by Gerry House
Time sure flies when you’re not staring at the Grand Canyon.
John Rich Gatlin Boxcar
I JUST CAME FROM the studio with John Rich—the Rich of “Big &” fame. The John Rich who won Celebrity Apprentice. He tweets with Donald Trump. He tweets with Donald Trump’s hair. John knows a lot of people.
“Mt. Richmore” is on the front gate of his house. It’s a concrete palace he had built atop a quiet neighborhood, over nearly everyone’s objections. John does that a lot. I mean, he does a lot of things over people’s objections. I really like the guy. He was a second-banana singer in the band Lonestar. Richie McDonald was the usual lead singer of that band. I think it drove John a little nutty, and he quit. I’m pretty sure half the town wrote him off after that.
Oops. He formed the Muzik Mafia, came crashing into people’s radios with Big & Rich, and never looked back. It became a rolling-thunder review of singers and midgets and diamond hats and loud guitars. Hey, it’s still like Chet said: “If it’s recorded in Nashville, it’s country music.”
John is one of those people who make Nashville fit them. His grandma still makes his special jeans. His daddy is a preacher. He’s got a rhinestone saddle in the massive bar upstairs at his house. He calls his old friends to come write a song. That’s how I got to the studio today with John Rich. Larry Gatlin was coming in right after me.
In the old Combine Music Publishing building, there was a grubby little studio in the basement. A lot of hits were made there. Some started out as demos and just got released. “I Can Help” by Billy Swan got cut there ’cause Billy had just bought that cheap little organ you hear on the record. There is a blackboard next to the john downstairs. Folks wrote things there that I never forgot. One of my favorites said, “There’s a cat mask in the bottom drawer, please don’t make me wear it.”
The other line that stayed for years and never, ever got erased was, “Will Rogers never met Larry Gatlin.” Ouch. Larry Gatlin is perhaps one of the most amazing singers and songwriters this town will ever see. “All The Gold In California,” and “I’ve Done Enough Dyin’ Today” still give me chills. I was such a groupie that I went to see him sing before he ever made it big. The Gatlin Brothers—Larry, Steve, and Rudy—are just magic together. There goes that brotherly harmony thing again. Larry also developed a propensity for sticking white powder up his nose and darn near lost it all. He’s fine now. I see him every now and then on Fox Network. Larry’s a smart guy but can be tough sometimes. My cowriter Tom Shapiro described a guy we play golf with as “one of my hard friends.” We all have them. You love them and you’d also like to make them wear one of those Hannibal Lecter masks all the time.
Larry would stop singing and berate the audience if somebody talked while he was warbling. I saw him stop and ask a chatty group what they did for a living. Turns out they worked for Otis Elevator. Larry then announced, “Great. If you won’t talk during my songs, I won’t pee in your elevators.” He was right, of course. They were distracting, but it makes you a hard friend to root for.
John Rich wrote a song with Larry Gatlin, and I bet it’s a smash. I feel like the “new” Larry is an easier version. John also called me the other day and said he had cut a song we’d written together. That thrill never loses meaning for me. I hope it’s a hit, too.
Big Kenny, who is the “Big” part of the Big & Rich brand, is quite a story himself. He was knockin’ around town going broke, from what I hear, and landed on his feet beside John. The Peacemaker and the Hell Raiser. John Rich keeps a massive Mason jar of authentic bootleg liquor in his bar upstairs. You haven’t lived ’til you try to finish a song after a couple of belts of that kerosene.
There is something endearing about someone who just keeps going. Just picks it up from wherever they get knocked down and walks on. I admire that in a person. Sometimes this Crazy Town, as Jason Aldean calls it, will allow you to move along.
I worry sometimes about new little baby chick acts—people who become stars from a TV singing competition and are suddenly thrust into the middle of the circus. They have a few hits and then wham! Brick wall. The ride is over. If you sift back through the singers who made it to the top three or four American Idols in a season, you’ll probably remember a couple of them.
Then there are stars who just come out of nowhere. Anybody remember Boxcar Willie? Yes, Boxcar Willie. What a story he was. He got famous from being in some commercials for singers who were kinda well known in Europe but obscure in America. I am not sure how you become a star in Europe and remain obscure in the States, but he did it. He dressed up like a hobo and sang nasal, old-fashioned songs about railroadin’, ridin’ the rails, and generally being homeless. I’ve never been a big fan of not having any indoor plumbing, but Willie had a knack for making it sound glamorous.
Boxcar had lived a pretty good life before he became famous. Believe it or not, he reportedly sold 100 million records. I think that’s probably a little exaggerated, but I’m certain he did sell a trainload.
My favorite Boxcar quote came during a brief radio interview. I asked him if he’d like to appear on one of our charity shows later in the fall. As his faithful/manager/wife looked on, he replied, “Oh, you’ll have to ask Mrs. Box about that.”
By the way, John Rich ends his e-mails with, “That’s the thing about salted possum. It’s just as good the second day.” That makes him good by me.
Kinfolk
COUNTRY MUSIC AND RELATIVES, hereafter called “kin,” have a long and sometimes successful but mostly troubled history together.
There have been several successful brother acts: two guys from the same mom, who usually wind up with one breaking his guitar over the head of the other—typical brotherly love. For some reason, people like hearing brothers sing together more than sisters. The Everlys, Don and Phil. The Louvins, Charley and Ira. The Bellamy Brothers, Howard, David, and Ralph.
David Bellamy, who wrote “If I Said You Had A Beautiful Body Would You Hold It Against Me?”, exemplifies one of the great uses of a joke in music of all time. David once called me for a long conversation about what exactly scallops were. I wasn’t sure and he wasn’t, either. He likes them, but he’s a little sketchy about them. I feel the same way. What the hell are scallops anyway?
There have been sister duets, sister trios, and even sister quartets, those foursomes of DNA that sound like angels, but in country music, there hasn’t been much success. Most of the family singin’ thing has faded in the past couple of decades. Donny and Marie even recognized that they had to each choose a format for their personalities, hence, “She’s a little bit country and he’s a little bit rock ‘n’ roll.” It’s that “Hey! If you hate rock ‘n’ roll, she’ll be singing country right after I’m done” plan.
The father/daughter duos are few and far between and, frankly, always gave me the creeps. It’s one thing to sing with your offspring in the kitchen, but there’s something else about cheatin’, drinkin’, and heaven songs while staring into the eyes of Daddy. It’s a little too West Virginia for me.
The Kendalls, Royce and Jeannie, were a father-daughter duo. Their big hit was “Heaven’s Just a Sin Away.” They seemed to handle it fine, but it sounds like massive therapy down the road to me. I know singers are playing a part. I know some who won’t sing a lyric because they think the audience will assign them that part. Reba always said, “I ain’t no hooker, but ‘Fancy’ is one of my favorite songs.”
Pop and the Kid, however, can get uncomfortably close to being downright weird if you’re not careful. Jeannie Kendall always wore a little hat, too. It gave her a sort of ’40s movie/gun moll look that made it even more disturbing. I mean, wantin’ to hold somebody tight and be with them tonight is not what I want to hear from Daddy and his little girl. Think about it: “Heaven’s just a sin away?” With Daddy? I’m pretty sure there’s a book of rules against that.
I’ve also seen a father and his teenage son and daughter take a shot at stardom. I think the problem is, the kids
hated him and he loved them. All teenagers think their dads are dweebs. Who wants to watch “eye-rolling with banjos” onstage for an hour? Most teenagers can barely tolerate Dad for the fifteen minutes he asks them about their day. Imagine the soul-searing resentment of riding on a bus 24/7. Sure, it’s fun for us to watch, but it has that same uncomfortable feeling you get when you watch a preacher’s wife stare at her husband who is holding a press conference to announce he’s gay.
All this aside, however, nothing beats the toxic combination of mother and daughter as a loving hillbilly couple. It’s that wonderful mix of twang, grandpa, beauty, and seething, boiling, red-eyed jealousy. Which, of course, brings us to . . . The JUDDS!
If you really want to kick things up a notch, be sure and make the mom a stunner. A heart-stopping looker who demands to be in the spotlight. Then create a shorter, wider, full-backier daughter who can actually sing.
The joy that particular mom and baby girl duo have brought to me over the years is incalculable. For off-the-charts drama and soap opera histrionics nothing beats As The Judds Twang. Mom twirls and sashays around onstage, dropping one-liners and life advice as if she’s Rodney Dangerfield and Dr. Phil all rolled up into one red-haired package. The daughter wails and moans and thrills and channels Elvis. Give her a biting sense of honesty and a battle of the bulge, and, friends, you’ve got yourself a hit-and-hate-making machine.
For those of you taking notes and looking at your little sweetie singing like a bird in the kitchen, I beg of you, please don’t do it. Be a stage mother. Be a taskmaster. Be Joan Crawford, but for all that’s holy do not rent a bus and sing harmony with your kid in front of people for money. It’s not part of the normal order of things. It’s against the laws of nature.
I see that comedienne (who’s had so many face-lifts she looks like a Picasso) with her daughter on TV, and I think at least they can spit at each other if they want to. Singing together requires some semblance of a loving relationship unless you’re in a church choir. Actually, we all know the ratio of choir rehearsals and affairs, but that’s for another discussion. I know it’s none of my business, but I recommend either quilting or Greco-Roman wrestling over singing together as mom and daughter.
I’ve often heard doctors say that estrogen, ovaries, and a steel guitar are as deadly together as hard liquor and wing-walking. There are some things you just don’t do.
However, if you go against all the good advice and common sense in the world and do decide to embark on a warbling career with one of your units, here’s what you do to keep the wheels turning: pick hit songs. Hit songs are always good because flop songs tend to make you more likely to stay at home a lot.
Choose a hair color carefully. If you can’t make your music bigger and louder, then, by God, make sure your hairdo is. The most popular is something the color and consistency of molten lava—orange-red and flowing.
And when things slow down a bit and nobody is paying as much attention as they used to, throw in a couple of near-death experiences. Choose one of you to tell how you “like to have died.” Then set out on a well-planned, eight- to ten-year See ’Em Before They Croak Tour.
Fight offstage as much as possible. Do a lot of TV talk shows where you have dueling interventions. If somebody in the family starts telling the truth about some tragedy, always interrupt and say you had that first and it was much worse.
The public is nothing if not a sucker for paying to see what can go wrong during a concert. Demolition derbies are popular for a reason, you know.
I actually did a live, nationwide radio show with Wynonna and Naomi the Sunday night before Naomi announced she had hepatitis. She seemed good the night before, but that’s an insidious disease and dangerous. The timing did make it difficult for folks to not at least “wonder” if it was all on the level.
Allyson and I actually went to that “final” concert of the Judds’. Last time together. Final moment to see them. They passed out little electronic candles so we could wave them good-bye. I did indeed seem to have the feeling they did a “good-bye” tour about every ten years. I’m confused and, frankly, quit keeping count after awhile. Every family has troubles; they just happened to make it the family business. The TV show on Oprah’s network was hilarious. Each week, they would end with a cliffhanger. Will Wynonna shove Mom into a concrete mixer? Tune in next week for The Edge of Nut.
I think Wy called me a nut in one of her books. I had dinner with her the other night at a table full of showbiz types during an awards event. She and her new husband, Cactus Moser, had plopped down beside Allyson and me. Cactus was a member of a great group called Highway 101. A lot of hits came out of that band. I loved ’em and Cactus. Just two months after he and Wynonna got hitched in 2012, Cactus had a terrible motorcycle accident and lost a leg. Just horrible.
Here’s the side of Wynonna I love: when Cactus’ name was announced to come onstage and receive an award, they called for her to join him. While helping Cactus slowly make his way toward the stage, she said, “Nope, this is his night.” With tears in her eyes, she stood by the side of the bright lights as her guy beamed like the Hollywood sign with his songwriting award.
Underneath all that glamour and cool and “Juddness” beats the heart of a loving, caring woman and wife. And Lord, what a singer!
Ashley Judd is amazing. I just remember her head bobbing around at press parties and gold record celebrations. She was gorgeous, smart, and lost. It was like watching a thoroughbred colt run ’til it gave out because the little thing never knew where the barn was.
Finally, be sure and throw in a life coach. (Whatever the hell that is! Do normal people have a life coach?) Also, announcing you are no longer speaking to anyone in your family is a nice touch. If things slow down, have a pow-wow with Oprah and go on tour!
Oh, and have a little “work” done. Nothing too extreme, you know, to where your family doesn’t recognize you anymore. But, over the years, do a little tweakin’. Believe me, I have no problem with getting some work done. However, for the best possible outcome, have Mom slowly look younger than the daughter, if possible.
Great Love Stories
THEY HAVE RELEASED the “new” version of Titanic. Leo and Kate are on the ship’s bow, and “king of the world” is shouted to the open sea. Film buffs always declare, “It’s the greatest love story of all time.” My wife always laughs at that. She contends, and I agree, Titanic is more like a quickie on The Love Boat. Greatest love of all time? They hardly knew each other. I know love at first sight and all that, but the greatest love story of all time? They met and fell in love that deep, that quickly? What about the love story of Loretta and “Doo”?
Loretta Lynn and “DooLittle” Lynn’s story was made famous in the film Coal Miner’s Daughter. Loretta is hilarious. She just tells you what she thinks, and it always comes out to somehow make you laugh.
I once got lost in the Opryland Hotel with Loretta. If you’ve never been to the Opryland Hotel, you should go gawk at it at least once. It’s immense. It has a “conservatory” in it, which is sort of a rain forest/hothouse under glass. I think most of the rooms in the Opryland Hotel are taken up by people who can’t find their way out of the damn hotel. It’s a maze with curtains. You can check out, but you can never leave.
Late one night after some event, Loretta and I got on the same elevator and then wandered for hours down one dead-end hall after another. She was typical Loretta. Laughing about what dumbasses we were for not being able to get out.
She married Doo when she was just a teenager. You all know the story: coal mining, Butcher Holler, and the struggle to get her songs heard. Years after she was a star and things sort of calmed down, I used to have a drink or ten with DooLittle Lynn at the Hall of Fame Motor Lodge. Of course, we all cleverly called it the Hall of Shame. DooLittle was also a hoot. He was pure country. He was smart, but not the college smart kind. Usually, he was in some kind of feud with Loretta—not showin’ up, not comin’ home on time, not rememberin’ the
ir anniversary, not not having one more highball—the usual stuff women don’t seem to be able to understand. Women are just unreasonable.
I am positive that “Don’t Come Home A’ Drinkin’(With Lovin’ on Your Mind)” was a direct response to Doo. Doo was also called Mooney. Mooney was short for Moonshine, and I have a nagging suspicion it was more than a nickname.
Allyson and I went to the premiere of Coal Miner’s Daughter. It was a grand night for Nashville at the Belle Meade Theater. I didn’t go to Belle Meade much. It’s the rich side of town, and alarms still go off whenever I drive through. You have to have that deep, genteel Southern accent to live in Belle Meade. I was once standing in a hardware store when one of the grand matrons of Belle Meade announced to anyone within earshot, which included people in the parking lot, “I have got to have a hammah!” Even I started to look for one for her.
On this one night, the hoity and the toity had to mingle with the riff and the raff. I represented the riff. I saw the director get out of a Rolls-Royce limo and sweep into the theater wearing a cape. I didn’t know anybody except Batman wore a cape, but there he was. Strictly by chance, Allyson and I sat directly behind the real-life stars of the movie.
I liked the movie, but all I can remember is Loretta and Doo getting into some kind of fight during the film. For a brief moment, Sissy Spacek and Tommy Lee Jones were fighting on-screen, and the people they were playing were fighting in front of me off-screen. For all their fussin’, however, I think they had a love story to be told. It deserved to be a movie. Reba and Martina absolutely worship Loretta. Just the other day, Reba was telling me she called Loretta to check on her. It was a scorcher in Nashville, and Reba said, “Loretta wanted to go outside and pick some ’maters, but she told me it was too hot and them ’maters wasn’t worth dyin’ fer.” That’s how Loretta talks.