Country Music Broke My Brain

by Gerry House

  Then there’s William Lee Golden. William Lee is the “Mountain Man” of the group—the one who is most identifiable with his long, long, gray hair, and leather-stocking pants, wild jackets, and, yes, a cowboy hat. His beard is a forty-year effort and a work of art. I once saw a tourist bus screech to a halt on Music Row, and all the sightseers inside rocketed to the front. William Lee was crossing the street, and these people streamed out of that bus, snapping pictures and screaming like they’d spotted Bigfoot.

  Now that I think about it, maybe William Lee Golden is Bigfoot. I know you never see the two of them together. He’s got a sweat lodge in back of his house. If you’ve never seen him, this will tell you about his appearance:

  I remember William Lee once excitedly (or as excited as he ever gets, which ain’t much) telling my friend Bob and me about how he’d just been to Reelfoot Lake in Tennessee. In that slow, Southern drawl, William Lee Golden said, “Guys, it was amazing. There are bald eagles all over up there—beautiful majestic animals flying right over our heads. I’m telling ya, they sat there on those tree limbs, and we floated right up next to them, so close we could almost touch them!”

  Bob listened and said, “Hell, Golden, you got that close ’cause they probably thought you were a nest.”

  I love the Oaks. They were one of the first artists to ever record a song of mine called “Old Time Lovin’.” It was their first album, and I couldn’t have been more excited. I remember getting that first check—that first “mailbox” money—for probably $1,500. Al and I opened it on the porch and hugged and jumped up and down like kids.

  We got a washing machine and some carpeting.

  The Oaks Elvira’d and Bobbie Sue’d their way into the hearts of America. I know that George Bush the Elder (doesn’t that sound like he was King of Prussia or something?) always had them perform at the White House. The Oaks have entertained everyone and anyone from leaders of the Western World to drunks to Boy Scouts

  Full disclosure: when I was around twelve, I was in the Boy Scouts in Kentucky. Our Scout leader got us a gig washing airplanes. There was a private airport near our old Kentucky home and we little peezers would load up in a big truck and spend all day washing some rich guy’s Piper Cub. It was hard work, but we did it for the Troop. Our Scout leader urged us on and praised us mightily for such great diligent work.

  We were Scouts of the finest order. We eventually piled up several thousand dollars from airplane cleansing and other odd jobs. Later that summer I was shocked to learn our Scoutmaster had left the county. Something about being caught with a woman he wasn’t married to and his clothes being found burning in his front yard. I also learned that our great leader “borrowed” every cent of our Troop cash assets before he left. It was my introduction to cheating and embezzlement at the same time.

  I was deeply upset about the situation and went to my dad for solace. I told him what had happened. In his usual no-nonsense manner, he summed it up for me: “Hoss, what is the motto of the Boy Scouts?”

  I stood straight and spoke, “Be Prepared.”

  Dad: “Well, you wasn’t. Next time, you’ll know better.”

  That was the end of Boy Scouts for me.

  Right now, I bet the Oaks are on a bus headed to some State Fair or casino stage or Boy Scout Jamboree, ready to knock another audience flat-out. I hope Richard remembers his wheelbarrow.

  Paranoia

  I LIKE PARANOIA. Not the “talkin’ to the dogs on the woods” type of paranoia, but the “what did you mean by that?” paranoia. The best example of great paranoia is from my lawyer of thirty years. Malcolm Mimms said he refuses to stick his hand down in the garbage disposal. We’ve all done that if something has fallen in there, and it’s making that horrible “jar lid on metal” sound. Mal won’t stick his hand down in there because, and I quote, “I’m afraid my other hand will reach over to the wall switch and turn it on while my hand is in there.” Isn’t that beautiful?

  I feel exactly the same way. I don’t like to sit with my back to the restaurant. I want my back to the wall in the Mafia seat. Allyson says the woman is supposed to sit against the wall. I think this is a social rule she made up so she can get the Mafia seat. It’s called the Mafia seat because mobsters sat with their back to the wall so they could see people coming in who might shoot them. Actually, that’s not paranoia, that’s common sense.

  I don’t like to be standing on anything where I could accidentally but immediately plunge to my death. Some call this paranoia a “fear of heights.” Not to be confused with acrophobia, which is a “fear of circus performers.” I also don’t like clowns because I know they have metal teeth and want to kill me, but that’s a whole other discussion.

  When I was ten, my mom, dad, and I went on a vacation with some neighbors. I have pictures of the Wright family and our family camping out on a small patch of stony land near a creek at Natural Bridge State Park. We look like something out of The Grapes of Wrath.

  I’ve never understood why people go camping. The tents leak. The food is half-cooked. It’s boiling hot during the day and freezing at night. Rabid bats can fly in and build a nest in your hair. There is nothing to do.

  We did nothing for about three days. Stanley Wright smoked Pall Malls and wore a Speedo. That image alone is worth years of therapy. We sat like Polish refugees on the rocky shore of this godforsaken trickle of a river and waited for Dad to light a fire. He’d always say, “We’ll rough it for a few days.” My idea of “roughing it” is slow room service and no HDTV. I don’t rough, at least not anymore.

  The highlight of Natural Bridge State Park is . . . drumroll . . . The Natural Bridge—a tiny sliver of archway over a deep chasm that is minutes of fun. I have a fear of heights and gymnasts because of that damn bridge. My dad made me walk over it. As I recall (probably not with any accuracy), I think it was about thirty miles to certain rocky death below. I started across and eventually sat down and actually scooted toward the other side.

  Paralyzed with fear and embarrassment, I actually left fingerprints in the rocks as I made it to the other side. My dad scooped me off and said, “See, it wasn’t so bad now, was it?” He gave me a hug. Yes, it was that bad. Because of that scary adventure, I won’t even change a lightbulb on a stepladder for fear of plunging to my doom.

  I am paranoid. By the way, at the end of our vacation, Stanley Wright lost his job because he didn’t have permission to take off from work. His job was Chief Bottle Washer. You’ve heard of the Chief Cook and Bottle Washer—that actually was his job. Stanley washed bottles at a dairy. He did the little jugs. (Insert own joke here.) I think his family wound up “roughing it” for real after that. That’s why people should never go to state parks and camp. You wind up permanent campers.

  The reason I bring up paranoia at this juncture is because it’s rampant throughout Nashville in the radio business, in the music business, and in the business business. A wise old publisher once told me, “Son, don’t worry about taking a chance in Nashville because they don’t remember your failures in this town.” I thought that was good stuff and cheerfully stumbled ahead into Chanceville.

  Turns out people remember failures like they remember the first time they got the clap. They carry pictures of people who bombed at something. Seminars are held with speeches about disasters folks have had taking a chance. They publish Loser Guidebooks on Music Row. Monks in underground tunnels write all the mistakes in giant ledgers with goose quills and ink. That’s why paranoia hangs over Music Row like smog.

  I once had a song recorded by a movie star–lookin’ singer named James Bonamy. James was sweet as could be, and he was a beauty. He sang great, looked great, and had that “thing” stars have. The song was called “Dog on a Tool Box.” I wrote it with legendary tunesmith Monty Holmes. The record guys did a dance mix, an extended mix, a radio mix—it got all the stuff behind it. It hit the charts, and I was ready for the good times to begin and the mailbox cash to start bein’ delivered. It was just a fun song with n
o agenda and no great social statements.

  The second week of the record’s birth, they had a massive national meeting of radio disc jockeys and radio bosses in Nashville. They’ve had it annually for thirty years. Some big-shot programmer stood during a big meeting and said, “Country music is in trouble. We’ve lowered our standards too much. Why, there’s even a song out now called ‘Dog on a Toolbox.’ The last thing we need is a song about dogs and trucks and country and toolboxes. People will think we are idiots.”

  The record died an instant death. Everybody was so paranoid and unsure about what they really liked, they accepted this piece of flawed logic as gospel.

  I tell this story not so we could all learn a lesson, but so I could tell how I got screwed out of a hit by some doofus who didn’t know what he was talking about. I feel better now.

  A lot of artists control their image and their careers down to the smallest moment. Others don’t really care all that much. I’ve seen both work. I also have learned that the bigger a star gets, the more they are on time, the more they have success, and the more you can depend on them to do what they say they will. It’s not the big stars who are prima donnas, it’s usually the middling singers and pickers who are a pain in the ass to deal with. It’s because they are paranoid. Hey, it affects everyone. I have had acts show up an hour late, others chew gum and talk into the plants instead of a microphone, and some even bring their dogs or bring their kids who leave dirty underwear in the studio. I’ve had actual recording artists refuse to say anything more than “Yes,” “No,” and “Huh?” for thirty minutes. Paranoia strikes deep.

  A great singer once told me he was doing a tour with Travis Tritt. I won’t mention Joe Diffie here because it would embarrass him. Joe is one of the all-time traditional singers. Joe Diffie doesn’t have a pretentious bone in his body. Travis is and always will be a rock star doing country songs. I think he got a little blown-up when he was on top of the charts.

  Joe said they were about to start a show, and he was walking down the hallway. He saw Travis go into a room backstage. He went in to speak to his costar before the show started. But there appeared to be nobody in there and nothing else in the room except a big road case on wheels in the corner. He looked around for Travis and couldn’t find him. Then Joe decided to lean down and speak into the air holes in the top of the road case. “Travis?”

  A whispered answer: “Yeah, man.”

  “Travis, are you in there?”

  “Yeah, man.”

  “Travis, why are you hiding in a road case backstage?”

  “Because, man, they have to wheel me onstage in secrecy or the fans might mob me.”

  Joe said there was no one backstage except musicians, a security guard, and a couple of people cleaning up.

  Travis Tritt is a great guy, and I’m certain he’s not paranoid. But I think when lightning strikes, and people start to react wildly to your presence, it makes you get wheeled onstage inside a road case. Don’t get wheeled onstage inside a road case.

  My mother was afraid of a lot of things. Everybody always says a child of the Depression is like that. She’d told me many times that, during those rough years, she’d been sent to live on a small farm in Kentucky with her aunt because her mother couldn’t support her.

  Mom said Aunt Lou also was broke, but she had three chickens. Those chickens laid six eggs a day. Three in the morning for breakfast, three in the evening for dinner. I never pointed out to her that mostly a hen will produce one good egg a day. She probably romanticized those super-chicks. I know they also struggled with the egg vs. fried chicken dilemma.

  It was also during the Kentucky era that my dad said he saw a young girl walking down the dusty street in the town of Falmouth. He said, “I drove up beside her and offered her a ride.” She just turned and walked away. She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. I’m here because of that little introduction.

  My dad wasn’t paranoid. He was a blue-collar workin’ guy. My mom didn’t always trust the goodness in people. She unfolded her Mexican food to make sure nothing bad was hidden inside her burrito. Dad was one of those guys everybody loved. I never really saw my dad and what he was truly like ’til I started working with him.

  From ages fourteen to sixteen, each summer I rode half asleep in the early morning in the back of his truck. I racked out on some coiled-up wire while he sang Hank Snow songs at the top of his lungs. We rode by Summit Hills Country Club, where the moneyed and upper class belonged and played golf. I stared at them like the total strange animals they were. Dad said, “Look at ’em, Hoss. They ain’t happy.” I always thought these people, in their crisp golf clothes on a sunny day, riding little carts over perfect grass, were the happiest-looking people I’d ever seen. But I never argued with him. My mom was funny, but slightly dark. My dad was funny and slightly sunny. I guess I got parts of both of them.

  On the front seat of Dad’s truck was a piece of wire. I think it’s called BX cable. It’s angry-looking wire, thick and covered in metal. On the end of this foot-and-a-half piece of BX cable was a melted mass of copper, an accident of electricity from some construction site. It was a weapon, primitive but effective.

  I sort of tested it by hitting my leg, and gave myself a bruise. “What’s this for?” I asked, twirling it around.

  He said, “I go into some pretty rough neighborhoods [he worked at all the Kroger stores] and if somebody jumps on the side of my truck, I knock ’em off with that.” He then said something I’ll never forget. “Some colored folks are good, and some want to take your stuff.” It probably sounds racist, but to him, it was just the way it was.

  This was before the terms African American or black came into our speech. There were also other words in common usage at the time that, I must admit, didn’t make me wince. It was just the way things were.

  I didn’t personally know any black people at all. I do remember being quite young and witnessing the most frightening thing I’ve ever seen. We drove past a burning cross and a bonfire. I saw the outlines of people in white hoods with the blaze behind them and somebody yelling a speech to them. I remember my dad saying, “Don’t look at that, Hoss. Those people are mean and crazy.” It was just the way things were.

  I remember when we worked near some scary neighborhood in a run-down part of town during the winter, and this same man—my father—saw little poor black children walking in sandals or barefoot on the frozen streets, gathered them up in his truck, and took them to buy them shoes. It was just the way things were.

  I guess if you’re gonna talk about worrisome, paranoid people, you ought to end with somebody who is not that way. I pick Kenny Rogers.

  We go way back. Kenny Rogers has finally been inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame, and it’s about damn time.

  I’ve been all over the world, and when people find out I’m from Nashville, they always mention Dolly, Elvis, Johnny Cash, and Kenny Rogers. It’s because those people are stars even in the smallest towns of the old countries of Europe. People there almost always say, “I want to come to Nashville and see Graceland.”

  I don’t break the news that Graceland is in Memphis because I figure once they make Nashville, they’ll figure that out. From what I hear, Graceland ain’t “all that” anyway.

  Back to the Kenmeister: Mr. Rogers and I go way back because I had gone to college. I’d never even been in a radio station ’til I went to Eastern Kentucky University. Allyson and I laugh about it now, but Eastern and Western and, perhaps, Morehead or UK were the choices we used for higher education. We were such hicks it never even occurred to either of us that we could actually leave Kentucky. I went to Eastern, and Al followed a year later.

  College was the best thing that ever happened to us. I drank beer, and she got several degrees with honors. The lucky part was that during the radical years of ’66–’69, I was a flaming liberal antiwar activist. I also was mostly an idiot. I went to sit-ins and candlelight vigils and heard the speeches. But basically
, I was in a rock band and drank beer. It was sheer heaven.

  That is, until friends of mine started coming home from Vietnam in body bags. Reality is harsh. Through one of my classes, I was chosen to go to the campus radio station and give a firebrand speech about the war and the world. After what was perhaps (in my mind) something to put Winston Churchill to shame, I walked out of the studio shaken but proud. I asked the guy listening to me, “What did you think of my editorial?” I had totally dismantled the military industrial complex and calmed the seas of war.

  He looked me straight in the eye and said, “I think it was immature and idiotic, but I like the way you read.”

  I thought, You do? You like something I did? I totally forgot the very accurate immature and/or idiotic parts and went right for the amazing judgment of this learned professor. He said, “Why don’t you come over, and we’ll talk about radio.”

  Now, I’d listened to the radio for years and was a total goob for anything to do with it. I thought, How tough can it be? I listen to it. I can do it.

  That day changed my life forever. I entered the radio world.

  But you ask, “Whatever happened to Kenny Rogers, O Storyteller of yore?”

  While I was a student there, Kenny Rogers and the First Edition came to EKU to do a concert. I think it was part of one of those Dick Clark’s Caravan of Stars shows. (Full circle: in 2012, I wrote part of a speech for Reba to give at Dick Clark’s memorial service.)

  I was sent with my little tape recorder to go interview Kenny, who was, of course, the lead singer. I went backstage to do the Grand Inquisition. I was gonna ask the tough questions and break the entertainment world wide open. I was gonna get some scoop and be scooped up by NBC or somethin’.

  “Hi, Mr. Rogers. Everybody, I’m here with Mr. Rogers, Kenny and his band, The Edition. How did you get started singing, Mr. Kenny Rogers?”