“And this world it threatens to take you away/It’ll leave you battered and worn/But magic is in my arms today/Little Sasha’s just been born.” He delivers the last words with great care, ever so gently ticking the song to a close. “This was written the night my little girl was born,” he says, and begins singing: “I know you’re trying to smile for me/I can tell ’cause it’s in your eyes.” He works through two more verses, his voice turning plaintive and strained. I had flown from New York to Detroit and driven 90 miles south for a patented Ted Nugent “gonzolectomy,” not expecting to pass the time watching the celebrated wildman strumming lullabies.
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Leaning over the guitar, he picks out a dawdling series of chords. Ted spoons up the last of his grits and lurches off the couch to pull his acoustic Gibson out of its open case. “It’s sad, man, it’s a very sad thing, but I can’t talk about it yet.” The divorce suit, the particulars of which have been kept private by a Michigan court through an agreement between the two principals, will determine who keeps custody of his five-year-old daughter, Sasha, and two-year-old son, Toby. “I am getting a divorce,” he says, looking out the window. He stabs at his bowl when I mention their absence. The farmhouse is one of three homes (one in Florida and another in northern Michigan) he shared with his wife, Sandy, and their two children until the couple separated in early 1978. “Ya want some grits?” asks Nugent, dishing out two bowls of mush, depth-charging a hunk of butter into each and peppering them to choke.
The LP has indeed slipped a couple of notches and is stuck in the low twenties, but it has already sold a million copies - something his four previous albums on Epic Records had taken more time to accomplish. “My hat size depends on the charts we slipped a little this week,” he allows, referring to his six-week-old album, Weekend Warriors. Nugent rakes through his long brown hair and resettles his new Stetson, a present for his thirtieth birthday, which was yesterday, December 13th. Yet there’s a rowdy edge to his manner that seems seasoned and unpredictable. Something about his bug-eyes and drugstore-cowboy get-up makes him appear boyish. Nugent stands six feet two, weighs 170 pounds and moves with an athlete’s easy grace. I did three days in jail, more than once, but that was expunged from my record.” I nod nervously. “Those fuckwads tried to tell me I had records of criminal felonies! I woulda liked to see them prove that one. “I went down to buy some handguns for Christmas presents the other day,” says Nugent, leading me into a living room packed with enough wall-mounted bristle and bone (deer, elk, antelope, ram, fox, bear, moose and boar heads) to keep a taxidermist busy for months.
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