Country Music Broke My Brain

by Gerry House

  The Country King of Golf Tourneys is Vince Gill. Vince holds “The Vinny.” See, his name is Vince and, therefore, his tournament is almost his name. It’s a truly swanky and wonderful event. I played for as long as I could stand being a “celebrity” in “The Vinny.” The “celebrity” problem was that nobody knew I was the celebrity. Guys paid thousands of dollars and flew in from Seattle to play with famous people. The tournament was studded with big names: pro athletes, actors, singers . . . and me. I spent four hours carefully explaining who I was to the obviously disappointed three guys who got the worst celebrity draw in the tournament.

  We gathered on the first tee and one always said, “I wonder who our celebrity is?” I have a radio show. I write TV shows. I have written some hits. It was all very cordial and painful at the same time. You should know that when people enter a tournament, they all expect to play golf with Vince Gill, Michael Jordan, and Justin Timberlake in the same foursome. I expect the same thing. Of course, you can’t all tee it up with Charles Barkley, so there’s your problem. Although I’ve seen Charles play, and I’m not sure that qualifies as golf in any way. I finally quit “The Vinny” (or they quit me, I can’t remember). Thank God. It was too much pressure on me and Vince to keeping presenting me as a celebrity.

  Vince has been a friend of mine for thirty years. We’ve played golf many, many times. I think his putter is still in a tree on No. 18 at Harpeth Hills. He misses a putt, and “It’s Helicopter Time!” I throw clubs myself. It makes me feel better. If that’s true, Vince should be the best-feeling human on the planet. I remember once during “The Vinny” that a man was seated on the bench by the No. 9 tee box. I spoke and he said, “Well, hello, Ger.” He was just sitting there watching the players go by. He was old and gray and obviously weak, but he loved being there. It was Paul Davis. He wrote and sang several great pop hits: “Cool Night,” “’65 Love Affair,” “Come On Over,” and “I Go Crazy.” He was probably the biggest artist at the event, and no one even knew he was there. Paul had been shot years earlier on Music Row. It took his career and life away. He was such a gentle soul. I sat with him on that bench. I never saw Paul again.

  Brad Paisley was escorted to my tournament to “meet and greet.” He didn’t know why he was there or what to do. I didn’t either. I had him hand out prizes at the end as if both of us knew what he should do. He was funny and gracious, as always. He was a brand-new singer, and his record promo rep thought it would be a nice gesture for him to show up. It was, and he did. I thought at the time Brad was a cool cat. I was right. He was, and he is.

  BP is among the cleverest people I’ve ever met. He can fire off a one-liner with the best of them. He is also significantly over-married. He is a world-class guitar player and a good singer. I’ve written songs with him several times. The last time, I had what I thought was a wonderful, romantic, and meaningful idea. He arrived, having just gotten married to Kim, and said he wanted to write a song he’d started at his wedding reception. You know how cats don’t come to you, you go to them? I went to Brad. He wanted to write a song called “The Toilet Seat Song.” Guess what we wrote. It’s the pretty common story of a man who learns the lesson about living with a female. Leave the seat up at night and suffer the wrath of an angry and wet woman. Wonderful, romantic, and meaningful it was not, but that’s fine. It was fun.

  I have a theory that cats are always thinking about other stuff. Even when you are with them, cats have that far-off look in their eyes. They have other plans, and their minds are elsewhere. Brad Paisley is about half-Persian. He’s looking at you, but thinking of catching a fish—just like cats do.

  You know how cats suddenly have to be in the other room? They are quiet and peaceful, and then, BAM! They run like hell through the door as if somebody set their tail on fire? Brad also does that. One minute he’s here. Suddenly, he has to be in the other room.

  BP (yeah, still Brad Paisley) and I were sitting at my office trying to nurse a song to life one day. He said, “I’ve got a song on my album I love that I don’t think is gonna see the light of day. It’s a duet with Alison Krauss, ‘Whiskey Lullaby.’ Why don’t you play it on the air once just to see what happens?”

  I want to interject here that I think DJs get or take too much credit for “playing” a song. I know it’s important and it helps, but the real heavy lifting happens from the songwriters, singers, producers, and record guys. Pushing a button that starts a record is really not all that.

  I played “Whiskey Lullaby” on my show and changed the world as we know it. My old neighbor Bill Anderson and Jon Randall had written a masterpiece. I played it. Brad’s recording with Alison was magic. Her vocals were perfect for such a heart-rending song. I was the one who played it. I’ve said that Alison Krauss often sings like she’s trying not to disturb someone in the room with her. But the song I played that day—the duet by those two hillbillies (I forget their names)—was an award-winning record. I think Brad was pleased. He was probably distracted by a piece of string.

  There is something magical about watching phone lines light up like Willie Nelson at a pot convention the first time you play a song. Certain songs strike a chord with people immediately.

  The story here that I’m pretty sure Brad doesn’t know is about the next song of his I helped break. It was called “The World.” Here’s how things actually work sometimes in the music business:

  I was already in Brad’s book as helping with singles because of “Whiskey Lullaby.” I now had played “The World” several times. I’d come rockin’ out of the news with this song at least once a day. Brad called me and said, “Hey, you think that’s a hit? I think we’re gonna go with that next.” He was excited. I was excited. I’m certain there were powers-that-be at his label who were looking at the same decision. What I never told Brad the Cat or anybody is that I played “The World” by accident. I put his new CD into the player. I was gonna play his duet with Dolly, which was somewhere on the CD, but I always forgot to select that song. I was distracted or talking or reading the newspaper. So, I always played “The World,” which just happened to be the first song on the album.

  Now do you see why I think jocks get too much glory in playing a song? I accidentally played a certain tune, and Brad Paisley thinks think it’s The One. It was nothing more than my dumbass method of playing a CD. I stress again, I’m certain others picked it, loved it, wrote it, and fought for it. I just accidentally played it.

  After I played “The World,” it changed the world again. I now had the golden touch so much that just playing a song by accident made a No. 1 record. The writers, producers, promotion people, Brad, his bus driver, his wife, and the president of the record company had nothing to do with it. Oh sure, the audience loved it and bought it and clamored for it, but I played the damn thing. Brad absolutely purred the next time he saw me. I was catnip, no doubt about it.

  For years, I, along with half of Nashville, pitched Brad to host the CMA Awards. I blurted out as much as possible that he would be the perfect host. He’s funny. He’s a star. He wears a hat and Carrie Underwood doesn’t. All the things you need in a host. Vince had done it so many times, he ran out of steam. Brooks and Dunn took a whack at it, but there were no raves, to be honest. It’s a tough gig. One day, BP (Brad the Persian cat) called and said, “Guess what? Not for public knowledge, but I am gonna host the CMA Awards show. Can you help me write some of it?” I was thrilled he thought of me, and I agreed. I know he asked several other folks, which was smart, to think up stuff for him and Carrie to say.

  I wrote ’til my eyes bugged out of my head. I did it twice, as a matter of fact—the first year they hosted and their second year. I didn’t contribute all of the material, but I do remember sitting in a parking lot the day of the show on the phone with Brad for an hour. We discussed stuff down to the finest detail.

  Writing jokes is a thankless job. A lot of folks assume it’s easy. It’s just like writing a song. Some days it just falls out of the sky. Other days you s
it and think so hard your head hurts. Later that evening, he called and offered an excited post-show “thanks.” I then saw him at Ronnie Dunn’s after-party. Brad and I talked a little. He mentioned there was a chance that somebody, somewhere might do something, somehow for all my help. I joked and said, “Well, then, I guess you’ll just have to write another song with me.” I’m pretty sure he arched his back and hissed. Suddenly, he had to be in the other room. You know how cats are.

  Broadway and Lower Broadway

  THERE’S BROADWAY, and then there’s Lower Broadway. Broadway is in New York City. Lower Broadway is in Nashville. Every so often, they intersect. I’m going to admit right here and right now that I love Broadway. I love show tunes and musicals and the whole thrilling thing.

  I realize that, in many places, this will cause me to lose my “man card,” but I don’t care. At my age, my man card is not getting punched much anymore anyway. People ask me a lot, as if I’m some kind of Manhattan expert, “Where are the places to go, eat, and sleep in New York?” I actually know London better than I do the Big Apple. I always tell them to be sure and see some theater. It’s exciting. We have a rule, by the way. If one of us—Allyson, Autumn, or I—don’t like the show, we leave at “halftime.” I usually know in the first five minutes if I want to sit through the rest of the show. I will have more on the problems of leaving early later, if “early later” is a phrase.

  Lower Broadway is a touristy collection of honky-tonks, barbeque joints, and a few upscale restaurants. The music blares out the open front doors of the honky-tonks to entice people to come in, order a longneck, and listen to somebody sing old Garth Brooks songs. Nashville also has the fabulous Schermerhorn Symphony Center downtown. I always tell the conductor of the Nashville Symphony they ought to leave the front doors open so people walkin’ by will drift in to catch him playing old Beethoven songs.

  Tootsie’s is the USDA-approved, Grade A honky-tonk. It’s always been in that same place, just down the alley from the Ryman Auditorium. They’ve managed to maintain the historic “dive” appearance with just the right amount of neglect and poor lighting. I haven’t been there in years but have been many times in the past. You really do feel like Kitty Wells or Willie Nelson might saunter through the back door at any minute. The lore is that Opry stars would sneak off between shows at the Ryman and have a half-dozen pops before going back for the late show.

  Country stars usually don’t think about the “other” Broadway. It’s hard to maintain your redneck cred if you’re on the Great White Way singing show tunes. However, every now and then one of the hillbillies busts through the gate and takes a shot at Broadway.

  Gary Morris is one who did it. Gary has one of the finest, most powerful tenors in all of music. He’s a powerhouse. I wrote one song with Gary that he recorded. Even I don’t remember it. Gary had a series of hits including a fabulous version of “Wind Beneath My Wings,” written by Larry Henley and Jeff Silbar.

  I know both Larry and Jeff, and I wrote with Jeff in Los Angeles. Larry is hilarious, and of all the people in the world to write such a classic, moving song as “Wind Beneath My Wings,” you would never think of old Larry. His earlier claim to fame was singing falsetto for the Newbeats on the ’64 novelty pop hit, “Bread and Butter.” Jeff moved to L.A. and wrote more pop stuff.

  I have no idea if it’s the whole story, but Larry told me he had most of “Wings” written when Jeff sorta popped into the room to see what was going on. Larry seemed to say that, one chord addition later, Jeff was a cowriter. That’s always a tough one for songwriters.

  Rodney Crowell, one of America’s greatest composers, said to me, “Hey, if someone just adds one note and it’s the right note you didn’t have before, they are cowriters.” I agree. There are dozens of Lennon-McCartney songs that were mostly written by one or the other. But that one idea always makes a song special. “Wings” has been recorded countless times and is the kind of classic every guitar slinger in Nashville aims for. It’s the golden ticket to financial freedom.

  Gary Morris is also one of the most confident men in the world. I don’t mean that in a bad way. I almost said, “Bless his heart,” which is the Southern equivalent of, “I’m saying something awful about somebody, but I don’t want you to tell them.” But he is. To me, he’s not the most strikingly classically handsome man to ever stride onstage, but women just get weak-kneed when they are around him.

  I especially remember the achingly young secretary at his office. She was barely qualified to answer the phone, but nobody cared because she was a total babe. Everybody I knew dropped in to “see Gary” and wound up talking to his receptionist for half an hour and forgetting about Gary. Her name was Faith Hill.

  Gary decided one day to take his tenor to New York City. People talked about it like he’d decided to join a cult or something. Early on, people just didn’t do that. His career was sort of in a glide path in country, and he’s confident, as I said. I admired him for it. He did a little thing called Les Miserables. I think he actually played the part of Les. Or maybe it was Jean Valjean. I never did get to see him warble this pop opera.

  Gary sort of drifted away from country and on to other things. He moved to Colorado. He started looking more like a mountain man. His great beard got whiter, and he did TV shows about shooting things. Inside him, however, there was always that voice. It must be like having a secret weapon. It makes you a confident guy. Gary Morris has every reason to be that. He conquered Lower Broadway and Broadway. I think that’s as cool as it gets.

  I’ve already mentioned a bit about Larry Gatlin, the Texas singer/songwriter. He’s also a serious part-time philosopher on anything people will listen to him talk about: politics, religion, and golf. Larry once hounded me to come see him in his play on Broadway. The irony of all ironies is that Larry Gatlin played the lead in The Will Rogers Follies on Broadway in New York City in that big theater next to the Sbarro and the SONY sign where the headlines go around a building in lights. That Broadway. Mickey Rooney, for God’s sake, was in the play—Mickey “Andy Hardy” Rooney!

  I always think anything with the word “Follies” in it is gonna be kind of lightweight. I was right. The Will Rogers Follies was written by theater heavyweights, but it was really an excuse to retell some of Will’s great lines, with some songs in between. “I never met a man I didn’t like.” “A fool and his money are soon elected.” “Be thankful we’re not getting all the government we’re paying for.” Brilliant stuff.

  The funny part to me was watching Larry Gatlin onstage, dressed as a dandy cowboy, spouting all these lines. I never saw Will Rogers; I only saw Larry Gatlin. To make sure you saw Larry Gatlin, Larry paused in the middle of the play to sing one or two of his songs. I can’t imagine how the tourists put all that together. He’s Will Rogers, he’s funny, he’s political, he sings these old-timey Broadway tunes, and BOING! He’s singing “All the Gold in California.” After the play, Larry kept me and Al waiting for an hour in the stairwell while Patrick Swayze and his wife, Lisa, chatted with Larry and Mickey. I just wanted to see Mickey.

  For a brief moment, Tom Wopat had a country career. Yes, the Duke of Hazzard. Funny how that goofy show was connected to Nashville and me. Tom was Luke Duke and John Schneider (another country singer) was Bo Duke. Waylon Jennings was the narrator.

  In college, I had played in Hazzard, Kentucky, as a rock ‘n’ roller. One night, I happened to be walking by a television set tuned to the Dukes of Hazzard. And, oh, my Lord! The Oak Ridge Boys were on the show, singing a song I had written—“Old Time Lovin’”—the first song I had ever recorded. I had written it by myself, and there were the “Oaks” belting it out to Bo and Luke and the Hazzard crew.

  I never mentioned my “history” with the Dukes to Tom Wopat. He had moved to Nashville and was making country records. He visited my radio show, but mostly we played golf together. His country career didn’t do much, but he was such a great singer and actor that he reinvented himself on Broadway. Broadway in
New York City!

  We flew in a big silver bird to the Big Apple on the invitation of my friend Tom Wopat. He was starring opposite Bernadette Peters in Annie Get Your Gun. So, picture this: we have Tom’s seats for the show. They are the best—fourth row in the middle, just in front of the orchestra. You can actually see the facial expressions on the actors. Minutes before showtime, six or seven people were hurried into their seats. Right in front of us were Joe Namath and his wife and kids. I remember the noses. When they turned sideways it looked like a flock of macaws had landed in the audience.

  Now, we’re cookin’: Broadway Joe on Broadway, my pal Tom onstage, and Bernadette almost close enough to touch. I got kind of bored with Annie Get Your Gun about halftime. We couldn’t leave, of course. So, I did what everybody does when they are bored. You start looking at the program to see what’s left for these people to sing. What I didn’t realize is that the actors onstage could also see us. After the show, as we were gushing about how great everything was, Tom said, “I pointed you guys out to Bernadette during the show.” I guess the actors talk a little if they ain’t actin’ all the time. He went on, “I had told her about you, your songwriting, and your love of Broadway. Bernadette hissed back to me onstage, ‘HE’S COUNTING SONGS!’”

  I was in the audience, minding my own bored business figuring out how much longer I had to sit there, while Bernadette Peters is onstage watching me calculate the misery. I vowed to never sit through Annie Get Your Gun again.

  My apologies to Irving Berlin. There are fabulous songs and great parts in that musical, but for some reason, it didn’t “speak” to me. I was done with Annie Get Your Gun.