by Gerry House
PRAISE FOR
Country Music Broke My Brain
“Sharp, witty, insightful, opinionated, passionate, and always unpredictable . . . is how one would best describe Allyson House. Oh, what? Gerry wrote this book? Well, you couldn’t be married to all those qualities without some of it rubbing off! . . . You could? (Gerry, I love you like a brother. I got the top bunk though!)”
—Keith Urban,
singer/songwriter and American Idol judge
“There was never a time Gerry House wasn’t in my house or in my car when he was on the radio and I was in Nashville. I’d listen just so I could steal his stuff. Seriously, he is such a funny, talented, and good human being. I always loved going to the radio station and visiting with him, and I always felt so good for hours after I left the station, just basking in my Gerry glow. I can’t wait to read this book and I bet you can’t either.”
—Dolly Parton
“I’ve known Gerry for almost 20 years. In that time he has made me laugh out loud 15,602 times, give or take a few. He’s a great man and a great friend.”
—Martina McBride
“Only once in my 30 years in Nashville have we been blessed with what I would consider ‘true talent’ on the airwaves. I, like most everyone in town, would look forward to waking up and tuning in to the humor, quick wit, and reflective wisdom of Gerry House—he was always far more than a jock—his timing was impeccable, but the cards that he brought to the table were Will Rogers good! He bailed on us and left a void on the radio that may never be filled.”
—Kix Brooks,
singer/songwriter and nationally syndicated radio host
“Gerry House, radio personality, a songwriter of note in the Nashville recording community. So now my friend Gerry writes a book . . . (insert cricket sounds here) . . . No doubt the closest thing to a death blow the literary world will have suffered to date.”
—Michael McDonald,
Grammy Award–winning singer and artist
“There’s nothing more uncomfortable than being around someone that tries to be funny and isn’t. Gerry House IS f***ing funny!”
—Ronnie Dunn
“Gerry is the funniest, most knowledgeable, creative, and interesting person I know. From the day we met, he has made me think, laugh, and stare in amazement at the way he can make the simplest things in life interesting and compelling. He’s traveled the world, sat with sinners and saints, cheated death when no one thought he could, and made a name for himself like no other. He became an icon to an industry that often forgets fast about the great people that built Country music and radio. He is in the Hall of Fame for a lot of reasons (an even bigger honor because he’s still alive), but even if he weren’t, he would definitely be at the top of my ballot every time!”
—Clay Hunnicutt,
Executive VP of Programming, Clear Channel Media & Entertainment
“Gerry is simply the very best at what he does. The radio sounds lonely without him on it.”
—Jay DeMarcus, Rascal Flatts
“I’ve spent more than 20 years building a reputation as a trusted, responsible leader. And now I’ve thrown that away overnight by admitting that I know Gerry House.”
—Dave Ramsey,
New York Times bestselling author
and nationally syndicated radio host
“Gerry House is a personal friend of mine. I cannot think of another single person with as much talent and imagination as he possesses. We have been friends for many years. He has written things for me to use on television and in my road shows. When we get the chance to go out and have dinner together, I can verify that his table manners are impeccable. He married pretty well, too.”
—Barbara Mandrell, recording and television star
GERRY HOUSE
BENBELLA BOOKS, INC.
DALLAS, TEXAS
Copyright © 2014 by Gerry House
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
BenBella Books, Inc.
10300 N. Central Expressway
Suite #530
Dallas, TX 75231
www.benbellabooks.com
Send feedback to [email protected]
First e-book edition: March 2014
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
House, Gerry.
Country music broke my brain / by Gerry House.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-939529-90-9 (trade cloth) — ISBN 978-1-939529-91-6 (electronic) 1. House, Gerry. 2. Disc jockeys—United States—Biography. 3. Songwriters—United States—Biography. 4. Country musicians—United States—Anecdotes. I. Title.
ML429.H78A3 2014
781.642092—dc23
[B]
2013037796
Editing by Erin Kelley
Proofreading by Michael Fedison and Jenny Bridges
Indexing by Jigsaw Information
Cover design by Ty Nowicki
Text design and composition by John Reinhardt Book Design
Printed by Bang Printing
Distributed by Perseus Distribution
www.perseusdistribution.com
To place orders through Perseus Distribution:
Tel: 800-343-4499
Fax: 800-351-5073
E-mail: [email protected]
Significant discounts for bulk sales are available.
Please contact Glenn Yeffeth at [email protected] or 214-750-3628.
This book is for Allyson, Autumn and Shane, Willa and Holland, Lucy and Desi, and Charlene.
Contents
Foreword
Introduction
1 Alligator Clip Radio
2 The Fights
Quizzicle #1
3 Don’t Bother Me
4 Country Music Causes Brain Damage
5 Johnny Paycheck
6 Glossary of Terms
7 The Lid Incident and Smoking with a Monkey
Quizzicle #2
8 Baby’s in Black
9 Garth Brooks
10 Gay Country
11 Gorilla Glue
12 Grand Canyon Reba
13 John Rich Gatlin Boxcar
14 Kinfolk
15 Great Love Stories
16 Minnie Pearl, Hank Jr., Phil Walden, and Me
17 My Wife Is Cheerful
Quizzicle #3
18 You Never Give Me Your Money
19 Mysteries of Life
20 The Oaks
21 Paranoia
Quizzicle #4
22 Norwegian Wood
23 People Who Call
24 Randy Travis and Don Williams
Quizzicle #5
25 It Won’t Be Long
26 Religion and Country and TV Preachers
27 Roach
28 Roy Acuff and Opryland
29 Sake’s Fur and George Jones
30 Songwriting and Songwriters
31 Showbiz Is Tough
32 Don Light, Mark Collie, and Jimmy Buffett
33 Trombones
34 Sleep, Gretchen, and Charley Pride
Quizzicle #6
35 Why Don’t We Do It in the Road?
36 The Woods and the Sticks
37 Waylon Jennings
38 Hunting
39 Dogs and Cats
40 Broadway and Lower Broadway
Quizzicle #7
41 Honey Pie
Quizzicle #8
42 Don’t Pass Me By
Quizzicle #9
43 She Came in through the Bathroom Window
44 Available Names Left
; 45 Buddy and Julie
46 Shania and Kroger’s
47 Old Black and Whites
48 Italians Do It Every Night
Quizzicle #10
49 The Pirate Song
50 The Elegant Warriors
Quizzicle #11
51 Fool on the Hill
52 White Is 1,000 Colors
53 Marriage
Quizzicle #12
54 Here Comes the Sun
55 The Flatts
56 Taylor Swift
57 The CMA
58 The Mother of All Headaches
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Index
Foreword
I’LL NEVER FORGET the first time I met Gerry House.
I was doing a radio interview with him in the ’80s. He had on a white shirt and a bow tie. It was fairly early in the morning. I was wondering after a few minutes of talking with him, Has this guy been up all night?
After leaving the interview, I told my publicist, Janet Rickman, “That guy won’t be around very long.” Little did I know, not only did he stay in the radio business for many years, I would also be recording a fun, toe-tapping song he had written, called “Little Rock.” And I certainly didn’t know we would go on vacations together, us, along with Gerry’s wife, Allyson, and my husband, Narvel, and surprisingly enough, we all became close friends.
Gerry is a very talented writer with a cool sharp wit. I love to listen to his stories. They can hold me captive for hours. When I hosted the Academy of Country Music Awards, Gerry helped me with my scripts. I couldn’t have done it without him.
In 2003, he scared me to death when he had to have brain surgery, but I think it helped. I love Gerry—always will—and can’t thank him enough for sharing his warped sense of humor with me, his lovely wife, Allyson, and their daughter, Autumn. They have always been a tight family—a great example for all of us to learn from.
I invite you to sit back and read all the silly, funny, heartfelt things Gerry has to say. I know you’ll be thoroughly entertained, as usual.
Love ya,
Red (aka Reba)
Introduction
IT BEGAN IN KENTUCKY in 1958. I was ten. At the time, I was little more than a life-support system for freckles. Looking back at pictures of that era, I had the exact physique of a praying mantis. All I really cared about was the Cincinnati Reds’ batting averages and my pets, Petey and Thumper—a parakeet and a rabbit. Both were lost in tragic freezing accidents. I do remember Petey being more fun postmortem than when he was with us on Earth. I could hop him around easier.
My father, Homer, was an electrician. My mother, Lucille, was an electrician’s wife. Dad kept the Kroger Co.’s lights on. He was good at his job except at home, where, for some reason, our lights dimmed when Mom started the washer. I was always being instructed about the ever-present dangers of electricity by my dad. “Be careful, Hoss,” he’d say, waving a pair of pliers around like a wild man. “Electricity is just like a snake. You never know when it will bite ya.” One time during an electricity lesson, he accidentally touched some “hot” wires with the pliers, and a ball of fire shot out of the wall. It sounded like a cannon went off, and it blew both of us across the room. My dad’s hair was steaming and his eyebrows were gone. Good job, Pop! Love the danger demo. Actual fire and smoke!
Technically, it began on a summer day in 1958. We were going to take the vacation—the one golden week of the year when my father wasn’t avoiding electrocution. We would just “take off.” It was planned and discussed for months in advance, but we would just “take off” to the same place every year—the Smokies. The Valhalla of tourism. Yes, that special land of dreams 300 miles due south on the Dixie Highway. Don’t you love that name, the Dixie Highway? It just sounds like the road to heaven, doesn’t it? Sweet jubilation chilluns, we done got on da Dixie Highway. I should mention the Dixie Highway was pre-interstate. It was also pre-restaurants, gas stations, and rest stops—just one tiny burg after another, like an endless stream of stop signs and yard sales. But still, we were on our way to the Smokies! Gatlinburg! The home of tiny motels and cheap food and “beautiful vistas of mountain peaks and verdant valleys” that all looked exactly alike!
Now, my father’s main goal in life on every vacation was to make good time. It was all about beating the previous year’s record of pushing the Chevy Bel-Air toward Mountain Mecca. Hurry up and whiz and get back out here. We’re behind on last year’s good time. Good time meant that you hunkered down. We never actually did the “coffee can” pit stops, but only because Mom flat refused. So it was Dad driving, Mom in shotgun, and me clinging to the back of their seat perched on the hump that ran through the car floor. Our first objective was to make it to Renfro Valley, Kentucky, in time for breakfast. One hundred and thirty miles of back-rattling road that meant we left at Dad’s usual “gettin’ up” time—four in the morning. We rolled into Renfro like conquering heroes and had the same annual meal around 8 A.M.—country ham, biscuits, and red-eye gravy. My father raved about how wonderful it all was. For those of you who don’t know, country ham contains in one serving all the sodium you’ll ever need for your entire life. The biscuits were usually lukewarm, and the butter, for some perverse reason, was kept on ice in little dishes. It’s important to make sure the butter is like a tiny yellow brick in Renfro Valley. To this day, I have no idea what makes gravy “red-eye” other than that most of the people in the restaurant had ’em—I imagine from “making good time.”
Because we always left on Monday, I will assume it began on a Monday in the summer of 1958. Dad turned on the radio. I saw his eyes light up as he lit up his fifteenth Winston of the morning. Here is how it all started:
Smoke was coming out of his mouth as he exclaimed without turning his head to me, “Hoss, that there is the greatest song and the greatest singer ever!”
Whereupon Mom chimed in, “Honey, that’s Hank Snow.” She sorta glanced back. “Your dad loves Hank Snow.” I wasn’t sure if she was in the fan club or not, but it was started now. I could feel it begin to tickle the back of my lizard brain. Something was happening (not as much as puberty that would later rock my world), but I was making a decision! And before I could stop myself, I blurted out the words, “Dad, turn that down!”
It was country music. It was the Singing Ranger and his huge smash “I’m Movin’ On.”
(Not to be confused with the Rascal Flatts song “I’m Movin’ On,” to which I would also have a connection years later.)
At this age, I was vaguely aware of Elvis and a few other songs, but this was definitely not anything I wanted played near me. The Hankster had a certain vocal quality that would make any goose proud. He had a bleating honk so pronounced that flocks of his fellow vocalists would follow the car if you turned the radio up loud enough. This was not for my ten-year-old taste. Homer House loved it. I did not.
I should explain my three musical influences up to this point.
First: Church. I played the piano every Sunday at the Banklick Christian Church, starting when I was seven and had to sit on a phone book. Across the aisle was Lily Mae Scott, a large-boned woman who wrestled with some contraption called a pump organ. She worked the pumps with her feet and forced air through the tortured instrument ’til the choir could kick in and really nail “Bringing in the Sheaves.” With Lily Mae pumping away like Lance Armstrong and me struggling to remember what the dots on the music meant, we were a force to be reckoned with. I’m certain it sounded like a train wreck, but nobody seemed to complain. The choir was usually about half a verse behind us.
Second: Pleasure Isle. Pleasure Isle was neither a pleasure nor an isle. It was a massive concrete swamp that measured 100 yards long and 175 yards wide. The water was pumped right out of the creek beside it and was purified by the Iranian owner riding around in a motorboat pulling a bag of chlorine. In the ’50s in northern Kentucky, it was the Riviera. The place to be. My mom and all the moms and kids went there every day
. Now, remember, this was before they invented skin cancer, so we all slathered on baby oil and iodine and roasted in the summer sun ’til we looked like minstrels. Pleasure Isle had a jukebox that blared the same twenty-five songs over and over through the worst speaker system in America. Those songs are seared in my brain with a musical branding iron. Elvis. The Everly Brothers. “Volare.” Ricky Nelson and something called “The Purple People Eater.” I still hate that damn ditty.
Third: Mrs. Riggs. My third musical influence was my piano teacher. I don’t remember exactly when I started lessons. I’ve blocked it from my memory like abductees and people married to Madonna do. All I remember is I could never play my weekly assignment to her satisfaction. Mrs. Riggs was an imposing woman. She dressed in Early Librarian in a house that always smelled like mothballs. With her glasses on the end of her nose, she endured my keyboard technique and clucked signals of disapproval. I still haven’t recovered from those sweat-filled afternoons. Grunt, hmmph, tsk, tsk, tsk. “Young man, did you even open your lesson book?”
Looking back, I’m certain Mrs. Riggs trained with the SS and had barely escaped through Poland to hide out in Covington, Kentucky, disguised as a piano teacher. To this day, I can barely read sheet music. The dots are connected to Mozart somehow, but it “don’t come easy,” as they say. All I remember was the “Eyetalian” musical word for slow was lento. I swear she said lento a lot when she talked about me to my parents.
Thusly formed, I decided that Country & Western music, à la Hank Snow, was not to be my musical preference. It didn’t speak to me. I didn’t “dig” it. It damaged me. My drain was bamaged.