by Gerry House
One of my favorite singers in the whole world was able to do that. I don’t want to reveal his name because he’s had some difficulties, but he told me what had changed him. He’d had several major pop hits—big, wonderful, amazing records that made him a minor star. He then turned to Nashville when the pop thing started to slide a bit. I would go see him at The Bluebird Café or the Exit/In anytime he was playing one of his solo shows. We became friends. Not call-you-from-jail friends, but still, we shared some good talks. He told me this story:
He had moved to Nashville to start over, something he was quite good at. Before the move, he’d been drinking and taking other “additives,” and eventually his concert dates got worse and worse. He’d fallen to the point where he was now playing in a hotel on the beach in Tampa, opening for an animal act. Yes! He went on first, and then this guy and his chimp came out to amaze the 7 P.M. and 10 P.M. dinner crowds. During the day, there was nothing to do but sit on the beach and smoke a joint or two. He waited all day for the sun to go down and for showtime.
It was just a typical day, and he was on the beach enjoying a little smoke when the trainer with the chimp ambled down and plopped beside him. Our hero, the trainer, and a monkey at the beach. Our hero took a hit and passed the joint to the trainer. The trainer took a long, smoky drag on the joint and handed it to the chimp. The chimp puckered up his lips and then, with a deep and satisfying sucking sound, “hit” on the community joint. They did this two or three times. They all got very mellow and just gazed out at the ocean. My friend told me the chimp was especially calm. So much so, they all fell asleep. They were startled awake by the hotel club manager screaming they were “on” in ten minutes.
Showtime! The trainer pulled the groggy chimp to his feet and half-dragged him toward the hotel. My singing friend stared up at the sky and started laughing uncontrollably; he couldn’t stop. The manager just stared at him.
It was at that precise moment our singing hero stopped doing drugs and drinking for the rest of his life. Quit. Cold turkey. He’s clean. How? He said, “Man, once you’re smoking grass with a monkey on the beach, you know it’s time to quit drugs and try something else.”
Who actually said this to me: “I am the father of Madonna’s baby”?
A) Johnny Cash
B) Jason Aldean
C) Roseanne Barr
Baby’s in Black
WHILE I WAS ON the radio one morning, I answered the phone. The Man in Black was on the other end. Johnny Cash was at the airport and had run into the Judds. Apparently, Naomi explained to John that I was asking who the father of Madonna’s baby could possibly be. Madonna had announced she was “preggers” and at that time wouldn’t divulge who made her that way.
After some prodding from Mama Judd, Johnny decided to call and confess that he was indeed the Papa of the Madonna Love Child. Few people know what a wacky sense of humor John R. Cash had. Whenever I ran into him, Johnny Cash was imposing and bigger than life. It was that voice. But once you started talking to him, you realized he was a kind and normal guy. He was also very funny.
I remember having crossed 57th Street in Manhattan several years ago, and noticed beside me a man in white—white pants, white shirt, white hair. The packed New York City street crowd never had a clue that Johnny Cash was walking beside them. I said, “Hey, John, it’s Gerry. What are you up to?”
He rumbled back, “Oh! Hi, Ger, I’m going downtown to visit Rose.” (Rosanne Cash, his daughter, lived in New York. She’s one of the smartest people I know and what a songwriter.) I also noticed that this older gentleman crossing the street was invisible . . . until he spoke. When he answered me, suddenly fifty people turned to see where that voice was coming from. It sounded like Johnny Cash, because it was Johnny Cash.
That was the last time I saw John; he left us not long after that. I didn’t bring up his “confession” to being the father of Madonna’s baby. It was just a fun story between friends. I remember seeing him wave and fade into the crowd. All in white and kinda fragile.
He was still the Man in Black to me. He was still Johnny Cash.
Garth Brooks
MY WIFE HAD AN AUNT who never wanted to meet anybody new. She said she’d “met everybody she needed to know,” and if she met one more person, she’d have to forget somebody. That makes perfect sense to me. I notice now, when I shake hands with somebody I’ve never met before, I get a slight chill. It’s because a person who was once dear to me or who worked with me or who went to school with me is leaving my memory bank. I can almost hear the door click behind them.
Like most folks, I also greet everyone as warmly as possible and say my name. They do the same and tell me their name. I then immediately forget it. I can’t remember people’s names even when they are wearing name tags. I can’t remember the names of people I’m related to. I’m not suffering from any old-age problems; I’ve just been like this all my life. I hate it. I feel bad. I have very little celebrity, but people do come up and speak to me all the time. I feel like I should say, “I’m so glad to meet you, but next time I won’t remember your name, so shout it at me when you see me.”
The worst thing folks blurt out when they are walking toward me is, “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Of course I don’t. I’m not even sure who that woman standing over there is who looks like my wife! How the hell am I supposed to remember you?”
I should be honest and tell them the truth. But I never do that. Instead, I say, “Of course, I remember you. How could I forget you?” Then I’ll turn to the woman I think is my wife and say, “Honey, you remember Adolf Hitler here, don’t you?” They laugh and nine out of ten times announce their name to what’s ’er name. Then I repeat the new name and for the rest of the night call them “Pal” or “Buddy.”
Now that I’ve admitted what a doofus I am about remembering people, I should mention a guy who apparently never forgets anyone. I do remember his name: Garth Brooks. In all my years, Garth is perhaps the most mysterious of all the people I’ve crossed paths with. He has charisma for days. He’s lovable and quick-witted. And he seems to remember a guy who did his dry cleaning from thirty years ago. I’m certain it’s a trick or a gift or that he has a “person” who works for him taking pictures, but he remembers everybody. It’s a wonderful thing. I’ve probably had a hundred people say they ran into Garth at some affair or another and say, “Man, he walked right up and said my name and shook my hand.” These people glow when they tell that story. To be honest, it always made me a little jealous. If I could remember one of the names of the people who’ve told me that story, I’d call them up and tell them it’s a trick or something.
Garth is also a genius at marketing. That’s part of his deal. He has figured out how to sell the same twenty songs over and over in different packages. I think that’s brilliant. And he’s a great singer, guitar player, and entertainer. He’s not much of a dresser, but then who is? He has that Garth eye, too. Whenever I see the ads now for the movie War Horse, I always think of Garth. It’s kind of scary, with the head turned and that Big Eye starin’ at ya, sizin’ you up. Rememberin’ your name and useless stuff like that.
Over the years, I’ve seen and heard several versions of Garth sing—The “Aw, Shucks” Garth, the “Country” Garth, and the “Barry Manilow” Garth—and there’s nothing wrong with any of them. “Aw, Shucks” Garth can self-deprecate himself into a tizzy. “Country” Garth can wear old boots and jeans and sell out Vegas. “Barry Manilow” Garth stands in a dazzling spotlight and belts to the stars. There have been recorded versions of all the Garths: “Friends In Low Places,” “Two of a Kind, Workin’ on a Full House,” and “Somewhere Other Than the Night” = “Aw, Shucks/Country/Barry” Garth. It’s brilliant!
Garth also has had the benefit of one of those music guys with a magic touch: his producer, Allen Reynolds. And good record biz people. I think Garth deserves everything he has, including the fabulous Trisha Yearwood.
One of the weird th
ings that happen to famous people in the press is how the public absorbs certain moments: “He’s gay.” “She hated her mother.” “They aren’t really the kid’s parents.” Some statement that’s usually lifted from an interview or a story that may or may not be true.
I saw it happen to Garth. When he was preparing to jump ship on the artist life, he did an interview. Talking with that “can you believe it” line of thought, he said one quick off-the-cuff thing. It wasn’t meant the way the public accepted it. Garth said, “I’ve got more money than my children’s children can spend.” It was one of those typical self-effacing, “Dude, am I lucky or what?” moments. That’s all it meant. But over and over, that comment has come back to me in various forms. Listeners, fans, and friends all think it meant, “I’m rich, so back off.” Nothing could be further from the truth. Or so I read it. Yes, he is rich; we all know that. It’s just odd how resentment rears its ugly head on so many things. In other words, “He’s gettin’ somethin’ I ain’t gettin’.”
I can’t imagine how many times the guy who said those words has been confronted with them. I guess it becomes part of the lore, and unless you want to spend all your energy fixing it, you just shrug and know in your heart it isn’t true. That is, if you’re normal and secure. Me? I’d be out there every day going, “People of Earth: I am one of you. I was not born on the Planet Ignoramus, as you have been told. Don’t believe what they say about me. Don’t make me come out there!”
There was a moment in time when Garth had his own record company. His own personal little business dealio was called Capitol Nashville Records. I’m certain there were many other acts on that label who also think they were on that label. They were, but they were just tick birds on the rhino. Garth was the gorilla in the room. The promo department, the press department, and the executive department worked for Garth. He was that big. I also know he spent a lot of time taking care of people. He called them back. He listened to their songs. He paid overdue bills for people. He did (and does) a ton of charity work.
Remember that horrible incident where a congressman from Indiana or someplace criticized Garth for not meeting with a cancer victim? I vaguely remember it myself, but the point is that Garth didn’t ignore anyone. Like all artists, they are supposed to drop whatever schedule they have and run immediately to handle something somebody else wants them to do. They do this a lot. They hold concerts, they go to hospitals, and they meet sick people.
Vince Gill, who spends most of his life doing so much charity work his friends call him “Benefit,” once told me, “I was rushing to the car to catch a plane, and a woman yelled for me. I just had to put my head down and keep going. She said, ‘Wait! I have cancer!’” What is anyone supposed to do at that point? I was furious when Garth got raked over the coals for meeting or not meeting somebody somewhere.
Most of the time, recording artists don’t even know their own schedules. My journalist friend Robert Oermann said it best: “Since when is it the sole responsibility of artists to meet with the sick?” I guarantee you that lame-ass congressman doesn’t spend his days running to be bedside for somebody he doesn’t know.
Yes, it’s disappointing when the artists can’t meet you. You hurt for your niece or cousin, who is an enormous fan of the star. These fans don’t have much time and are literally dying to meet the artist. I get that, but try to remember these artists are trying as hard as they can to get it all done, to shake hands and hold and kiss and nod with tears in their eyes at as many people as they can. Often, people will promise an artist’s presence, and the poor singer doesn’t even know about it. And don’t even get me started on how much these people do for our troops.
I wish I had a really funny Garth story here, but I don’t. That’s because, even though I’ve been with him many times, I don’t really know him—or any of the three Garths, for that matter. I’m not sure anyone has much of a bead on the guy except those that know him really, really well. And they all have glorious things to say. And as I said, he got Trisha Yearwood.
I remember when Bruce Hinton at MCA hired Trisha to make albums for his record label. Bruce is a quiet, unassuming exec who ruled Music Row for years. He is the human Zoloft. Bruce is one even-tempered dude. He makes Don Williams look jittery. His idea of a riotous evening is putting on an Oscar Peterson piano album and having a glass-and-a-half of wine. Party! He’s also one of my close friends.
Bruce is a numbers guy. Not the mob numbers, but the accountant/business numbers. He told me, “I’ve just signed a singer who is gonna change the world. She’s so warm and so fabulous and such a wonder that I can’t wait for people to hear her.” That singer was Trisha Yearwood. In 1991, “She’s in Love with the Boy” was her first hit and launched her career. Trisha always had that big-moment, white-hot-spotlight, operatic finish to her songs that I just love. I often thought she’d just explode at the end of one of her concerts and that would be it. Trisha would hit that last note with all that power, and boom! Good night, Ms. Yearwood.
Trisha, who loved to hear the late Luciano Pavarotti sing, did an event with him, and he had all his costars over for a small, casual twelve-course dinner. Even though it meant a lot to her, Trisha gave me the invitation he had sent her for that night because she knew I loved to hear Pavarotti sing Puccini’s aria “Nessun Dorma.” Later, I went to see him in concert and watched him “brace” himself for the big note that was coming. I think he did blow up one night in Italy.
But it was just nice she sent that to me—a special memory from another evening in a long night of special evenings she wanted to share. I know she’s doing a cooking show nowadays, and I’m certain she can still peel the cover off an onion with her voice. I think she’s Garth’s greatest accomplishment.
I once suspected Garth of quitting the business as a stunt. He did a lot of events as a stunt. I still love the moment on an awards show when David Bowie (the original musical chameleon) introduced Garth as Chris Gaines. Ziggy Stardust gives us Chris. Garth wore a wig and sang songs from his movie that hadn’t yet been written. A lot of stuff going on there. But quitting as a publicity ploy? Boy, was I wrong. Wrong-o! Oh, sure, he does Vegas a bit, but he got off the rocket ship. Just opened the door, tipped his hat, and said, “Fellas, I’m outta here,” and he stepped off into the unknown. Or maybe the very well known—his kids and his fam. I know for a fact that you’ve really got to be secure and know who you are to do that and do it successfully. Garth did it.
I bet Trisha is whipping up a peach pie for him right now. I hope so.
Gay Country
I DON’T EVEN KNOW where to start when talking about the gay influence on country music. I really don’t have any gay agenda. In fact, I’m not really sure what a gay agenda is. I never understand the phrase “flaunting their lifestyle.” Doesn’t everybody flaunt their lifestyle? You are who you are and that’s your lifestyle. Right?
I have friends who are gay. I worked for years with gay folks. There is a surprisingly large family of gay (openly or not) men and women in Nashville. It’s no big deal to me. It’s as if you whispered to me, “You know, he’s French.” OK. Although I also firmly believe most French are also gay. They are openly French and flaunt their Frenchness without letting up. Them and their words for stuff we can’t understand. Damn French Flaunters.
I do know that if you landed here from another planet and saw pictures of the Opry, you would also conclude nearly everyone in country music is “playing for the other team.” I’ve never seen such a fussy, bedazzled, dyed, primped, gussied-up, outlandish collection of humans in my life not to be all gay. Seriously, you mean you dress like that and you don’t live in the East Village? A suit with lips all over it, and you’re not a hairdresser? Rhinestones, darling, and you are actually straight? Really, George? George Straight? You’re kidding, right?
My gay-dar is pretty good, but I am still shocked by some dudes who, I learn, prefer men. I always thought my friend Harry had the best response to learning of someone’s sexual preferen
ce. I was sitting with Harry when an old cowboy at the table referenced a well-known publicist and outed him. I had suspected as much, but Harry just took a swig of his vodka tonic and calmly pronounced his feelings about the situation. “It’s his mouth . . . he can haul coal in it if he wants to.” That says it all for me. None of my business.
I’ve only known one person to use gayness as a career crutch. She was a slightly successful singer/songwriter who came out as a lesbian. Cool, I thought, she’s probably more comfortable now. However, Chely Wright contended that her “career” had been ruined by the Music Row community when they learned she was gay. The unfortunate part of her argument was that her career never really got that big to begin with. Chely was not exactly Carrie Underwood at any point. Besides, it had been years since she’d had a hit or anyone had even thought of her. It was like getting a note in high school from a girl you once dated in the ninth grade, announcing she was through with you. You could hardly remember her last name and now you were dumped? Oh, no! The agony, the pain . . . then “Who is she again?” I do hope Chely is happy, but I’ve always sort of doubted that happens much.
The truth is, I think hardly anyone on Music Row would punish you if you’re gay. Hell, they might be gay. Nobody cares—or at least the people that matter don’t care.
I just realized in the past few minutes I’ve written the word “gay” 1,000 times. Gay, gay, gay, gAY, GaY, GAy, GAY.
I’ve heard the rumors about some of country’s biggest stars being “that way,” as my mom used to say. I remember being quite young and my mom asking me, “What do they do when they’re gay?” Try explaining the “gay birds and bees” to your naïve fifty-year-old mother. I submit, if you can do that without causing her to have a heart attack, you should apply for the United Nations. She also summed it up for us when we’d talk about guys who “never married or seemed to date much.” Mom said, “In my day, we just called them bachelors.” Life was simpler then. I’m glad times have changed, but times were simpler then.