Country Music Broke My Brain

by Gerry House

  My favorite picture of Steve is him standing onstage at the Parade of Pennies gift party. Every year, our station bought Christmas gifts for kids who didn’t have much. The American Legion boys handled most of the logistics. The party, if you wanna call it that, was at the Tennessee State Fairgrounds in some godforsaken concrete slab of a building next to the hog pens and chicken coops. It smelled exactly like you think.

  Now, these kids were from poor neighborhoods. Mostly African Americans, and they broke my heart. The little peezers were in sandals or an old T-shirt, and it was December and freezing out. They gathered in folding chairs by the hundreds, with hundreds of parents trying to control the screaming mob who were their children. The whole auditorium seemed like it was being overtaken by a giant, crawling, twitching, crying, yelling alien blob. The parents all looked at me with those eyes that said, “Thanks for doing this, but I gotta get outta here.”

  Now picture my pal, Steve Wariner. The pale, handsome, gentle singer and songwriter had volunteered to show up with his band at nine in the morning and do a show. While we handed out gifts, one by one to kid after kid, Steve got up on a tiny wet concrete stage and started singing his songs. He might have just as well have been up there giving a lesson on optical astronomy in German. It was like performing during a riot.

  Steve plowed on. I couldn’t hear him, but I could tell from the bass part and his mouth moving that he was going to sing one of his gentle classics—a remake of Bill Anderson’s “Tips of My Fingers.” By now, about 500 kids have toys and are shrieking like banshees.

  The moment? Steve throws his head back with his eyes closed and sings this mournful country ballad as the kids decide the stage is the best place to try out their new plastic toy trucks. So the squirts climb onstage armed with Tonkas and start a small construction site as Steve is singing. At this point, the parents look like they’re making a hostage tape. They’ve lost all control. I’m just immobilized by the noise and the smells and the cold.

  Steve Wariner finished his song and calmly thanked the audience. He stepped over a couple of kids and started putting his guitar away. The band disappeared like deer into the forest. Steve maneuvered through the crowd, stuck out his hand, and said, “Thanks for letting me do this. It’s been a really good time.”

  Bill Anderson, who wrote many great songs, such as “Tips of My Fingers,” “Still,” and “Whiskey Lullaby,” lived across the street from me for several years. He was a true performing singing wonder. “Whisperin’ Bill,” they called him. His vocals were more like somebody making an obscene phone call. He had many, many hits in the ’50s and ’60s, on through the ’80s. His “whispering” voice has been much imitated in Opry circles. I used to watch him walk out in his front yard and yell for his dog. He’d yell in that soft, little sound he made, “Here, boy! Here, boy!” The dog would be twenty feet away by the garage and not move a muscle.

  He couldn’t hear his master’s voice.

  Billy Dean is as good as they get. He’s always upbeat and concerned. He is relentlessly nice. “Knock it off, Bob.” We wrote songs and spent a lot of time together. My favorite Billy moment was when he called me on the radio. We were discussing the topic “what’s the best song for people getting a divorce?” We had a bunch of folks call with the usual and the funny and the disturbing titles. “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” is obvious. Several suggested “Take This Job and Shove It,” which didn’t work at all. Billy said he was driving in his car and called to laugh about the topic and how funny other people were. Billy said he’d been racking his brain trying to come up with a song.

  I then reminded him of the classic “We Just Disagree”—the perfect divorce song if there ever was one. Two people who love each other but can’t get along might be the ultimate great song about splitting up.

  The best part about the whole conversation? That’s a Billy Dean song! He laughed his butt off. He couldn’t think of his own recording. Dave Mason had a hit with it in ’77, and Billy made it a hit again in ’93. Butterbean Dean is a nice, nice guy.

  Allyson’s sense of logic is beyond compare. It works for her, and when she says something it usually takes a second to think about it. (No, I did not use the word “ditzy” here.) When we were young and broke—I’m talkin’ “countin’ pennies you find in the glove compartment” broke—we lived in a trailer in Kentucky. This was before trailers moved up and became mobile homes. Don’t you hate it when your house gets a flat?

  We had dinner carefully planned out to the last scoop of macaroni and cheese. We also had a young couple of friends who just showed up at dinnertime. They were broke, too. I liked them a lot, but I didn’t want to share my pork chop with Bob and his fiancée. But what are you gonna do when they are sitting there like basset hounds watching you eat, their little tummies growling? So, we split up the food. It drove Al and me crazy.

  When I finally got a job in upstate New York, we packed up everything we owned in a tiny U-Haul trailer (there’s that word again) and pulled out on our adventure early one morning. We were now free of the freeloading couple. It was here when Allyson said, with her logic working on all cylinders, “I can’t wait to see their faces when we don’t see them anymore.”

  See what I mean? It happens every day. But she’s my girl and she’s nice.

  Linda Davis is a saint. You probably don’t know Linda. She sang “Does He Love You?” with Reba. It was a huge hit and a great moment in concert. I met Linda years ago when I was doing a TV show with Jim Ed Brown. Her husband was a production coordinator, and she’d tag along. She’s also beautiful.

  Jump ahead years later, and we’d all go to Reba’s house for holidays and dinners. I tell this because Linda’s little girl was always running around and jumping in the pool and doing what kids do. That little girl is now Hillary Scott of Lady Antebellum. It makes me feel like I need to be carbon-dated to find out my age when I see little Hillary up accepting CMA Awards or five Grammys!

  That TV show that I worked with her dad on was also one of the worst TV shows in history. A precursor to American Idol, the show was called You Can Be a Star and ran on The Nashville Network. I’d already lost out on an earlier job on that network, as I was to be the voice of a talking jukebox on a Bill Anderson–hosted game show. I didn’t get the gig.

  Unfortunately, I did get the job on You Can Be a Star. I was the “filler” of time between the acts. Jim Ed Brown, a kind and foggy man, hosted. We taped five shows a day, thirteen days in a row. Jim Ed had his clothes all laid out by his wife, with matching numbers so he’d know what went with what. Yes, just like Garanimals. One terrible singer after another performed, and three semi-celebrity judges passed along their opinions. Then they cut to me in the audience to fill time before the next act was let out of the chute.

  You might think that it gets easier over time, chatting with folks and generally passing the time of day. It was brutal. When people are nervous or concerned for their singing brother-in-law, they don’t want to talk about space travel or clothing styles or whatever I asked about. I actually had several older, sweaty women say, “Leave me alone, I have to pee,” during the taping sessions. Hey, it was a paycheck.

  We bought a farm a few years back. It’s got lakes and three little chalets, and it’s a chunk of heaven. It is way out in the sticks. As the Rascal Flatts song says, “You drive ’til you hear banjo music.” We love it there on weekends. It’s also Command Central for the world population of ticks and chiggers. Poison ivy can be found if you walk near the woods. Nature is a cruel mistress, and something is trying to jump on you all the time. Allyson went hiking and came back stung, bitten, and poison-ivied. I’ve seen coon dogs scratch less.

  We’ve all been there, and you feel sorry for anybody covered in calamine lotion. One afternoon, she went off to her “Woman Cave” for several hours to watch television. When she emerged, she had a look on her face I hadn’t seen since our honeymoon. She smiled and said, “There’s nothing like being alone with an itch.”

  I’ve ha
d the itch for her since I was sixteen. And she’s right. There’s nothing like being alone with an itch.

  Who actually said this to me: “You can’t sue me. My business manager says I can’t afford it”?

  A) Darius Rucker

  B) Luke Bryan

  C) Warren Buffett

  You Never Give Me Your Money

  WHAT A CAREER this dude has had. Darius is, of course, Hootie. As in, And The Blowfish. Mike Dungan at Capitol believed enough in the songs and Darius’ charisma to let the Hootster make a country album. Smart decision. Mr. Rucker has had a truckload of No. 1s.

  I like him a lot. I like his songs, I like his demeanor, and I like his sense of humor. I do not like the way Darius Rucker drives a golf cart. He’s a menace to society and anyone within two fairways of him. When DR plays golf, he’s a man on a mission. He’s a fabulous swinger of the club and is ready to get on with it. If you happen to be along, please buckle up ’cause The Ruckster is gonna play some golf and move on.

  I wrote songs with Darius (and renowned songwriter Tom Shapiro), and Darius is very patient. He sits there with his hands in his leather jacket and tosses off great lines. He sings and sounds just like Darius Rucker.

  On the golf course, he likes to drive—the ball and the cart. This is where the trouble starts. I was barely in and he floored it. I just remember being tossed skyward and actually turning over while airborne. The cart propelled me into space. It was that surreal, “I’m floating upside down” moment. I landed on my head on the side of a hill.

  Darius: “Come on, man, stop fooling around.”

  Me: “Ohhhhh, I think I’m dead.” I shuffled, bruised and shaken, into the passenger seat.

  Ever the businessman, Darius then announced, “You can ‘t sue me. My business manager says I can’t afford it.” Says it all, doesn’t it? There is no problem, and if there were a problem, he can’t afford to pay for the problem. He’s right. We laughed about it. I wasn’t actually hurt all that much, except for the permanent neck damage and the ruination of my game, not to mention my irrational fear of golf carts. I still suffer from Cartophobia Extremus.

  Besides, who sues anybody named Hootie?

  Mysteries of Life

  THERE ARE A LOT OF THINGS in the world that I just don’t understand. Perhaps it’s because country music has robbed me of all my reasoning abilities. The mysteries of life we’ve all pondered remain unsolved. Perhaps one day we might learn why Alan Jackson sings so much about fried chicken, why Garth Brooks gives that google-y eye when he’s singing, and why Bruce Springsteen sings like he has fire ants in his Fruit of the Looms. When will Wynonna Judd haul off and cold-cock her mom? How did Tim McGraw land Faith Hill? How much does Ernest Hemingway? What makes Bud wiser? Who put the Ram in the Rama-lama-ding-dong? How much is left in Dolly Parton’s shoes? Which smells better, Luke Bryan or Buffalo, New York? Where’s the rest of Carrie Underwood’s dress? Did the same person make Conway Twitty’s shorts? Will we ever see Hunter Hayes go through puberty live on TV? Will there ever be another country song without the word truck in it? Is the hot new word in country music “hick-wad”? What are video directors on? Does Eric Church sleep in sunglasses? Will there eventually be a country awards show every week?

  I’m certain you’ve thought of these same things yourself. Or what about these:

  Why is it nearly impossible to get someone on the phone at a phone company? It’s an enterprise dedicated to making sure we all are in constant contact with the world. A corporation that spends millions in advertising urging us to reach out and touch somebody, anybody, and do it on a phone. Then why can’t we just pick up the phone and talk to someone on the other end at a phone company? I just want to ask a few reasonable, simple questions about my phone bill, which last month was around 600 pages. If you call, you get an automated voice machine. If you go to their website, they give you a list of questions the poor souls who tried to get answers before you asked.

  I also don’t really understand call waiting and caller ID. Are these to make sure you don’t actually ever talk to anyone? And I am certain that once I leave their phone store, they get a call from the president’s office, saying, “Did the idiot who bought our newest high-tech phone pay full price?” Once that’s an affirmative, they immediately issue a newer phone and start offering the phone I just bought for free if you own a pair of shoes.

  And while I’m at it (I’ll get to country music in a minute. Calm down there, fireball!), when you call the cable company ’cause your internet is out, the recording tells you, “Calling is not necessary. You can just go to our website and get everything you need.” Thanks for that. But I can’t go to the website because my internet doesn’t work, you idiots! If I could go to the damn website, I wouldn’t be calling you! It’s just cruel, I tell ya. I realize Brad Paisley said he’s a whole lot cooler “Online” (I told you I’d be back), but I am not online!

  Oh, there are a lot of things that stupefy me. Why does my wife keep that old oven mitt with a hole in the thumb? I thought the idea of an oven mitt was to avoid turning your thumb into a “lit’l smokie.”

  Why do people going to exercise at the Y drive around for ten minutes looking for a place to park right by the door so they don’t have to walk very far? They are going inside to get on a treadmill and walk very far! Couldn’t they just as easily park ten blocks away and not even go in?

  Quite possibly the biggest mystery of life to me is over my head. In fact, it’s over nearly everyone’s head, especially in country music. It’s the hat.

  Why do so many country singers wear a cowboy hat? Granted, there are a few cowboys from Texas or Oklahoma who might have worn a hat growing up, but not many. Do you know anybody who actually wears a hat? I mean a big-cowboy-swaggering-“get along, little dogies”-bona-fide-Stetson lid?

  I submit 90 percent of the singers of country songs have never been on a horse unless it was on a merry-go-round or a pony at the county fair.

  So, what is with the hats? We’ve even had women wearing cowboy hats. If you are a woman and you wear a cowboy hat, you had better damn well be in a rodeo at the moment. It’s been this way for the thirty-five years I’ve been in Nashville.

  I know it says, “I’m a country singer,” to anyone who might be wondering who you are, strolling down the sidewalk, but is that necessary? Judges don’t walk around in their robes. Doctors take off their scrubs. Ballet dancers don’t go to church in their tutus. Even people who work at McDonald’s take off their paper lid when they’re off duty. But if you are even thinking of singing something twangy, the rule is, Put on a hat!

  I know, I know. Some guys need a hat for a reason (see Dwight Yoakam). I’m cool with that. I could use a cover-up myself. Ball caps are passable, but I also don’t understand actual artists who have their press shots made with a ball cap turned around backwards. Why go to the trouble of hiring someone to take an expensive picture of you looking like the guy who unloads bananas at Kroger? There’s nothing wrong with unloading bananas at Kroger, but girls don’t scream at concerts for the banana boy. (That didn’t come out like I planned it, and could be wrong.)

  It’s been the state of music for decades, the eternal argument—to hat or not to hat. And while some guys look damn cool with it pulled down low over their eyes, most singers look like something out of City Slickers. Here’s the bottom line: if there ain’t something in a saddle in the parking lot, take off the hat. (At this point, I want to extend an apology and issue a hat approval release to George Strait and Alan Jackson.)

  I hope during the next few hundred pages to answer all these questions and more. But mostly, I blame country music.

  The Oaks

  WHEN I WAS IN HIGH SCHOOL, I was in a singing group. It was actually one of my first shots at a singing career. I’m still workin’ on that. I can sing, but I have one of those “Broadway” voices. You know, the type nobody really wants to hear for very long.

  I was in a group with three other wads of testosterone called the
Comedians. We thought we were the greatest vocalists ever. Our name was actually a little too accurate. I introduced the songs and told a joke or two. We did a lot of wonderful gigs: before dramatic readings at the Masonic Lodge (Allyson did the dramatic reading), opening for guests at the high school fund-raisers, and . . . I think that’s it. We actually had two performances.

  Because of my membership in various groups and bands, I’ve always felt a kinship with country groups. Being in a band is hard. I find it very similar to being on a chain gang. You have to be with people who smell odd and you often don’t like very much.

  I always find it weird to interview bands. You find yourself usually talking to the lead singer. The lead singer is the de facto leader of the band. This typically makes all the other guys in the band upset except the bass player. The bass player in the band is just happy to be there and is often the most laid-back musician. Drummers are a little wacky, while the piano players are the intellect of this configuration.

  But that’s a band. What about the Comedians? Or even more to the point, what about those pure vocal groups like the Oak Ridge Boys? I have known the “Oaks” for more than thirty years. They are each and unto themselves unique and wonderful people—gentle, caring, and fascinating. And they are stunning showmen. It’s hard to stand beside three other guys night after night and shine. But all four of them do.

  Duane Allen is the “lead” singer, I guess. Duane listens when you say something. He’s a great talent and wants the best for everyone. Joe Bonsall is the firecracker tenor of the group. He sings lead also and has been a friend for a long time. Richard Sterban is the unearthly bass singer. He’s quiet and smart and has to walk behind a wheelbarrow to carry his testicles so he can sing that deep.