Country Music Broke My Brain

by Gerry House

  Wrong. About a year and a half later, I’m on a private jet to Cancun, Mexico. Reba and Narvel Blackstock have a small, plain hacienda down south of the border. It’s this little place with fabulous stonework, bedrooms that surround a massive courtyard, and a pool that fades into the ocean to infinity. If you get the chance, go with Reba and Narvel to their place.

  On the flight down, Red casually mentioned she had some interest in appearing on Broadway. Allyson and I immediately knew she should do it, whatever it was. She’d knock them out, and we started the argument in favor of it.

  She wanted no part of it. “I don’t wanna live in New York City for six months.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “No way.”

  What play is it? Yep, you guessed it. Irving’s masterpiece about Annie and a gun. By now, you probably know she decided she could live in “that crazy city.” She actually loved it.

  We went to see her and it was amazing. (I didn’t count songs, either.) Reba turned into a whole new person on that stage. I think it was the best thing she could do. She became bigger in everyone’s eyes. She conquered the Great White Way just like she’d conquered Lower Broadway years before. I was so proud of her. I don’t think our jet conversation convinced her totally to do it, but it sure didn’t hurt.

  And now, my final Broadway memory: the thrill and the letdown. Al and I still laugh about it. After Annie Get Your Gun we went backstage with Narvel to see Red and the cast. We laughed and hugged and made plans to go to dinner at Josephine’s in a few minutes. She said, “Y’all go on out the stage door, and we’ll hook up at the car.”

  The stage doors opened directly onto the street. It’s a little runway up toward the white lights. There was an enormous crowd waiting for the stars. We were the first people out. The crowd reaction was electric. It was like being shot full of adrenaline when that crowd roared for us—screams and clapping and smiles.

  Then suddenly, en masse and also all at once, they realized it was nobody they knew. It was us. The collective joy went from jubilation and celebration to a death march in half a second. OOOooooooh. It’s who? Who are those people? It wasn’t hateful, it was just reality. We weren’t worth screaming over. Did I mention Al and I still laugh about it? I’ve done a lot of cool things in my life, but in that brief period between joy and reality, I felt what Reba must feel a thousand times a day.

  Which glamorous event did Kathy Mattea join me in attending?

  A) Celebrity Leapfrog

  B) Cow Chip Toss

  C) Mooning for Mutts

  Honey Pie

  KATHY MATTEA IS SO ELEGANT and so poised, I am always amazed when she does something that seems out of character. She is one of those people you meet and think, I better behave because she’s classy. Or at least that’s always how I felt around her. She’s not a stuffed shirt, by any means, as you’ll find out, but there’s always been an air of intelligence and no-nonsense about her that’s slightly intimidating. That’s why I was thrilled to see Kathy Mattea show up at the cow chip tossing contest.

  Ms. Mattea has made some wonderful records. “Where’ve You Been,” cowritten by her husband, is a piece of poetry and music about the tragedy of people getting old. She had a lot of hits and continues to record at her own pace on her own terms. I just love her.

  For some reason unknown probably to everyone involved, there was a cow chip toss held on a farm in Mt. Juliet, Tennessee. It was really an excuse to get some friends together and drink beer and eat barbeque at Bob Beckham’s place. Beckham has been a friend of mine for thirty years and is the chief excuse maker for anything involving hooch and people.

  Two things happened that day that I will never forget. The first was watching the very refined Kathy Mattea “test” a cow chip for its tossability. Just in case you were born in a condo in downtown Chicago, a cow chip is the sunbaked version of a cow pie. Cows are not all that particular where they decide to “fertilize.” It’s usually a lift of the tail and “Look out, boys, she’s gonna blow.”

  I have attended several wonderful Cow Bingo contests with this in mind. You put numbered pieces of plastic in a field and wait ’til a cow “marks” the number on your card. I once won a year’s supply of dental floss playing Cow Bingo.

  A cow chip throwing contest is a whole other sport. Sidearm is my method, but you have to select the proper chip. If you’ve ever skipped rocks across a creek (I was neighborhood champ for several years), you can toss a cow chip. Kathy knew, as all pros do, that to gain maximum distance, the chip has to be durable, thin, and Frisbee-like. This is when I knew Ms. Mattea was my kind of girl. Walking from pie to pie, testing for firmness and aerodynamics, was serious business. I am ashamed to admit I didn’t apply myself as much as I should have. Although I can sling the B.S. with the best of them, Kathy Mattea won. The girl has got an arm like Roger Clemens. Distance, control, and direction are her talents. I know, in spite of all her gold records, winning that contest is her crowning achievement.

  The other memory of that wondrous day in the sunshine involved a young man named Blake Chancey. Blake is Ron Chancey’s son. Both are great producers. Ron made records with the Oak Ridge Boys, Garth Brooks, and Bob Seger. Blake went on to helm recording projects with Mary Chapin Carpenter and the Dixie Chicks. I guess the little nut didn’t fall far from the big nut tree. I love both the dad and the son.

  We were outside most of the cow chip tossing day. Every now and then, I’d hear Bob Beckham’s dog howl. Farm dogs do that. They warn people of some unseen trespasser or impending danger that nobody but the dog sees. I didn’t pay much attention, and nobody else did, either.

  When we went inside the house later that day, a young Blake Chancey was sprawled on the couch in front of the television. Blake was too young and too cool to be involved in anything as tasteless as a cow chip tossing contest. He preferred watching an old rerun of Baywatch. I don’t blame him. Pamela Anderson is one of the most talented actresses to ever run in slow motion in a red bathing suit down the beach.

  Bob and I entered the den. Blake looked up and said, “Bob, there’s something wrong with your TV remote. I’ve been trying to switch around and it doesn’t work. Maybe the batteries are dead.”

  Punch, punch, punch. He was right. The television didn’t respond at all. Again, punch, punch, punch. Nothing. We heard some barking in the distance. Punch, punch, punch. No television reaction. Again, I heard a faint lonesome wail.

  Bob grabbed the remote and said, “Son, stop hitting that. Oh, Jesus.” He then dashed out the door. I watched out the window as he seemed to be running to where the barking came from. Blake and I decided to follow. Blake dropped what he thought was the remote. But it wasn’t.

  Shock collars have never been anything I want to use on one of my dogs. Owners and trainers swear by them. It actually teaches the dog lessons for life. I don’t want to condemn anyone for trying to teach their “best friend” about safety and civility. The “shock” doesn’t actually do any real damage to the dog, but let’s face it, it comes as a shock. Certainly, if it gets several reminders a second for an entire episode of Baywatch. Bob felt terrible. I felt terrible. Blake was just mortified. The dog recovered just fine, but he always reminded me of Don Knotts after that.

  What did Terry Bradshaw ask me to do?

  A) Think up a slogan for peanut butter

  B) Wax his new Corvette

  C) Trade pants with him

  Don’t Pass Me By

  STEELERS FANS STILL SORT of quiver if you mention the name Terry Bradshaw. He’s the Pro Football Hall of Fame quarterback with four Super Bowl rings. Rather than cow chips, he’s still watching footballs being tossed, although now it’s behind a desk on Fox NFL Sunday.

  Most people don’t remember that Terry was a country singer in Nashville, Tennessee. It happens a lot. Somebody has success in sports or modeling or business, and here they come: “I’m a-gonna be a Country & Western star!” There’s always some producer or record exec who sees dollar signs
attached and is ready to lead the way to a recording studio. Over the years, I think I’ve heard more bad music produced for the wrong reasons than anybody who’s ever lived.

  Every now and then, however, the “star” could actually sing. Nowadays, even that isn’t a problem. Studio wizards can auto-tune a talent-free singer into success. If you hear a song with that otherworldly sound to it, that pitch-perfect vocal that doesn’t seem human, chances are it isn’t. It’s an athlete or a rapper or a model being “fixed” by modern technology.

  Terry Bradshaw could, and probably still can, actually sing. I’m not saying he made Ronnie Dunn want to quit showbiz, but he had a nice tenor voice. It’s the voice you’d hear in the church on Sunday when somebody stepped out of the choir and sang a verse by his lonesome.

  Jerry Crutchfield is a producer, musician, and business exec. We have done a lot of things together: commercial jingles, songs, and anything we stumbled across that might work. He’s one of the few people who can pick out a hit song and turn a nobody into a somebody with one hit. He did it over and over. It’s a talent few people have. “Crutch” taught me a lot.

  Terry came to town, recorded some C & W songs, and embarked on his new singing career. I saw him a lot during those days. He and Crutch also decided he needed a side business to capitalize on his fame. That’s where Terry Bradshaw’s Peanut Butter came in. I wasn’t part of the business plan, but I was part of the creative team. Bradshaw turned to me one day and asked, “Can you think of a slogan for peanut butter?” I’ve done a lot of goofy things in my life, but that day I started by staring out the window at home trying to dream up a slogan for crushed goobers in a jar.

  I had several slogan ideas, most of which I knew Terry wouldn’t like. Picture a big jar with Bradshaw’s mug on the front. “It’s nuttier than I am” was my favorite. I didn’t even have the nerve to submit it. Second only to “Terry’s Nuts!”—which was not a crowd favorite either. “Pass the peanut butter” had a nice football-y ring to it, but was shot down. “From Super Bowl to Super Jar!” Nope. “It takes a goober to know a goober.” I thought Terry’s picture on the front would make that work. No way. I even tried “PBJ. Peanuts, Bradshaw, and Jelly.” Not even a glimmer.

  “It’s not peanut BUTTER, it’s peanut BETTER!” Yes, I know. It doesn’t have the joyous zing of “It’s nuttier than I am,” but that was the one they went with.

  Somewhere in my attic I think I still have a jar of Terry’s nuts.

  Who said, “Thanks for letting me gherm you”?

  A) Al Sharpton

  B) Neil Diamond

  C) Pee Wee Herman

  She Came in through the Bathroom Window

  ONE OF THE WONDERFUL side benefits of living in Nashville is that you get to meet visiting superstars. I’m not talking about the “Gone Country” types Alan Jackson references—the ones who have fallen out of favor in another kind of music and now want to try “Country & Western.” I mean the ones who genuinely have affection for the place and sometimes even move to Twang Town.

  I once was hosting some charity event at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center. As usual, I was barely aware of who was on the bill or what was going on. A guy poked me in the back as I stood backstage and said, “Gerry, I’m Peter Frampton.” I nearly fell over. Peter lived in town for a few years.

  Jazz guitarist extraordinaire Larry Carlton lives just south of the city. I will miss seeing Donna Summer at dinner parties and on New Year’s Eve. Felix Cavaliere of the Rascals and “Groovin’” fame appears every now and then. I’ve been to Steve Winwood’s house a lot and ruined most of his wine collection. Stevie is in England most of the time now. You get the idea.

  These people aren’t “carpetbaggers,” they just love living here. I always think, anyway, So what? So what if they do come to town to try and make a record? Rosanne Cash once said to me out of frustration, “It’s not a religion.”

  Rose took some heat from country purists for some reason I’ve now forgotten over one of her records. There are still a few of those types left around here. Some people are still upset they use drums on the Opry. But Rose is right. It’s not a religion. It’s just a town where music is made, and if somebody wants to live here, good for them.

  I’ve been to dinner parties many times with Sheryl Crow. When I look at the list of songs she’s written that I love, I’m amazed she even speaks to anybody. Sheryl and her babies called Nashville home. She’s one of those people who make you feel good just knowing she’s in the same room. After a “fun” dinner with wine, my favorite memory of Sheryl is seeing her playing an unplugged bass guitar while Reba McEntire banged on a cowbell and sang at the top of her lungs.

  One of my many songwriting heroes is Michael McDonald. Mike has a house in Leiper’s Fork. It’s an old farmhouse, and he converted one of the little houses nearby into a studio. Yes, that Michael McDonald . . . Doobie Brothers/Steely Dan Michael McDonald. If somebody asks me to name my favorite pop song, I always say, “What a Fool Believes.” Mike wrote that with Kenny Loggins. The performance, the story, the lyrics, and the music are all perfect.

  He’s written so many classics, it’s kind of scary. And he did it all while singing in a language no human can understand! My favorite Michael McDonald album, What The Hell Is He Saying?, is played all the time. And, believe it or not, I actually wrote with Mike. He’s hilarious, he’s sweet, and he’s an intimidating piano player. I plunk around on the 88s. I can write songs, but watching him do it is also, like I said, intimidating; there’s no other word for it.

  After forty years of mauling a Steinway, his hands look like meat hooks—big, gnarly, angry fingers sticking out of muscular canned hams. Kim Carnes (who also lives in Nashville) sang “Bette Davis Eyes.” I got to see “Mike McDonald’s Hands.” Plus, when he’s just sitting there writing and making up lyrics, he sings just like Michael McDonald! Even lyrics I just wrote I can’t understand when he sings them—one of the great thrills of my career.

  So, back to the “gherming.” In case you’re not from around here, a “gherm” is a slightly derogatory term for someone who gushes over a star. Getting ghermed is a common event for somebody who sings for a living. There is a fine line between gherming and stalking. Recording artists, for the most part, are wonderful. I’m not talking about me, but usually the actual star I’m with. People want to take a picture or say hello. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen people come rushing up to Reba or Ronnie Dunn or whomever and say, “You’re my biggest fan.” It’s always funny. They’re excited, and, in the moment, it comes out wrong.

  I can also say I’ve never seen one artist/famous/music performer be rude in any way to anybody. I’ve seen them hide before they get attacked. I’ve seen them move to a quieter or hidden table, but not one single incidence of the “Leave me alone, peasant” attitude. Never. And there are some fans who can be pretty forward. The ones with the “I bought your album, and I made you what you are today” body language drive me crazy.

  Of course, I welcome anybody attacking me for an autograph or a pic, but, for some strange reason, folks give me my privacy. It’s amazing how huge fans of mine act like they don’t even know who I am in public. How they manage to contain their raw excitement and passion is astounding. They can sit two feet away and carry on like it’s not the most heart-pounding moment of their entire life.

  Speaking of taking pictures, Merle Kilgore was a real piece of work. He wrote two classic songs: “Wolverton Mountain” and “Ring of Fire.” The latter he wrote with June Carter Cash, Johnny’s wife. He also managed Hank Williams Jr., and that always sounds to me like saying you were in charge of a herd of buffalo. I think you just try to head things in a certain direction, but you don’t really control anything.

  I loved Merle because he was always cheerful and always paid for the martinis. I imagine the martinis made him so cheerful.

  We were sitting in a restaurant somewhere when we noticed a quasi-famous singer stand up and have a picture made with
an excited fan. Merle said, “Johnny was great about that usually most always.” I asked, “What do you mean, ‘most always’?” Merle leaned in and said, “Well, if John R. was in an obvious rush or in the middle of something else, he would ask me to take the picture.” Sounded like a signal to me. It was. He explained, “John wouldn’t be rude, even though the tourist obviously was taking advantage of him. The lingering, long fan story about their life and how they’d seen the star in some city twenty years before. I would grab the camera and say, ‘I’ll take this for ya, honey.’

  “After much posing and trying to get the damn camera to work—usually the flash wouldn’t go off or the batteries would be dead—we’d take a memory shot and they would walk away. Then Johnny Cash would say, ‘Where’d you cut me off?’ In taking the photo for the fan, I would only include Johnny’s arm or leg or half his hair in the picture. We didn’t do that all the time, but it did make us feel better knowing that, back in Arkansas, this nut would try to convince his family, ‘THAT’s Johnny Cash’s left hand on my shoulder, I swear!’”

  I’ve been so tongue-tied in front of some of my heroes, God knows what I actually said. One of those was Neil Diamond. Neil has been a huge star for almost as long as I can remember. “Cherry, Cherry” and “Solitary Man” and dozens of others take me all the way back to the gym at Simon Kenton High School. Hopping around in my socks like a mental patient to Neil Diamond records. I wasn’t at a dance or anything, I just enjoyed hopping around in my socks.

  Neil came to Nashville to write songs and record an album. It had the faint hint of “Gone Country,” but nobody cared. It was thrilling for all my friends who got to write with him and talk to him and listen to him. He gave big black guitars to a lot of the guys when they finished cowriting. I didn’t get that lucky, but he did drop in one morning on my show. He’d been listening because he was living in town for several months. Just before we went on the air, I said, “I hope I don’t gherm you.” He looked at me as if I’d spoken in tongues.