Bill was his own worst enemy, financially speaking. His accountant liked to say Bill’s spending habits were out-of-line with his income. He maintained a 10,000 square foot home in Belle Meade, complete with a half million dollar recording studio which, unlike every major studio in town, didn’t have a computer or a single piece of digital equipment in it. Big Bill was dangerously devoted to analog technology, arguing that it gave a warmer sound than the crisp, isolated 0’s and 1’s of binary sound reproduction.
Big Bill also wore expensive, tailor-made clothes. Not that he was a connoisseur. He was just trying to compensate for his looks. As someone once said of him, “Big Bill was born ugly and had a bad setback.” He also threw his money at car dealers. He figured if it was true that one was a lot more handsome with a c-note in his pocket, then imagine how good looking he must be when he pulled up to the valet in one of his Mercedes, or his Cadillac, or his decked out Excursion, the largest model of compensation made by the Ford Motor Company. And, as if the car payments weren’t enough, Big Bill was sending alimony checks to three ex-wives along with child support for six children and the lawyers they rode in on. Things had gotten so bad lately that Bill had been forced to sell his house in Aspen. Despite his six figure income, Big Bill Herron was, as they say, in a bad row of stumps.
17.
It was noon on a Thursday when Bill’s partner appeared in the doorway. Franklin was wearing his usual office attire: black mock turtleneck, sports coat, dark slacks. He was a graduate of Vanderbilt law school and a good attorney, but more and more he’d been thinking what he really wanted to do was produce. Unlike Big Bill, Franklin was enamored of modern digital studio technology, especially the computerized systems by Alesis, Tascam, and Fostex. But, like everyone else in the business, Franklin’s favorite was ProTools by Digidesign, considered by many to be the ultimate system for digital audio production.
Franklin looked up from the sheaf of phone messages in his hand. He could see Bill was irritated and he knew why. “I see you managed to hang on to the hind tit of that list,” he said in his southern gentry lilt. Franklin had grown to hate Big Bill more than he could say. There were a lot of reasons for the hostility but what chapped Franklin’s ass the worst was how Big Bill got all the glory and Franklin just dotted the ‘i’s’ and crossed the ‘t’s’. Of course, Bill hated Franklin just as much as he was hated. The two of them would rather not have to work together one more day, but since the names Herron & Peavy were worth a far sight more together than either name by itself and since they both felt they were too old to go out and start from scratch they stuck together like a hateful old married couple afraid of being alone.
Big Bill tapped the face of his thin gold watch. “We open too early for you today?” His voice had the twangy stress of a mean good old boy.
“I was out late,” Franklin said, returning his attention to the phone messages. “Went to Estella’s after the awards, kept her from killing a man, had a few drinks.”
“That’s very touching. I’m happy for you both.” Bill held up the magazine. “Now what the hell we gonna do about this?”
Franklin shook his head in contempt. “Nothing to do. The magazine’s out, you’re on the list, stop your whining.” Franklin walked away leaving Bill to stew about his decline in Music City’s power structure. One of the phone messages triggered a thought and Franklin pulled his tiny digital recorder from his pocket. “Reminder. Call Ken at Swerdlow, Florence to discuss controlled composition clause.”
As soon as Franklin turned his back, Bill angrily flipped him the bird, mouthing the words, ‘stop your whining.’ He stood, went to the door of his office, and slammed it. On the way back to his desk, Bill stopped to look at the wall of gold records he had produced and he wondered how and when things had gone so wrong. When Bill came into the music business all you needed was a microphone, a room with padded walls, a two-track reel-to-reel, and somebody who could sing and play guitar. Now everything was 24-bit, integrated digital recording, editing, processing, and mixing systems. Big Bill had seen things go from 45s to LPs to 8-tracks to cassettes to CDs. And now, according to the trades, the compact disc was about to be replaced by something called a flash memory device. Then there was something called music streaming and a computer file compression code called MP3. What the hell was that all about?
Before long, record company executives and artist managers were going to be out of the loop entirely and the damn artists would be in control of everything. This was not the kind of world in which Big Bill was equipped to live. One minute he was at the top of the charts, the next he was an eight-track tape in a digital download world. It wasn’t supposed to end this way, he thought. He just wanted to get across the finish line with some dough in his pocket, but he’d gotten lazy and fallen behind. He looked again at the Nashville Scene and knew he couldn’t let it end like this. He had to find somebody to help get him out of this mess.
18.
Two days after the funeral Eddie was still in an emotionally blunted state. He calmly packed his car and headed to Nashville. He got a cheap motel room his first night there. The next day he found a one-bedroom unit at the Country Squire Manor Apartment complex, a sprawling series of cheaply constructed apartments offering three floor plans. Eddie took apartment number nine, the smallest available. He signed the documents and put down his deposit. He moved his stuff in and drew the curtains. Five days later, Eddie was still inside with the curtains drawn. He hadn’t arranged for phone service or cable. He had a pizza or two delivered, but otherwise he was a complete recluse. The only way his neighbors could tell he was there was the sound of his guitar.
Eddie was troubled. In his mind everything had gone to pieces. Nothing made sense. His emotions were all over the road, like George Jones behind the wheel of a lawn mower on his way back from the liquor store. He felt abandoned, cheated, guilty, violated, confused, remorseful, anxious, and saved, all at once. Eddie didn’t know how to deal with the emotional chaos, except with his guitar. He was scared half to death and he knew he had to find words for his confusion or it would consume him. But words wouldn’t be enough, the emotional turbulence had to be set to music. The dissonance in his mind had to be translated into melody. Minor chords seemed inevitable.
Eddie couldn’t sleep more than an hour at a time. When he did, he dreamed of Tammy, twisted and choked by the poison. The shot to the head would jar him awake and he’d pick up the guitar and try to pry the thing out from inside him.
By day five, Eddie was in the grip of a powerful force and he knew what it was. He just hoped he could survive it. He wondered if this was what great songwriters suffered every time they wrote a great song. Eddie remembered an interview of a writer whose work he admired. She said, “a lot of us have good songs inside, the trick lies in getting one to come out. Every time I manage to get one out, I’m immediately struck by the terror that I’ll never be able to do it again. Or worse, that I will.”
Late on the fifth night, the song poured out of Eddie like hot oil. The words, the melody, the lonesome harmonies. It was sorrow set to music. It wasn’t a blues, but it was in the neighborhood. It was a requiem, a confession, and a guilty celebration. And it had a great hook.
It was over in an hour. Eddie seemed to wake from a fugue state. He looked around, unsure of where he was. He set his guitar down and wiped his sweaty hands. There was a pad of paper in front of him. There was a song, written in Eddie’s hand, though he only vaguely remembered writing it. He stood and stretched his muscles. Eddie felt a relief he couldn’t describe. He felt cleansed and purified, but it was more than that. It was a purge. It had to be what women felt upon giving birth. Or maybe it was what Tammy felt when she finally died after suffering through the poison and arriving at relief.
Eddie knew he’d just forged a great song out of emotional turbulence and suddenly the pall lifted, whatever had happened was over, and the air was calm and clean. It was just past dawn. Eddie went to the curtain and pulled it back. He saw t
rees and sunshine and he knew he had a song that could launch a career. Now he just had to take it out for a test ride.
19.
Buddy Glenn wrote a beauty back in 1974. He called it “Good Old Daze.” Carson Fletcher recorded it on his debut album with Big Bill Herron producing. It went to number one on the country charts and crossed over to become a number one pop hit as well. Carson Fletcher’s career took off and soared for six good years until he had a heart attack in 1980 and retired.
After “Good Old Daze” Buddy Glenn spent the next twenty-seven years trying to write another hit. Yet despite his prolific output Buddy never wrote another song that earned him more than a few thousand dollars. He wrote a lot of good songs during that period but, as sometimes happens, nobody recognized them. Fortunately Buddy had retained his half of the publishing rights and “Good Old Daze” still brought him about $15,000 a year from radio play and record sales. But that was about all Buddy had coming in and lately nobody was particularly interested when he had a new batch of songs to plug. “Too old school,” they said.
All of this chipped away at Buddy’s spirit, eventually crushing his confidence and stealing his gift. But things really fell apart a year ago when Buddy’s wife, Lynn, was diagnosed with cancer. They didn’t have any insurance and they ate through their meager savings in short order. Buddy took a second on the house to cover medical expenses. He started giving guitar lessons and working as the night manager at Shoney’s but it wasn’t enough. When the money ran out he turned to his publisher for a loan. The terms were simple. Big Bill loaned Buddy ten thousand dollars. Buddy agreed to pay it back in a year with five thousand in interest. If he was unable to repay the loan with the interest, Big Bill would take ownership of Buddy’s half of the publishing on “Good Old Daze.” Now the loan was due.
Buddy walked into Big Bill’s office that afternoon drawn and tired. He’d aged badly in the past few years. Lynn was at home dying and just about everybody had stopped returning his calls. He recently sold his last two guitars.
“Hey now!” Big Bill said, gesturing at a chair. “Come on in, take a load off.” Big Bill sat down behind his desk. “How’s Lynn doing?”
Buddy sat down and took off his hat. He couldn’t look Big Bill in the eyes. He just worried the rim of his hat as he spoke. “Not real good,” Buddy said. “The tumors didn’t respond to the last round of chemo.”
Big Bill frowned slightly. “Mmmm.” There was an envelope in front of Big Bill. He picked it up and began tapping it on the top of the desk.
Buddy tried to sound optimistic. “But we just heard about a new, experimental treatment that might help.”
“Well all right,” Big Bill said, pointing with the envelope. “Sounds like things are startin’ to turn around for ya.”
Buddy shook his head. “Problem is they can’t do the treatment here ‘cause the FDA hadn’t approved it yet. We gotta go down see this doctor in Mexico. He does the treatment at this special clinic. It’s real expensive.”
Big Bill nodded. “Boy, I tell you, they get you comin’ and goin’, don’t they?” Bill casually opened the envelope and removed the document inside. “Look,” he said, “I know you wanna get back so you can take care of Lynn, so let’s just go ahead and do this and then you can head for the border.” He gestured toward the south.
“Bill, I ain’t got the money.” Buddy just blurted it out.
Big Bill sat there, expressionless. “You ain’t?” He said it real flat, almost like he knew already. “Well. Hmmm.” He unfolded the piece of paper and glanced at it.
“The bank won’t do a third on the house,” Buddy said. “Fact, I’m a couple months behind and they’re gonna take it if I don’t catch up by the end of next week.” Buddy’s voice was wavering, like he might crack if he had to talk about it any more. “Lynn’s real sick, Bill. I gotta keep that publishing. I need that money real bad.”
“That’s a shame,” Big Bill said flatly. “I’m real sorry, that’s the truth.”
Buddy finally looked Bill in the eyes. “I’m begging you. I need your help. Lynn’s gotta get that treatment or I’m gonna lose her.” He looked back at the floor. “Ask yourself what Jesus would do and I know you’ll do the right thing. That publishing money’s the only thing I got left.”
“That’s tough all right,” Big Bill said, “but listen, this ain’t Bible School and I really don’t appreciate you dragging all the personal stuff into this. It’s unprofessional. I mean, you don’t hear me pissin’ and moanin’ about all the bills I gotta pay, do you? All my personal problems? And believe me, I got more’n I can say grace over.”
Buddy put a hand to his face to hide his tears. “I’m sorry, but I don’t wanna lose her.”
Bill held up their agreement. “Buddy, we’re just gonna do what we agreed on,” he said. “That’s all. Only thing left to do here is figure out the multiple.” The multiple was a factor used when determining the value of the publishing rights on a catalogue of music, though in this case it was just for the one song. Depending on the marketplace, the multiple typically ranged anywhere from three to fifteen times the current annual revenues the publishing generated. The agreement stated they would negotiate the multiple according to the market as of the due date of the loan.
Buddy hated to do it, but he didn’t have much choice. He just hoped Big Bill would consider his situation and help him out. He took a moment to compose himself, setting his jaw, steeling himself for the business. “Well now, I’ve been asking around,” Buddy said, “and just about everybody I talk to agrees ‘Good Old Daze’ has got some legs on it and, well, I think we oughta be talking about a multiple of at least ten.”
Big Bill shook his head like a disappointed teacher. “Ten, huh? He scratched the back of his neck. “I guess me and you must talk to different folks ‘cause my survey says it’s more like a one. It’s not getting the radio play it used to, nobody else is recordin’ it, and Lord knows Carson Fletcher’s records ain’t selling much any more. Things is just flat out there, Buddy. You ask around town, nobody’s making money on anything.”
Buddy looked up, startled. “One? One’s not a multiple! Stop horsin’ around with me, Bill. You know that song’s worth a lot more’n that.”
“I sure wish the market was in better shape,” Big Bill said. “Just bad timing, I guess, but I don’t think I can go any higher. I’ll give you fifteen grand for it right now.”
“I can’t take that, Bill. That don’t get me outta my hole much less get me down to Mexico to get Lynn her treatment. I can come down to nine, but that’s it. I just can’t do it for less than that.”
“Well, damn, that leaves us about a hundred’n twenty thousand dollars apart.”
“Bill, if you can’t do nine, you gotta let me go across the street with it. I know I can get nine from Johnny Rae and that’ll let me pay you back with the interest and I can still take Lynn for that treatment.”
Big Bill face drained of all humanity. He picked up the agreement and read for a moment before thumping the page with his finger. “Says here I got thirty days to come up with a counter offer,” he said. “So I guess I’m gonna need some time to think it over.” He folded the agreement and slipped it back in the envelope, then he stood up. “I’ll call you at the end of next month.” He smiled. “How’s that sound?”
Buddy swallowed hard. Visions of Lynn’s funeral passed his narrowing field of vision. “I ain’t got thirty days. Doctor said Lynn’s only got a couple weeks without that treatment, and even then he can’t say for sure.”
Big Bill nodded. “Well, my offer for fifteen grand still stands. You can take that right now.” He winked at Buddy. “Either way, it’s up to you.”
20.
The Dirty Dawg Howse in Starkville, Mississippi catered to fans of the Mississippi State Bulldogs. The walls were covered with team pennants, schedules, flags, and neon beer signs.
Boomer and Skeets were second string tackles. They were at the Dirty Dawg Howse drinking beers with
a couple of girls they’d just met. Naturally the two big boys were trying to impress the co-eds. “What the hell you tryin’ to say?” Boomer hammered a fist on the table top. He demanded an answer and, at six-foot-four, 280 pounds, you’d think he’d get one pretty quick.
But Skeets was six-five and 275, so he wasn’t particularly intimidated. In fact he just sat there, smirking, peeling the label off his bottle, wondering if he was getting laid tonight.
“Don’t just sit there grinnin’ like a barrel of possum heads,” Boomer said. “You sayin’ I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about?”
Skeets leaned onto one of his beefy forearms. “I’m sayin’ you can’t measure a snake ‘till it’s stretched out dead. What are you, from Alabama or something? I’m speakin’ English.” He looked at the girls and winked. They giggled.
Without taking his eyes off Skeets, Boomer turned his head slightly and spit some tobacco juice onto the floor. “Shit, boy, you better put it down where the goats can get it if you expect anybody to understand what—” Boomer didn’t get to explain his point fully because Skeeter suddenly hit him upside the head with a beer bottle. All hell broke loose as the two behemoths exploded into one another sending bottles and ashtrays crashing to the floor. The girls jumped up from the table, squealing, tickled that two rutting bucks would put on a show just for them.
Then, out of the blue, a screeching chaos roared over the house loud- speakers. “Hey, goddammit!” a voiced howled over the sound system. Everyone in the place stopped and turned to look at the small stage in the corner of the room. There they saw Eddie Long standing with his guitar and his eyes burning. He had a bottleneck wedged on one of his fingers which he ran up and down the neck of the guitar while torturing the strings into a caterwaul. The place fell silent, all eyes on Eddie. “Now, I’m here to play some music. You two wanna play Gladiator, go somewhere else.” There was a pause before the crowd applauded Eddie’s command of the situation. They laughed and hooted some more as Boomer and Skeets and the two girls were escorted from the place.
Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders Page 7