
baby-blue Cadillac roared up to the rural Oak Hill, W.Va., hospital in the
cold Appalachian darkness. The driver was just 17, exhausted and scared.
The passenger was barely 29 and dead.

At the wheel was Charles Carr, a college freshman on Christmas break from
Auburn. The man in the back seat was singer-songwriter Hank Williams.

"I ran in and explained my situation to the two interns who were in the
hospital," said Carr, now a 67-year-old Montgomery businessman. "They came
out and looked at Hank and said, 'He's dead.'

"I asked 'em, 'Can't you do something to revive him?' One of them looked at
me and said, 'No, he's just dead.' "

It was a last ride that would help define American music and pop culture
for decades to come.

Long before there was Janis Joplin or Jimi Hendrix or Kurt Cobain --
self-destructive stars who flamed out at their zenith -- there was Hiram
"Hank" Williams, a hard-drinking, rough-around-the-edges Alabama country
boy who wrote simple, heart-tugging songs about loneliness and then, still
young, died alone in the back seat of his car.

The last hours of his troubled life long ago passed from reality to myth.
Biographers have breathlessly speculated about what really happened.
Officials have issued sketchy reports that only increased the mystery.
Songwriters and playwrights still rhapsodize about it. An off-Broadway
play, "Hank Williams: Lost Highway" is currently running in New York. A
Web site dedicated to Williams estimates that more than 700 songs have
been written about the singer, whose own recording career lasted only
five years.

But only Carr knows the truth about those final hours. For years, he
avoided most requests for interviews. But in recent years, he has begun
to talk, trying to set the record straight.

He thinks Williams died -- the official cause was heart failure --
somewhere between Bristol, Tenn., and Oak Hill on the way to a New Year's
Day 1953 show in Canton, Ohio.

"I'm certainly not an authority on Hank Williams," said Carr. "But I'm
the only authority on Hank Williams' death."

Theories abound

Some biographies have speculated that Williams died at a Knoxville hotel
and that porters unwittingly placed his corpse in his car for the trip
north. Still others have him dying on the road with an unfinished song in
his hands, bedroom slippers on his feet and a pint of vodka in his coat
pocket.

All bunk, retorts Carr, who maintains Williams was very much alive and
wearing white cowboy boots, a stylish blue overcoat and a white fedora
when he left Knoxville at 10:45 p.m. New Year's Eve en route to a concert
500 snowy miles north.

"The story seems to get better as every year goes by," said Carr. "But
Hank's life doesn't need to have anything added to it. It was sensational
enough as it was."

But by the time Carr got behind the wheel of Williams' ragtop Cadillac on
Dec. 30, 1952, the troubadour's life was in a full-tilt meltdown. He was
divorced from his first wife, Audrey. Though remarried, he was staying at
his mother's downtown Montgomery boardinghouse, having been demoted from
the Grand Ole Opry to the Louisiana Hayride, the farm team of country
music. He was taking morphine shots for constant back pain after major
surgery the year before (he suffered from spina bifida), ingesting a
dangerous sedative, chloral hydrate, to sleep and playing the same
backwater clubs he'd escaped just a few years earlier.

Williams knew Carr's father, who ran a Montgomery taxi service, and the
teenager was asked to drive an obviously ailing Williams to gigs in
Charleston, W.Va., and Canton, major concert dates that Williams hoped
would be the start of a comeback.

"Dad was a friend of Hank's and tried to look out after him in the tough
times," Carr said. "He was there talking with dad and Hank asked me if
I'd be interested in making the trip."

It was a journey that seemed doomed from the start.

By the time Carr helped Williams load his guitars and stage suits into
the car trunk, the weather across much of the South was deteriorating.
Rain was turning to ice and snow.

Carr recalls the 6'2" Williams was sick and frail at the time, weighing
perhaps 130 pounds, but disputes reports that the singer, long a heavy
drinker, was guzzling booze most of the trip.

"He had a very low tolerance for alcohol at that point," Carr said.
"We bought a six-pack of Falstaff [beer] in Montgomery before we left,
and there were several cans left when he died."

A rudimentary autopsy found Williams had traces of alcohol in his blood
when he died, but it found no drugs, although it's unclear if pathologists
tested for them.

Carr remembers Williams being in good spirits as the trip began. They
told jokes, sang songs and traded tales as they navigated the two-lane
highways of the pre-interstate South.

"Hank's song 'Jambalaya' was just out on the radio and he asked me what
I thought of it," Carr recalled. "I told him I didn't care for it, that
it didn't make a bit of sense to me. Hank laughed and said, 'You son of
a bitch, you just understand the French like I do.'

"We were just a couple of young guys on a car trip having fun."

They spent the night at a hotel in Birmingham and got an early start on
New Year's Eve as the weather continued to worsen. Carr remembers
Williams buying a pint of bonded bourbon in Fort Payne, Ala. He also
made one waiter very happy.

"He walked up to our server at a restaurant we ate at and said, 'Here's
the biggest tip you ever got.' And he gave him $50. Money didn't mean
anything to Hank."

Final hours

It was snowing by the time they reached Chattanooga, and Williams decided
to try to catch a flight from Knoxville to make the Charleston show on time. The flight took off at 3:30 p.m., but was turned back due to the bad weather, so they found themselves stuck in Knoxville for the night. The Charleston show was a bust, but they still hoped to make Canton.

Carr got them a room at the 17-story Andrew Johnson Hotel and they
checked in about 7 p.m. to wait out the storm.

"We talked a while and ordered dinner up in the room," Carr said. "As I
remember, Hank didn't eat much of anything. He had the hiccups real bad."

Carr called a doctor, who came and gave Williams two injections -- later
determined to be morphine mixed with vitamin B12.

"He calmed down after that, but looking back, maybe the hiccups or the
indigestion could have been the beginning of a coronary," Carr said.

Williams dozed off fully clothed, but about 10:30 p.m., Carr got a call
from the concert promoter telling him they had to leave right away and
drive through the night to make the Canton show.

"There was some kind of penalty clause in his contract . . . so we had to
be there for the New Year's Day concert or else," Carr said.

"When we left the room, they sent a wheelchair," Carr said. "They rolled
him down to the car and Hank got in on his own. I clearly remember that."

Carr said there was little traffic as they pulled out of Knoxville.

"What traffic you did see was moving at a slow pace because the roads were
so bad," Carr said. "We were trying to push it but we didn't have much
luck."

Carr got a ticket about an hour later in Blaine, Tenn., when he almost ran
into a patrolman while trying to pass another car. He paid a fine and got
back behind the wheel with Williams asleep in the back. It was after
midnight by this time -- already New Year's Day -- and Carr had been
behind the wheel since early that morning.

The teenager stopped in a small town to gas up and get a bite to eat. Carr
said it could have been Bristol, Tenn., about 120 miles northeast of
Knoxville, or it could have been Bluefield, a town in West Virginia.
It was dark and he was bone-tired in unfamiliar territory. He specifically
remembers a service station on one side of the highway and a diner and a
cab stand on the other. He pulled in to gas up.

"I remember Hank got out to stretch his legs and I asked him if he
wanted a sandwich or something," Carr said. "And he said, 'No, I just
want to get some sleep.'

"I don't know if that's the last thing he said. But it's the last thing
I remember him telling me."

At the cab stand, Carr picked up a relief driver who helped him drive for
a few hours before getting out somewhere in rural West Virginia.

Carr drove on, but became increasingly concerned about the eerie silence
in the back seat. He pulled off the road to check on Williams, who was
lying with his head toward the passenger seat and had his left hand across
his chest.

"He had his blue overcoat on and had a blanket over him that had fallen
off," Carr said. "I reached back to put the blanket back over him and I
felt a little unnatural resistance from his arm."

Carr pulled into the next service station he saw and told the owner he
needed to get to a hospital fast. The man pointed the way, and Carr
remembers seeing a road sign for Oak Hill, six miles away.

Revisiting the scene

On a bright December day a few weeks ago, Carr strolled through the Hank
Williams Museum in downtown Montgomery. He sat for a few minutes in the
driver's seat of the Cadillac he drove that night.

The overcoat that Williams was wearing is in a glass case nearby, as is
one of his pearl-handled pistols and the shoeshine kit he used as a boy
to help support his family.

Carr moved on after that long-ago brush with fame. He went back to Auburn
University, got a degree, served in the military, got married, had kids
and became a successful businessman. He now has a home in Montgomery and
a weekend lake house.

He has a framed poster for the concert that he and Williams never got to,
and he keeps a pair of cowhide gloves the singer gave him on that final
trip.

He'll attend a New Year's Day memorial service for Williams at his
much-visited grave in Montgomery's Oakwood Cemetery annex. A few surviving
members of Williams' "Drifting Cowboys" band will be there as well,
if they are able to make it. They are old men now, some in their 80s.

"But I'm not going to make a day of it," Carr said. "I just want to honor
Hank."

A visitor observes that Carr has survived the years about as well as the
old Cadillac, which has been immaculately restored. Carr laughs at the
suggestion.

"No, no," he said. "I'm an old man. But Hank Williams never had to worry
about that. He'll always be young to me."