Country Music Broke My Brain

by Gerry House

  I also am puzzled why women go bonkers over a star that they wouldn’t sit next to in a mall food court if he weren’t rich and famous. Oh, there are some hunks out there, but there are also quite a few singin’ sex symbols that don’t keep George Clooney up at night. I’m just sayin’. . .

  I keep rubbing my eyes wondering, “Am I not seeing what the screaming, panty-throwing women down front are seeing? What the hell?” He’s five feet tall and has a face only a mother would cover with a bag. Yet his tour bus has so many women getting on and off that he’s got a turnstile in the front. It’s as if everybody says, “OK, we’re all gonna pretend he looks like Brad Pitt.” Even if the guy actually looks more like Icky Pit, women are crawling over broken beer bottles to get to him.

  I’m not jealous. Good for him. Good for the babes. It’s just so odd to me.

  Kris Kristofferson is a totally cool-looking guy. I understand that. Even today, when he walks into a studio in that hat and long duster, with those eyes, he’s a star. But he sings like a shovel on concrete.

  The worst part of showbiz is seeing people almost get to the brass ring. They are on top for about five minutes and are then voted off the island. You won’t know this name; I only knew the name thirty-five years ago. Snooky Lanson was a singing star in the late ’40s and ’50s. He was “on the TeeVee,” as we say in Kentucky.

  Snooky replaced Frank Sinatra on the show Your Hit Parade. They had a rotating list of singers who came out to sing the latest hits. This was back when the song was as much a star as the actual star was.

  Come with me now to a small studio in a building on Murfreesboro Road in Nashville, where WKRN-TV (channel 2) still did some local programming in the mid-’70s. I walked in to do a show featuring musical guests and saw a stack of albums on the floor. Atop the heap was a worn copy of a recording by Snooky Lanson. I picked it up and said, “Snooky Lanson? I thought he was dead.”

  “Oh no, he ain’t!” I heard someone say behind me. There, in living black-and-gray, was the Snookster himself. He happened to be on one of the low-budget local singing shows they cranked out during those days. I was shocked and embarrassed, to say the least.

  He just laughed and said, “Don’t give it a second thought. That’s what most people think.” He told me of some of the glory days: the national stardom, the grand TV productions and appearances with big bands—all in the past.

  Snooky was now a Chrysler salesman at a local dealership. To make a living, he spent his days trying to slide customers into shiny new Imperials. He was just as dignified and warm as anyone could be. No bitterness. Me? I’d be somewhere in a shotgun shack in South Dakota writing my manifesto of bitter.

  Snooky knew sometimes showbiz quits you. So did Barbara Fairchild. She had one giant hit back in ’72 called “The Teddy Bear Song” and a couple of others that did very well. She was one of those gentle souls that you just loved to see coming. I lost touch with her, and her career fell on hard times.

  One afternoon for lunch, I was in one of those “meat-and-threes” that permeated the Nashville dining scene in the ’80s. Our waitress turned out to be none other than Barbara Fairchild. I could hardly stand to sit there and watch the people I was with ask her for some more sweet tea. I couldn’t tell if she was feeling like I was or not. She had a lot of pride, not a hint of bitter. Me? Manifesto of Hatred for Showbiz, Part Two.

  Doug Stone had a slew of hits. I’m not sure how many hits are in a slew, but it’s a bunch. Doug has been in and out of showbiz—and in and out of trouble—for quite awhile. I like him a lot. I also think Doug is listening to a station other than the one the rest of us are listening to.

  In addition to his recording career, Doug also starred in one of the all-time cinematic classics, Gordy, featuring “The Talking Pig That Made It Big.” I think there was a reason they put Doug in a movie with a talking porkchop. I believe Doug could actually hear and understand what the pig was saying.

  The last time I saw Doug, he was facing me, with microphones in front of us, while we were on the radio together. Doug laughed that maniacal cackle of his and returned to his main interest in our conversation—a car he wanted to sell. He wasn’t there to talk about his career, his records, or his appearances. Doug had an old car that had broken down on an off-ramp somewhere, and he was ready to deal. I asked about how things were going for him, and he replied, “OK, but I’m tellin’ ya, this car is a creampuff. Great mileage and real fake leather seats.” Then he gave his phone number in case somebody wanted the Stonemobile for their very own.

  I don’t know if Doug knows that showbiz quit him or not.

  Remember Charly McClain? I didn’t think so. She was simply gorgeous—a stunner who could sing. She was one of those who I think of as part of “feeding the monster”—the music machine that must have acts to stuff into the pipeline to keep everyone occupied: the promotion people, the production people, the record people, the road people, the songwriters, and the managers . . . it goes on and on.

  Artists such as Charly are the pectin in the pie—part of the middle that holds the whole thing together. They make a good living and have fans. They do interviews and take pictures and sign autographs. They have fan clubs and a bus, or, in some cases, a van. They ride the country’s highways and set up their speakers, plug in, and sing for the folks. God bless ’em. Charly was like that. I vaguely remember her hits such as “Who’s Cheatin’ Who”—a duet with Mickey Gilley, and then one day, she was gone.

  What a funny machine Music Row is. You go in one end and come out the other, sometimes rich, sometimes broke . . . and then you’re gone. Off to those endless nights of smaller clubs and county fairs. Sometimes, you get married or start selling phones in Texas. But it’s all good. I hope it was a fun ride for Charly. I always looked forward to seeing her, even if she never said a word.

  Mickey Gilley was Jerry Lee Lewis’ cousin. He was a piano-playing original, just like ol’ Jerry Lee. At a Playboy Records party, I once saw Mr. Lewis kick a beautiful, brand-new Yahama grand piano to pieces. He wasn’t nicknamed the “Killer” for nothing.

  Mickey was a gentleman. He recorded some slightly rockin’ country singles and made a fine living. He had a gold-and-diamond ring that put the Super Bowl ring to shame. It was so big, it had a license plate. He was the namesake for the Gilley’s nightclub in Texas. That was the inspiration for the film Urban Cowboy about the “World’s Largest Honky-Tonk.” Some folks made a fortune just from that soundtrack.

  What a guy Mickey was. I never saw him not smiling. Except maybe when his cousin, the preacher Jimmy Swaggart, got caught layin’ on top of women he wasn’t married to at the time.

  Jamey Johnson is an old-school singer/songwriter. He wrote a new classic a few years ago called “In Color.” He used to be clean-cut and fairly normal-looking. Now he looks like a yeti. I don’t think he takes a bath; he gets sprayed with flea powder. He called me one day and said, “Dude, I need some advice. They’re passin’ me around like a joint at Willie’s barbeque. Meet me for lunch because I don’t know anything about what to say on the radio.”

  We phone-tagged and texted for weeks to set up a time when I could give him the lowdown on a “radio promo tour.” That’s when an artist trudges from city to city and gets asked the same ten questions for weeks on end. It’s a horrible way to make a living with late-night dinners and early-morning interviews—all based on hope.

  Jamey was to meet me at 11:30 A.M. at Bricktop’s. By 1 P.M., I sorta thought he wasn’t coming. Now, I’ve written with Jamey and know the drill. He’s a late person; I’m not. He gets up late, and he shows up late. My phone finally rang at 2 P.M. “Wingnut?” (He calls me Wingnut.) “I ain’t gonna make it. I’m somewhere in Arkansas without my pants or my phone, and I’m not sure who I’m with. I’m really sorry, but let’s reschedule ’cause I ain’t gonna make it.”

  I don’t think Jamey is gonna make it . . . to lunch or in show bidness. You have to show up to have people pay you money for singing. Ask Georg
e Jones about how being a “no show” affects your concert bookings. I know a lot of singers who have their own time. That’s great for them, but bad for everybody else. If you’re really, really big and talented, folks will put up with it. If you’re on the edge, they’ll drop you like a dirty shirt.

  Last time I saw Jamey was on television singing “Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I Die.” He was standing beside Willie Nelson. I imagine Willie is about 90 percent cannabis at this point. He’s eighty. He gets to do what he wants because he’s Willie F-ing Nelson! Jamey Johnson is not Willie Nelson.

  Willie shows up, by the way.

  I knew a songwriter from England who lived in Nashville for awhile. Like so many others, he’s drifted off into the ether. I only remember he was always late and struggled with American slang. He told me that one afternoon he had taken his family to Krystal for lunch for tiny square hamburgers. White Castle’s are better, but who am I to quibble? But White Castle’s are vastly superior. I went there after my wedding reception, if that’s any indication.

  England and his family stood at the counter and chatted awhile with the Southern teenaged girl fixin’ their Krystals. One of those “Y’all ain’t from around here, are ya?” conversations. “Wow! England is way over there,” she told them, as if they didn’t know London was way over there. Then, as they gathered their bags and walked away, she said, “Hey, y’all come back now, ya hear?” So they turned and went back. She looked at them and said, “Did you need something?”

  “No,” the puzzled Brit replied. “You just said you all come back now. So here we are.” I don’t think he ever learned how to cope with Americans—especially Southern Americans.

  Other stars learn how to roll with the punches life throws at ya. Lee Greenwood became “Mr. God Bless the USA.” And rightfully so—he wrote it. He made it a hit. The amazing thing about that song is that Lee wrote it during a downtime to promote patriotism and pay tribute to our troops. At the time, there really weren’t any conflicts of the size that make us all realize how lucky we are that brave men and women keep their eyes on the horizon.

  I met Lee the very first day he was in Nashville. He was a singer, piano player, sax player, and songwriter. I remember hearing the first mix of the song. It killed me. I also wondered how it would do on the radio during those “peaceful” days. It became a smash, as did many other Greenwood hits.

  Lee was a Vegas entertainer. He went to Fan Fair and wore a U.S. flag leather jacket and sang a James Brown song. And he’ll kill me for this, but he wore what looked like a dead beaver on his head. Hey, it happens to all us guys. It gets a little thin up top, and you sometimes gotta improvise. And Lee went all the way, from wisps to a full-blown pelt. The pelt didn’t last long, thank God, unlike the self-described “helmet head” of Bobby Goldsboro.

  Bobby sang “Little Things,” “Watching Scotty Grow,” and many more. He’s also a good artist, as in a guy who puts paint on a canvas. He’s also a good artist, as in a guy who puts music on tape. Bobby’s wig-hat was a wonder of the world. He laughed about it, and that sort of made it all right.

  On a golf green on a particularly windy day, Bobby’s hairpiece decided to become airborne. It didn’t get away because of a sophisticated system of tape and glue, but it sure tried. He stood right in front of me as his toup prepared for liftoff. His entire helmet lifted two or three inches, and I was fairly sure he’d be swept away with it. But the wind subsided, his hair eased back down like a chopper onto a rice paddy, and it was over. “Wow, that was a close one,” he remarked. I didn’t say a word. I don’t know if he was referring to losing his helmet or me almost seeing that he wore a helmet hairpiece.

  I loved Bobby’s records with the exception of “Me Japanese Boy I Love You,” which is much more embarrassing than a lid made of yak hair.

  I guess singers go searching for the spotlight. If there’s an audience, there’s gotta be a way a singer can find it. If, however, you notice a distinct echo because there’s nobody in the seats, quit. I’ve had some guys tell me they want to die onstage. (I’ve done it many times, but that’s a different dying.) Maybe going out performing behind chicken wire, with a couple of cowboys and girls shuffling around while you sing, ain’t a bad way to go. It’s the ultimate way to quit showbiz before it quits you.

  Don Light, Mark Collie, and Jimmy Buffett

  DON LIGHT WAS A MANAGER, and his firm, the Don Light Agency, helped the careers of several artists. I can still see Don, slightly bent over, with his silver hair, walking into a room and taking a Heineken out of his ever-present sport coat.

  I met Don through his brother, Joe. Joe Light and I once tried to do a TV pilot. Joe rented some god-awful studio and hired a camera guy, and we tried to make history on television. It was gonna be a talk show, and Don persuaded Faron Young to be our “special” guest, along with a couple of other folks nobody had ever heard of, to round out this fabulous production.

  A major star in the ’50s through the late ’70s, Faron Young was once known as the “Hillbilly Heartthrob.” One of his biggest hits, “Hello Walls,” which was written by Willie and was No. 1 for nine weeks, was one of my mom’s all-time favorites. Faron had racked up a lot of hits next to his name before he died tragically in 1996. He had been despondent and committed suicide. But while he was with us, he was one of the funniest, most vibrant entertainers that country music ever had.

  The opening guest was an old songwriter named Preacher Bobby. I’d never heard of him or his songs, but I welcomed him like he was in the Hall of Fame. Preacher Bobby only wanted to announce one thing. He wanted the world to know he’d sell all of his songs for fifty dollars apiece. I was shocked and asked him, “Preacher, don’t you realize how much money you could be losing?” He shot back, “Sonny, you don’t know how many songs I got. I got 10,000! That’s a lotta money.” His logic stopped me cold.

  Our second guest, Faron Young, once known as the “Hillbilly Heartthrob” and later as “The Young Sheriff,” was now sitting on our rented couch in a warehouse in East Nashville, under lights barely bright enough to make out our faces and one camera. The director/pizza-delivery guy shouted, “OK, we’re recording!” and I turned to interview Faron. There is no record of this magnificent moment in showbiz history because the camera guy didn’t know how to actually turn the camera on. I do remember, however, in spite of all the lame conditions and my amateurish hosting and the nonexistent pay, that Faron Young was a star. He didn’t know the camera wasn’t on, I didn’t know it, and neither did the dumbass running the camera, but we did a show. Great stories, laughter, and a little a cappella singing, and I was on top of the world.

  After that, I didn’t see Faron much, nor Joe or the camera guy, but I did see Don Light and told him how wonderful and generous Faron Young had been. Don agreed and said perhaps I should write a tune with his newest singer, Mark Collie. Since Don was Jimmy Buffett’s first manager, I made a date with Mark.

  Don knew a star when he saw one. Mark and I wrote two of his singles, “She’s Never Comin’ Back” and “Three Words, Two Hearts, One Night.” As Mark often says to me, “We were the kings of the middle of the charts.” Both singles zoomed to the upper twenties and died. Mark went on to have several hits, and last I heard, he was touring a bit and doing some great acting.

  He should have gotten the Johnny Cash part in Walk The Line instead of that Joaquin Phoenix dude. Mark was Johnny Cash. But that’s Hollywood, of course.

  Speaking of Jimmy Buffett, which we kinda were, here’s my Jimmy Buffett story:

  I knew Jimmy a bit from Nashville. I’d run into him from time to time at Tavern on the Row and late-night establishments. Jimmy couldn’t pick me out of a lineup, but I did have many a beer with him. Buffet is a moneymaking machine and one of the all-time good guys.

  So, a very rich Texas friend of mine, Steve Hicks, decided to throw himself a fiftieth birthday party to end all birthday parties. Apparently, they do that in Texas a lot. I owe most of my career and my house to Steve.
He’s a genius. And he spends a lot on his birthday parties. I can’t wait for the next one.

  Steve and his wife, Donna, rented a cruise ship for a week and invited all his pals. There were about forty couples on this massive ship built to carry 400 people. It was beyond belief. We all got up for breakfast in the morning and voted for which island we wanted to see. At night on each stop, we had a beach party. Clint Black was onstage on the ship. Asleep at the Wheel played the next night. The Beach Boys met us for another night. It was really something.

  The fourth day, we stopped for lunch on St. Bart’s. If you’ve never been there, it’s like Rodeo Drive with sand. They only have designer birds flying around, and the garbage men wear Ralph Lauren. You get the idea. Posh.

  We were having Champagne and lunch at some wonderful restaurant right on the water when, off in the distance, I heard, “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.” I could barely make out a small boat with one passenger. “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” the tiny motor sang out as the figure got closer. Holy shit, it’s Jimmy Buffet!

  He pulled up on the beach and got out of the boat with a guitar. Jimmy has a house on St. Bart’s. People, you gotta sell a lot of margaritas to buy a house on St. Bart’s. Jimmy walked up to a microphone that was wobbling on the sand and said, “Folks, I’m your lunchtime entertainment.” Now, I happen to have a rough idea of what Steve paid the Leader of the Parrot Heads per song. You could buy a small car for every single performance. Let’s just say it was worth it. Jimmy reeled off ten or twelve of his greatest singing moments. “Wastin’ away again in . . . ” I was calculating he was in six figures for the gig by now. He led us all in a “Happy Birthday, Steve.” It was magic.

  Then Jimmy B. said one of my favorite lines ever. “Steve, I know this has been a dream of yours for a long time. And believe me, it’s been a dream of mine, too.” Mr. Buffet hopped back in his little skiff and pushed into the blue waters of St. Bart’s a whole lot richer.