Patrick Haggerty, the trailblazing gay country singer, lived 'forcefully and fiercely'

A few years after the Stonewall riots launched the gay rights movement into the international spotlight, country musician Patrick Haggerty had to make a choice.

"Was I going to be openly gay and advocate for gay rights, or was I going to slither off to Nashville and stay in the closet and try to make it in country music," he told CBC Winnipeg's Information Radio in September. "The choice was stark, but it was completely, incomprehensibly impossible to do both in 1973."

Haggerty chose to embrace his identity, and formed the queer country music band Lavender Country. Their self-titled 1973 album is believed to be the first explicitly gay record by openly gay artists.

Haggerty died on Monday after suffering a stroke weeks earlier. He was 78.

For most of his life, his country music career never took off. The album Lavender Country went largely unnoticed, selling only about 1,000 copies, until the record label Paradise of Bachelors re-released it in 2014 and gave Haggerty's career a second wind. 

That re-release was the brainchild of the label's co-founder, Brendan Greaves, who came to see Haggerty as a dear friend. Here is part of his conversation with As It Happens host Nil Köksal. 

What goes through your mind when you hear Patrick Haggerty talk about that decision that he made, he felt compelled to make, in 1973?

He describes it as a stark choice, but I don't think it was ever really a choice. At least not to the Patrick that I knew decades after the fact. That was clear to me always that, you know, there was only one of those roads that he could follow. And he did so forcefully and fiercely.

Many of us are just learning about Mr. Haggerty, his story and his music. And I was just listening to the song Come Out Singing from Lavender Country's 1973 album, and it starts with such a beautiful opening melody, and then he goes on to sing: "Waking up this morning to say: Hip, hip, hooray, I'm glad I'm gay." Simple words, but powerful words —  then and now.

Yeah, absolutely. You know, I think the remarkable thing about Patrick, that anyone who knew him well would tell you, is that he was a voice for love. He was so dedicated to liberation for all people, and so dedicated to radical honesty and radical empathy. And that began with him embracing his own identity and then advocating for LGBTQ people around the world, and advocating for anti-racist causes. He really was looking to spread the gospel of love, for lack of a better way to put it.

And being proud of who he was.

Absolutely. And some of that came from his father, who in rural Washington state just across the Canadian border, was open to embracing who Patrick was, and told him to accept his identity and be proud and: "Don't sneak." Those were his words.

And Patrick took that to heart, and let everyone else know as well. So, you know, he was, on the one hand, a totally fabulous diva and what he described as a "screaming Marxist bitch." I don't know if I can say that! [Laughs]

But on the other hand, he was this extremely tender family man who occupied a really important position in my personal life and my family life, as well as those of many other people.

Let's talk a little bit about Lavender Country's 1973 album. That song I mentioned was from that album. How was the album received by music fans back then?

It wasn't exactly. It was largely sold and distributed through community organizations and from the back pages of gay publications. It was kind of a secret amongst those who knew, and a lot of copies did end up in the hands of folks who really needed it. It was sold out of the back pages of, amongst other things, a kind of zine for gay and LGBTQ folks living in rural areas, which was Patrick's own experience, too, so he felt strongly about reaching out to them.

There were a thousand copies pressed … and it took probably, you know, several years, if not close to a decade, to move those copies.

Patrick was always torn about that. He felt the album wasn't embraced by the Nashville country music establishment, for obvious reasons. But he also felt it wasn't necessarily embraced by his own community either. So he was grateful to have a second chance at that.

And that second chance came from you. What led you to the album, and then what led you to want to re-release it almost 40 years later?

I heard rumours ... of its existence. But a record collector acquaintance contacted me and reminded me that it did, indeed, exist and that he had located Patrick's phone number.

So I called him out of the blue. I called Patrick. It was almost exactly nine years ago to the day. It was October 2013. And he was astonished and slightly aggressive. [Laughs] He was understandably highly suspicious of me, a straight white man, calling him about this piece of his past.

He'd left Lavender Country in the past and was performing, occasionally, country covers and requests in nursing homes around where he lives.

And we began our friendship then, and kind of pushed through the initial barriers, and realized we are on the same page and shared the same politics and that it was worthwhile and important to reintroduce these songs and his message — what he called "the information" — to the world.

How are his family doing?

He has a son and a daughter and husband of many years, J.B. I spoke to J.B. yesterday and he's surrounded by family and friends and, I think, in shock. I think he's coping the best he can.

Everyone's devastated. It all happened very quickly, which I suppose there's a mercy to that. He didn't suffer too long. 

And I'm sure Patrick's one regret was — and according to his husband, J.B. — is that he didn't die on stage, which was his dramatic hope, I think. [Laughs]

He was obviously a groundbreaking musician and activist. But he was your friend, as we've said. So what memories are swirling in your mind and in your heart as you try to say goodbye to him?

He assumed for me a real fatherly or avuncular role in my life. When I first reached out to him, I had just had a son, and Patrick and J.B. were very persistent in befriending my son Asa, sending him lavish gifts and calling him. They were often more interested in him than they were in me, it seemed. They would send him David Bowie CDs and tiaras and make-up and books about gay pride, and really just anything. The information. You know, they wanted him to have the information, too, as the younger generation.

Beyond Patrick's role as an artist and activist, which are critical, you know, I treasure the memories of him playing songs in my living room and of my son, Asa, waking him and J.B. up in the guest room and cuddling with them. And Patrick teaching me his recipe for banana cream pie in our kitchen. It's a good one.... I think of banana cream pie as the pie in like a slapstick comedy that you throw on someone's face. And I sort of feel like that was Patrick's attitude in life. You know, throwing that pie in the face of the powers that be.