by Gerry House
KR realized he wasn’t dealing with just anybody here and proceeded to patiently explain for the 10,000th time his career and the New Christy Minstrels and on and on. He was funny, warm, and kind. I thanked him and walked away with showbiz GOLD. I still have that tape somewhere, but I’m too scared to listen to it.
When you interview somebody, especially your first, you feel a connection. I am certain Kenny doesn’t remember the moment, but it’s seared into my memory bank.
I also remember my second college interview, with the Imperials—an R&B vocal group led by “Little Anthony” Gourdine that had huge pop hits such as “Tears On My Pillow,” “I’m On The Outside (Looking In),” “Goin’ Out of My Head,” “Hurt So Bad,” and many others. I distinctly remember going into a locker room to see them after their concert. All of the Imperials were standing there in shiny red satin men’s briefs. Anthony also had matching shorts and satin red socks. As I sat on a bench, they stood around me answering questions.
I was tough. The satin shorts didn’t scare me. I looked right at “Little Anthony”(although, at this point, I’m not certain why he was called “Little”) and asked the question everyone wanted to ask, “Do you ever get tired of singing ‘Shimmy, Shimmy, Ko-Ko Bop’?” A ridiculous single they had early in their career in 1959.
Anthony’s eyes rolled around and he said, “What the hell do you think?” He then walked to his locker and started putting on leather pants and black patent leather shoes. Another entertainment blockbuster was going into the books.
Over the years, I’ve seen Kenny Rogers many times. We once did a live, hour-long show from New York for national broadcast. He was funny and very kind. We went to Tavern on the Green in Central Park afterward for dinner. I think he even paid. Rare, but I think I’m right. I say this because if I had paid, I would still be paying off the bill.
Kenny is a great judge of songs. He has picked hit after hit during his decades-long career. He does duets. He does pop. He does country, romance, and rock. He didn’t care what people thought because he knew he was right.
Fast-forward thirty years to one of the last live interviews I ever did. It was for some Country Radio Seminar confab, and the room was packed to see Kenny. The hour-and-a-half flew by. He once told me in private he probably made more money in his other businesses than he did singing. I also remember asking him about his opinion of the president. Probably Clinton, Carter, or Obama—can’t remember—but he said, “Hey, if a guy is smart enough and tough enough to get to that Oval Office, he doesn’t need my opinion on how to do things. I just wish him the best.” Greatest answer ever for a sure-fire political landmine.
However, I have talked to Kenny for hours and never asked him the stuff I wondered about. I never asked about how it became Kenny Rogers and the First Edition. I never asked him about the rumors of being caught with a certain blonde singer on his bus. I never asked him about his “work” and why there’s nothing left in his shoes. I called him once at home to ask about his back surgery, but I never asked if his problems were from lifting his money. I never asked about the Roasters restaurant chain. What happened to all those chickens? I never asked if he ever got tired of singing “Coward of the County.” And what about all the look-alikes?
I never asked if he wanted to be in the Country Music Hall of Fame. All right, I did ask him that, and he gave his usual KR PR answer. “If those people want me in, then I’ll gladly show up.” The perfect answer, as usual.
What about his years with so many duet partners, his tours, his family life, or the way he had reinvented himself over and over? I never asked because of paranoia. If you really like somebody and respect them, you worry you’ll tip over into that place you shouldn’t be asking about.
So, I just think I’ll leave it alone and am happy that Kenny has finally been inducted. He once sent me a nice note thanking me for raising hell over the fact that he hadn’t yet been inducted. He was in my Hall of Fame thirty years ago, and I’m glad the Country Music Hall of Fame caught up with me and the millions all over the world who love him.
And what about all those chickens?
Why did Tanya Tucker say, “Pretend you’re skiing”?
A) She was telling a dirty joke about three rabbis in Vail.
B) She was giving instructions for a correct golf stance.
C) She was describing to another girl the best way to pee in the woods.
Norwegian Wood
TANYA TUCKER HAS NO EDITING BUTTON. If it occurs in her head, it’s gonna come spilling out her piehole. I think she’s hilarious because of that one fact. She’s also hell on wheels. I see these little girly girls strutting around onstage pretending to be High-Heel Harlots. They couldn’t carry Tanya’s mascara case. In fact, Tanya can barely carry her mascara case, but that’s another topic.
She was a star when she was thirteen. “Delta Dawn.” Think about that! When I was thirteen, I was sitting in mud. I wasn’t touring and missing school and recording and doing interviews and all the jobs that go with stardom.
Tanya did all that stuff at thirteen. It’s a tough life; it kills ya or makes you stronger. It damn near killed Tanya. And from what I remember, she nearly took Glen Campbell with her. They were not exactly the couple made in heaven. There were recreational additives and they P.O.’d a lot of people along the way. They were fascinating just to watch because you knew the train was on one rail at all times. It’s like they put the Mercedes on cruise control and then got in the backseat. Nobody was watching the wheel at any time. It’s kinda funny now, but it was scary then.
Tanya had the one thing that’s necessary for a star—she sounded like Tanya Tucker and no one else. My producer friend Norro Wilson calls it “The Throat.” When you can hear a record start and know who’s singing, that’s how you get a star. Or someone who will never, ever be a star because people know who it is and hate the way they sing.
Tanya Tucker and I spent a Halloween together. I happened to be standing in a bar with my friend Jerry Crutchfield around 6 P.M. having a glass of wine. We did that a lot. I was leaning back against the bar, when, suddenly, the front door flew open and in came Hurricane Tanya. She screamed my name and rushed forward and threw both legs up around my waist. Then, like a crazed monkey, she scrambled on up over my head and stood on the bar. “Hello, boys! Where the #@$% is the party?”
This was the normal entrance for Tanya Tucker. She arrived like she wanted and when she wanted. It’s known as “T” Time. She had a limo, so off Crutch, I, and several innocent bystanders went. We wound up out in the country at some Halloween party we weren’t invited to, nor did we know anybody there. Not a problem for Tanya. It was here I heard her explain to some girl who’d had a lot of beer that if she had to take a whiz, “Just whip down your pants and pretend you’re skiing.” Then she threw in a little women’s lib: “Men shouldn’t be the only ones who get to take a leak wherever they want.” Happy Halloween!
Tanya also said something to me so chilling and so honest I’ve never forgotten it. Being onstage is like a drug. I’ve experienced it in a minor way a few times. It’s a feeling you want. It’s very addictive. Tanya Tucker said, “People have no idea what it’s like. One minute, you’re onstage in front of 5,000 screaming fans. The love is overwhelming. The feeling of power is amazing. The next minute, you’re in the back of a bus alone. You are off to some new town, and you gotta stay on a schedule. You’re pumped full of adrenaline and excitement, and there’s nobody there to share it with.” She looked at me with those eyes and continued, “That’s how I got into trouble. Something—anything—to either keep that feeling going or to make it go away. There you are in a bedroom on a bus, bouncing down the road, and you turn to something else.”
Tanya wasn’t making an excuse or justifying anything. She was just explaining, from one friend to another, what it’s like. She wasn’t a star whining about the rigors of the glamorous life. She was just honestly telling me that some nights it’s tough to do it alone. I gave her a hug an
d drove home to my darling as grateful for my life as I could ever be.
I just saw T. Tucker at a Hall of Fame event, and she was doing just fine. She’s got it all back on both rails now. She also screamed my name and grabbed a glass of Champagne from a passing tray and said, “Have one on me, Hoss.”
People Who Call
BECAUSE I GREW UP LISTENING to the radio and then wound up being on the radio, I always feel a friendship with people who’ve listened to me. I also believe there should be a little more quality control for people to call a radio station than owning a phone and a radio.
The overwhelming majority—I’d say 80 percent—of these people are wonderful. The other 20 percent are just nuts. Just in case you’ve never been “on the air,” I’ll run down the drill for you.
The radio personality/DJ/host/jock, etc. is figuring out the time, trying to catch up on the news, grabbing some music, writing a joke in his head, and answering the phone. If you have a producer, you are lucky. Later in my career, I demanded a producer. I remember having the discussion with management about it. The GM said, “You don’t need anyone extra.” I replied, “OK, next time you’re in a sales meeting, answer the phone every time it rings instead of letting your assistant get it.” I got a producer. Actually, over the years, I had two fabulous producers—Devon O’Day and Richard Falklen.
To this day, I can’t just let a phone ring. I have to answer it. I think it’s important when you’re on the radio to have someone actually talk to your customers. I’ve called stations myself, and nothing is more frustrating than hearing the phone ring and ring, and then have to hang up in disgust. Tragically, most stations are now like this. The dirty little secret of radio is that quite often, there’s no one there. I mean no one. The guy you’re listening to might have prerecorded the show that morning in St. Louis. Or he is syndicated out of Dallas. Computers and robots took over a lot of manufacturing jobs, and they also took over radio stations. I’m not saying it’s bad, I’m just saying it’s different.
Now, let’s talk about answering the phone. Radio is immediate. They hear you say something, they call. You see somebody on TV, you can fire off an angry or loving e-mail/tweet, but you won’t usually connect. P.O.’d at the editor of the newspaper? You e-mail or snail mail. You might catch them on the phone but probably not.
Radio dudes and dudettes? Unless they just won’t answer the phone, you get the guy on the air. I answered the phone, so they got me. That’s why we hired Devon and, later, Richard. I couldn’t handle it because people only hear about half of what they think they heard. I did better when we could sort through the calls by having a filter—the producer. They answered the calls that said they couldn’t live without me and loved me. They answered the calls from people who hated me and wished I would croak.
OK, that’s the run-of-the-mill DJ stuff, but now let’s talk about the fabulous people who called and I talked with live on the radio. People I will never forget. People who probably helped me win awards, paid for my blue suede shoes, and put my daughter through college. People I will never meet, get to thank, or learn about their kids. These regular, superior-quality radio listening types often left me laughing or amazed.
She said she and her daughter lived in eastern Kentucky. The mountains.
I’ve been to these areas and it is capital “R” Rural. I mean so far back in the woods, there ain’t nothin’ behind ya. This is the country where people think, when they die, that they’re goin’ to Atlanta.
Mountain People. I often said on the air that I loved Mountain Women. It usually got me several angry letters and one flirty one from a prisoner. The lady caller said she earned extra money by singing at funerals. I know. I thought the same thing: What? A little fun money by singing at funerals? Yes, often at funerals they have someone sing the dearly departed’s favorite song as they are lowered to their final resting place. Mountain funerals.
She said it was near Hazard, Kentucky, for a Mennonite family. It there ever was a well-named city, it’s Hazard. I know it’s a lovely Southern town, but I used to travel through there when I was in college, and it gave me the willies. I’m actually an idiot when it comes to the Mennonites. I confuse them with the Amish, which probably gives them the willies. (People have died from the willies, don’t ya know.) I am one ignorant boob for not knowing much about these good gentle people, but I don’t. They are kinda like the Shakers in central Kentucky. I think they went out of business because of not having sex, for religious reasons. This makes it tough to keep the dealio going when they ain’t makin’ any new Shakers.
But let’s get back to the funeral. This woman, in her forties, along with her twenty-ish daughter, went to the funeral on a cold and bleak January morning in Kentucky. As this solemn group stood before an open grave with their flat black hats in their hardscrabble hands, she quietly asked the apparent leader, “What was your grandpa’s favorite song?” I imagine Gramps was ninety, tough, pure, and going to heaven, if anybody was. The grandson choked back a tear and said in a tortured voice, “Joy Bells”—an old Flatt & Scruggs song. She said she quietly backed away, stunned but respectful, and whispered the title to her daughter.
Here comes the problem. It was cold. It was rainy. The wind was howling. There were forty or fifty family members standing by to send Gramps to his reward. Hours later, at the wake after the funeral, she learned what the poor grandson had requested. She was close, but no cigar. The mother and daughter took a deep breath and then started singing in those high and lonesome Appalachian harmonies what they thought was the song requested for this solemn occasion:
Dashing through the snow, in a one-horse open sleigh
O’er the fields we go, laughing all the way, ha-ha-ha.
Everybody!
Yes, Mom and her daughter performed, in full voice at this graveside with bereaved family members clutching memories of their dearly beloved and departed grandpa, “Jingle Bells.”
I still love the mom for calling.
Moms often figured into funny stories. My own mom was funny. She called me for years when I was on the air. People still mention her to me. Once I asked her what she’d been doing, and she said she had painted the toilet lid.
ME: “Great, I’m glad that got done.”
MOM: “Yeah but in the middle of the night I forgot about it and sat on the wet lid. Now I have the Blue Moon of Kentucky.”
I think my mom wrote that joke. I’m not certain, but it’s still funny.
Another guy called to tell me how his mother came home quite distraught from a shopping trip. “What happened to her?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, “Mom told me she was driving along and heard a terrible noise and stopped. Something apparently had fallen off the bottom of the car and she’d brought it home.” Mom led him out to the car, and there, in the backseat, was a sewer lid.
Or the guy who called to say his wife had recently bought some 600-count silk sheets—the most fancy, expensive sheets they’d ever had. He said he wore pajamas to bed that first night, but didn’t know she’d made the bed with the new sheets. He gave a little running start and dived into the sack. When he hit the headboard, he was doing eighty-five miles an hour.
Most of you won’t know what this story means, but in the olden days, back when cars had engine parts you could identify, manual transmissions, and no computers, you could jump-start a car. You’d put the car into neutral and get a push on the highway. (This sounds like I’m talking about something in silent movies, but it’s true.) Some friends would help you get the car moving down the road. You’d then “pop” the clutch, and that would turn the engine over and start the car. (With today’s cars, I am not really sure how to open the hood, but I knew how to do this.)
So the caller went on and told me he needed to jump-start his car. He said, “Mom, I want you to give me a push in your car.” He explained the process to her. “I’ll need to get going about thirty-five to forty miles an hour, and then I’ll pop the clutch and get ’er started.
You get in your car and give me the push.” He said he got in his car and prepared to “get ’er started.” He looked in the rearview mirror and, to his horror, here came Mom. She was doing probably forty miles an hour when she hit the back of his Buick. All he had time to do was brace himself.
Then there was the woman who called the day we were discussing “How did you break a tooth?” She said her father had had an idea. Dad also had hemorrhoids. Daughter spilled the goods. Dad was wondering how his hemorrhoids looked, so he got up on the bed to have a gander in the dresser mirror. When he bent over to get a better view, he lost his balance, fell forward, and knocked his two front teeth out on the nightstand. Some things you just aren’t meant to see.
I once talked to a guy who painted houses for a living. I asked him, “What’s your favorite color to paint?”
He didn’t even pause. He said, “The same color it was before.”
Or the guy who called and said he used to work at a rodeo. The owner of the rodeo thought it would be fun to have a monkey ride a dog around the ring before actual cowboy action started. It would warm up the audience. The guy said he found a monkey for sale (as one usually does) and brought it to the rodeo. They had a big German Shepherd they thought would do fine subbing as a steed. During a test ride, the monkey got scared and pulled the dog’s fur, making the dog stop. So, the night of the rodeo, they decided to tie the monkey’s hands to the dog’s collar to hold them down. The announcer introduced them as “Cowboy Coco and his trusty dog, Bullet.”
The crowd roared with laughter as Coco entered the ring on the back of Bullet. It was just so cute. The dog took off across the ring and did one lap. Adorable. Coco bounced from side to side. Then somebody on the other side of the arena, not watching the daring duo, slightly raised a gate. Bullet saw his way out of this situation. The monkey held on as the dog raced toward the barely raised opening. The crowd gasped in shocked silence. They knew the gate was too low for Bullet to go under with a tiny rider on his back. Then the monkey realized the gate was too low for passenger clearance. Coco let loose a high-pitched warning scream, “Eeeeeeee!”—monkey for “somebody raise the damn gate!”