In the gritty annals of country music, where legends are forged in smoke-filled studios and backroad bars, few artifacts carry the weight—literally—of Waylon Jennings’ custom leather-bound Fender Telecaster. This isn’t just a guitar; it’s a 50-year-old relic of the Outlaw movement, strapped to the hip of the man who flipped Nashville the bird with hits like “Luckenbach, Texas” and “Good Hearted Woman.” But here’s the kicker: Waylon ditched it not for a shiny new model, but because it was “too f–king heavy.” Fast-forward through decades of hotel-room handoffs, a sneaky spousal auction heist, and one heartbroken bidder, and that same axe now hangs in Keith Urban’s Nashville vault—loaned out to hungry pickers who treat it like the holy grail.

The story, unearthed in a recent Wide Open Country deep dive, reads like a honky-tonk tall tale: equal parts rock ‘n’ roll romance, blue-collar blues, and laugh-out-loud marital mischief. At its core? A six-string survivor that’s outlasted divorces, tours, and the relentless march of time, proving that in country, the best heirlooms come with strings attached—and a side of sass.

Picture this: It’s the mid-1970s, peak Waylon era. Jennings, the long-haired rebel with a voice like gravel and whiskey, is ruling the roost as the godfather of Outlaw country. He’s bucking the Music Row machine, recording with Willie Nelson, and turning the genre on its ear. Enter his weapon of choice: a Fender Telecaster, tricked out with a luxurious leather binding that screams “custom cool.” This wasn’t some off-the-shelf six-string; it was a stage beast, rugged enough for the road but fancy enough to turn heads. Waylon slung it over his shoulder for a solid decade, riffing through anthems that defined a generation. From the electric twang on Wanted! The Outlaws—the first platinum country album ever—to the raw energy of his ’70s live shows, that Telecaster was his sonic sidekick, capturing the fire of a man who lived fast and loved hard.

But by the 1980s, the outlaw was feeling his years. Jennings, pushing 50 and nursing a lifetime of road wear, found the guitar’s heft—a combo of solid wood body and that extra leather armor—becoming a literal burden. “As I got older, it was just too heavy for me to play onstage,” he’d later recall with his trademark candor. Enter Reggie Young, the Memphis legend behind hits for Elvis Presley, Waylon himself, and a laundry list of ’60s and ’70s icons. Young, a session wizard with fingers that could make a Tele weep, was crashing at a hotel during a gig when Waylon showed up unannounced, guitar case in tow.

No fanfare, no teary speech—just pure Waylon. “I want you to have that,” he grunted, shoving the case into Young’s room like he was passing a spare pack of smokes. When Young pressed for why, Jennings didn’t mince words: “Because it’s too f–king heavy.” Cue the laughter. It was classic Jennings—blunt as a boot heel, zero BS. Young, stunned but stoked, accepted the gift without a second thought. For the next 25 years, the Telecaster became Reggie’s road warrior, gigging through sessions and shows, its leather scarred from real life. Young treated it like family, but as he hit his own twilight years, he knew it deserved a bigger stage. Enter the auction block: In a move that sent shockwaves through collector circles, Young put the guitar up for bids, pegging its value north of six figures. This wasn’t just memorabilia; it was a time capsule of country’s rebel yell.

Cue the plot twist that could’ve been scripted by a Nashville rom-com writer. Fast-forward to the auction day, and who’s circling like a hawk? None other than Keith Urban, the slick-fingered Aussie transplant who’s spent decades genuflecting at the altar of Outlaw greats. Urban, 57 and still shredding charts with hits like “Wild Hearts” and “Messed Up as Me,” is a self-professed Waylon fanatic. “I’m a massive Waylon fan,” he’d admit later, his Kiwi drawl thick with reverence. “I just couldn’t bear the thought of that guitar disappearing overseas under somebody’s bed, when it should be played.” Urban, ever the collector (his walls boast axes from legends like George Jones and Johnny Cash), jumped into the bidding war, visions of jamming Waylon riffs dancing in his head.

But unbeknownst to Keith, he’d already lost the plot—thanks to the sharpest wingwoman in Music City: his wife, Nicole Kidman. The Oscar-winning actress, married to Urban since 2006, caught wind of the auction through back channels and hatched a scheme straight out of a heist flick. Kidman, no stranger to high-stakes drama (hello, Big Little Lies), looped in Urban’s own finance team to run interference. “They stalled me,” Urban recounted with a chuckle, shaking his head at the memory. “I was heartbroken when I thought I’d missed it.” Picture the scene: Keith, pacing his Nashville home, refreshing auction sites like a man jonesing for his next fix, only to get the call that the gavel had fallen. Gut-punch. Soul-crushing. The kind of blue that only a triple-digit bidder’s remorse can deliver.

Enter stage left: Nicole, cool as a cucumber, strolling in with a grin that said “honey, I’ve got a surprise.” In Urban’s words, straight from the Wide Open Country interview: “She walks in and says, ‘I just got you Waylon Jennings’ guitar.’” Boom. Insanity. Elation. The room exploded in hugs, high-fives, and probably a few tears—because in a world where rock stars feud over royalties and relics, this was pure, unadulterated love. Kidman hadn’t just bought a guitar; she’d bought a piece of her husband’s heart, wrapped in leather and legend. The price tag? Undisclosed, but whispers peg it in the mid-six figures—a steal for immortality.

Today, that Telecaster isn’t gathering dust in Urban’s climate-controlled collection. True to his Waylon worship, Keith’s turned it into a traveling ambassador, loaning it out to up-and-comers who promise to play it loud and proud. “It should be played,” Urban insists, echoing the ethos of the man who birthed it. From Nashville jam sessions to festival side stages, the guitar’s back on the circuit, its strings humming with the ghosts of Outlaws past. Young, now in his 80s and still picking when he can, couldn’t be happier: “Waylon would approve,” he told auction reps. And hell, knowing Waylon’s penchant for irreverence, he’d probably slap Keith on the back and growl, “Just don’t let it get too f–king heavy on ya.”

This tale’s got it all: the raw poetry of a bygone era, the slapstick of a marital prank gone gloriously right, and a reminder that country’s best stories aren’t scripted—they’re strung together one riff at a time. As Urban straps it on for the occasional guest spot, you can almost hear Waylon’s laugh echoing from the great beyond: lightened load, heavier legacy. In a genre full of rhinestones and regrets, that’s music to our ears.