by Jessi Colter
The perpetual presence of evil was a concept with which I struggled. If God were all-powerful, wouldn’t he use that power to destroy evil? Of course Mother had answers for such questions—that goodness could only be seen in contrast to evil; that without darkness we could never understand the beauty of light; that the actual power of evil was a deception, not a reality; that love inevitably trumps hate; and that, finally, the ways of God are embedded in sacred mystery. Our job is only to seek knowledge of his will.
Her answers mostly—but not always—satisfied my curious mind. Even as a youngster I was a serious thinker. I loved books that provoked questions—Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden and coming-of-age novels like Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, which moved me to consider the forces that form our moral character. I adored the rhythms and rhymes of poetry, especially Edgar Allan Poe’s. With great wonder and delight I read and reread his evocative “Eldorado”—a story that I envisioned unfolding in the wilderness of Arizona. In “Eldorado” a gallant knight searches for the fabled lost city of gold, only to receive mystical directions from a ghost, a “pilgrim shadow”:
“Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,”
The shade replied,
“If you seek for Eldorado!”1
It’s no surprise that the poem would appeal to the daughter of a miner and a minister. It’s all about the insoluble mystery of seeking—seeking precious minerals, seeking the majesty of God, seeking that which, although invisible, will finally satisfy our lifelong quest.
Even as a young person, I found my thoughts centering on weighty matters. I wondered, for example, about the nature of eternity. What did infinity mean? What did infinity look like? I was fascinated by time. Could time ever be stopped, ever be caught like a fluttering butterfly and held in a jar? What would it mean to hold time in my hand? And how could time ever be expanded? Could a minute ever last longer than a minute? Could a second last longer than a second?
I was conscious of the passing of time. The years between ages fifteen and sixteen, sixteen and seventeen, went by in a flash. I was in love with Don but then Don was gone. Love hadn’t lasted. More reliable was my love of music. That love led me to do something I didn’t think I’d ever dare. With friends I snuck off and went to a rough club in Phoenix called the Riverside. Johnny Cash was performing. I didn’t drink and I don’t think I even danced. But I knew this wasn’t the kind of scene that would meet Mother’s approval.
Something bigger than Mother’s approval, though, got me going. I wanted to hear, see, and feel the presence of a singer like Johnny Cash. In those early days, he was associated with Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Carl Perkins. These were cutting-edge artists. They were changing music in ways that stimulated my imagination. Seeing Johnny raise the roof at the Riverside was something I’d never forget.
I was fascinated by how he cradled the guitar while moving it side to side, as though he was rocking a baby in his arms. His voice sounded rough and smooth, all at the same time. I could feel his sincerity. Watching him command the stage, I saw a driven man who at this point in his career was just coming around the bend and finding great fame.
These were the days—the late fifties—when rock and roll was still a burgeoning phenomenon. I didn’t think in categories then—and still don’t—but I did see all that music as my music, music I loved and music I could both write and sing. By “rock and roll” I mean more than just Bill Haley or Bo Diddley. By rock and roll I simply mean music embraced by teenagers, everything from Buddy Holly’s “Rave On!” to the Everly Brothers’ “Dream On” to Elvis’s “Love Me Tender”—and even to salty country-sounding songs like Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ After Midnight.”
I felt the pull of this music, its powerful rhythms and urgent stories. The fact that I would soon be swept up into its swirling orbit was one of the great surprises of my early life. The way that came about speaks to the enigma of fate. Circumstances conspired to put me in a special place at a special time. Looking back, I’m amazed by those circumstances. But more than the circumstances, I’m amazed by my own daring to follow a path shrouded in mystery. Without realizing it, like the knight in Poe’s “Eldorado,” I was searching for something just beyond the mountains of the moon.
Chapter 4
YOUNG AND INNOCENT
WHILE I DISPLAYED A HEALTHY DEGREE OF DETERMINATION and confidence, I was far from obsessed with forging a musical career at age eighteen. In fact, I looked on it as mere fun. It was a wonderful diversion to be able to write and sing songs.
Because I had sung in church for so long—and with such enthusiastic support from everyone around me—I viewed audiences lovingly. I presumed that, like my fellow worshippers, they were on my side. Meanwhile, my brother Paul and sister Sharon presumed that I was more talented than I judged myself to be. Where I was a little casual when it came to presenting myself in public, they were assertive. They felt that the world needed to know about me, and given any opportunity they brashly sang my praise.
Sharon was especially vocal. She had precociously entered the world of barrooms and nightclubs where, in her effusive way, she befriended a large number of men. Many of these friendships led to high drama. Sharon specialized in high drama. But because she was essentially a good-hearted soul who loved connecting people she liked, she saw that one of these friendships could benefit me.
Easy Deal Wilson, a man Sharon would later marry, was a piano-playing, saloon-owning character. Like Sharon, Easy Deal was an ongoing lover of life whose circle of contacts in the Valley of the Sun—the greater Phoenix metropolitan area—was extensive. In our corner of the world, he knew everyone there was to know in the entertainment business.
“Easy Deal knows Duane Eddy,” said Sharon, “and Duane’s looking for a singer to produce.”
A major pop star in the late fifties, Eddy had pioneered a distinctive low-note guitar sound—a twangy effect—that had a major impact on rock and roll. One note and you knew it was Duane Eddy. With the help of producer Lee Hazlewood, he had turned out a long string of hits—“Rebel Rouser,” “Ramrod,” “Cannonball,” “Peter Gunn,” “Forty Miles of Bad Road,” “Because They’re Young,” and “Shazam!”—flavored with a guitar tone all its own.
At the time, I had only a passing familiarity with these hits. I didn’t really understand Duane’s importance in the music universe. His name, however, did make an impression. Sharon knew more about him than I did. She said that although he was always out on tour, he kept a place in Phoenix where he had moved with his parents as a teenager. In 1960, the year we met, Duane was twenty-two and I was seventeen.
Sharon made the arrangements: Easy Deal would bring Duane to his place to audition me. My protective brother Paul, who liked to call himself my manager—even if there wasn’t much to manage—would not allow me to go unescorted. It was a sunny afternoon when Paul and I entered the dark barroom.
Bubbly as ever, Sharon was there and introduced me to Easy Deal. The first thing I noticed was that he was missing a few essential teeth. His skin was wrinkled and his eyes watery.
“Sharon brags on you all the time,” he was quick to say. “You best be as good as she says you are.”
“She’s even better,” Paul insisted.
“She’s the best,” Sharon chimed in. “Where’s Duane Eddy?”
“On his way,” Easy Deal assured her.
“Sharon says you have a piano,” I said.
“Naturally. What kind of saloon would I be running without a piano? Got me a good one right over there.”
In the back of the club was an old rinky-dink upright. The ivory was chipped on many of the keys. When I hit the first chord, the sound startled me. The instrument was wildly out of tune.
Sensing my discontent, Easy Deal assured me, “The crowd that comes in here just likes their music loud. Long as they can hear it, they like it.”
I smiled poli
tely and said it would do. What choice did I have?
I was warming up when Duane arrived. He was a good-looking man with slicked-up hair in the wavy style of teen idols like Fabian, Bobby Rydell, and Ricky Nelson. He was neatly dressed in a dark shirt and dark trousers. His smile was warm and his demeanor shy. He politely thanked me for coming to the club and thanked my brother for accompanying me. Although he was still a young man, he had the aura of a family man. Later I learned that he was. He was married with two children. There was something straight-ahead and serious about Duane.
Duane, Paul, Sharon, and Easy Deal sat at a table facing the piano.
“Let’s see what this little girl can do,” said Easy Deal.
“Take your time,” said Duane. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I’d been playing “St. Louis Blues” for years. It was a song I knew inside out. Why not go with a sure thing? So I sang it, accompanying myself with big strong chords while giving the tune a rocking rhythm.
When I was through, Sharon and Paul jumped up and gave me a rousing hand. No big surprise there. They were my biggest boosters. But what did Duane think?
“That poor piano could use a tuning,” he said, “but you made it work anyway. Great rendition. Great playing. Great singing. I’m just wondering if you have any songs of your own?”
Delighted with his reaction, my answer was, “Yes.”
“You mind playing a few?”
“I’d love to.”
I played a set of original songs with my usual confidence. I thought they were fine but had no great expectations that Duane would like them. They were love songs and a far cry from “Rebel Rouser” and “Peter Gunn.” Yet Duane did like them.
“I like them a lot,” he was quick to say. “I think you have talent, Mirriam Johnson, and I’d like to work with you.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant. I was still a junior in high school. I guess Duane must have seen the confusion on my face.
“I want you to finish school for sure,” he said. “That’s important. But over the coming months I’d like to help you. There’s no rush. We’ll take our time. The last thing I want to do is disturb your life. But I would like you to know—and I’d like to let your folks know as well—that I see you as someone with big potential. And I see myself as someone who can help you fulfill that potential.”
“Well, this is perfect!” Sharon shouted. “This is wonderful! This is the start of something great!”
Of course validation always feels good, and coming from an established star—the first such star, by the way, that I had ever met—I couldn’t help but be excited.
The excitement was sustained when Duane proved true to his word. Before leaving on tour, he made a point to visit our home where he explained to my parents his interest in my artistic potential. Mother and Daddy were impressed that a well-mannered gentleman spoke respectfully and admiringly of their daughter. They liked Duane. On occasion, he came to Mother’s church. Other times, Duane took me into the studio where we began recording my songs.
“I don’t want to give you too much direction,” he said, “because I really believe you’re a natural. You write and sing from the heart. That’s something that can’t be taught or learned. You either have it or you don’t. You have it, Mirriam. It’s just a matter of placing you in the right musical setting.”
We went into Audio Recorders, a legendary studio where great producers like Phil Spector had worked. Duane backed me up along with great saxophonists King Curtis and Jim Horn, both of whom would go on to play with Aretha. The level of musicianship was extraordinary. I sang “Lonesome Road” by Gene Austin and a tune written by Larry Knechtel—who later played in the band Bread—that summed up my life at that very moment: “Young and Innocent.”
Chapter 5
THE END OF INNOCENCE
DEATH MARKS THE END OF INNOCENCE. TO THE YOUNG, DEATH is a remote concept unconnected to our reality. But when death comes to your home, that reality is shaken and the world feels very different.
On August 15, 1960, a deputy sheriff knocked on our door.
“Are you the parents of Paul Johnson?”
“Yes,” said my father.
“It pains me to say that your son was killed instantly when his Austin-Healey hit a telegraph pole near 68th and Camelback.”
Daddy was stoic. We all stood silent. We couldn’t believe the words we heard. The loss was too great to comprehend.
The truth was that David was known as the drinker among my siblings. Several times my folks had to bail him out of trouble. And while I knew that Paul, the son of a race-car driver, liked to speed on the open road, I couldn’t recall a time when he had been inebriated in my company. In fact, his sober consistency and singular support of my music were some of my great comforts. Now, without warning, that comfort was gone. For all of us who loved and cherished his sweet and generous soul, the mourning would last a lifetime. Paul died two months before his twenty-fourth birthday. The grieving was done in private—Daddy retreating to his mining property, Mama holding forth at her revival meetings, bringing lost souls to Christ and amazingly withstanding the loss of her beloved son. After the funeral, I went alone to his grave and stood there the better part of the afternoon, crying my heart out.
His passing came in the wake of meeting Duane. Paul not only chaperoned that encounter, he encouraged me to continue working with Duane.
“The man understands you,” he had told me after that initial audition at Easy Deal’s. “The man appreciates you. I think he’s someone you can trust.”
Paul’s approval of Duane held great weight with me. With Paul gone, I was suddenly missing the man guiding my nascent musical career. It’s no wonder I began to lean on Duane for that support. And for his part, Duane was more than willing to lend that support; he was demonstrably eager.
Ten months after Paul’s death, in the summer of 1961, I graduated from high school. It was around this same time that my single of “Lonesome Road” and “Young and Innocent” was released on Jamie Records. This was heady stuff for eighteen-year-old Mirriam Johnson. It was one thing to have sung in church, at revival meetings, and at local talent shows. It was quite another to be holding a 45-rpm, seven-inch disc carrying my name.
What’s more, Duane expressed interest in helping me sell songs that I had composed.
“I think you can have a two-prong career,” he said. “One as a singer, and another as a writer. I’d be surprised if you didn’t succeed in both fields.”
He carefully listened as I played him my songs on the piano. He had very few suggestions—a minor edit here or there.
“Chet Atkins is a good friend,” he said. “I think Chet would like these songs. Chet may be able to place them.”
Chet Atkins, of course, was not only one of the premier guitarists in the country, but a powerhouse Nashville producer.
Things were moving fast—so fast, in fact, that I wondered whether Mother or Daddy might call a halt to it all, especially when, after Duane divorced his wife, he made it clear that his interest in me went beyond my music.
It is a testimony to my parents’ wisdom that they were not alarmed by the prospect of their young and innocent daughter venturing into the mysterious world of show business. Perhaps it was because they trusted me, or perhaps because, as adventurous souls themselves, they were incapable of denying me such a great adventure.
In Mother’s case, it is extraordinary that she did nothing—either by word or by deed—to stop me. Given her overwhelming passion for her ministry—and the fact that for so long I was an integral part of that ministry—you might imagine her balking. You might imagine her insisting that I not leave her side to pursue secular music. You might think that she would rant about the sins of the material world and do all she could to keep me out of that world.
But Mother’s wisdom was deep. She understood that mothers, unlike God, have limitations. She recognized the complexity of life choices. She knew that children choose different paths. And m
ost powerfully, she understood the difference between ego and faith. Ego would mean imposing her will. Faith would mean following God’s will. And God’s will, especially as applied to others, is not always crystal clear. God’s will requires thoughtful prayer. And no one was more committed to thoughtful prayer than my mother.
What were my prayers at this critical time in my life? What was in my secret heart?
I know I didn’t pray for fortune and fame. Fortune and fame have never been fantasies of mine, no matter my age. I prayed only that my life continue to take an adventurous turn. I prayed that the spirit imbued in my parents—the spirit that had them venturing forth into the wide-open spaces of the glorious deserts and mountains of Arizona—be imbued in me. I prayed that my life not be boring or predictable.
In that sense, I’m glad to report that all my prayers came true.
Chapter 6
MEET MIRRIAM EDDY
DURING OUR COURTSHIP, DUANE WAS THE VERY MODEL OF decorum. Never overly aggressive. No sudden moves. Relaxed, self-assured, and considerate. I had no reason for alarm.
Why, then, was I alarmed when, on one of our first dates, we drove straight out into the Arizona wilderness for miles on end? Not only had I been in no-man’s-land before, but my father’s mine was situated in such a spot. Much of my childhood had been spent gazing at the star-filled sky far from the lights of the city. So why worry now? Why insist, after driving more than an hour, that he turn around and take me home immediately?
For one thing, I was alone in a car with an older man with strong feelings for me. How well did I really know him? How far could I trust him? How could I know that he wasn’t going to pull over on some remote wash and take advantage of me?