Country Music Broke My Brain

by Gerry House

  I tried to calm things and said, “It’s not that bad. We can get new ones.” Olga disagreed, much to my shock, and said, “No, this is bad, very bad. This is very bad.”

  Great, I thought. I’m gonna wind up sitting on the sidewalk selling a head of lettuce.

  We did what everybody does when confronted with being stuck in a foreign country with no passports and no visas—we called our radio producer in America. I called Devon O’Day. In a heartbeat, Devon was on it. While we sat like potatoes in our room, she went to work. She called Vice President Al Gore’s father’s office in Carthage, Tennessee. She actually got the former senator on the phone. He said, “Let me see what I can do.”

  A short while later, Dev told me she answered the phone and heard, “This is the vice president’s office.” It always helps to have the vice president of the United States’ dad start the ball rolling for you when you’re stuck in Russia. We were told to go to the U.S. Embassy with new pictures of ourselves and await further instructions.

  That Saturday, we walked up to the guard station of the American embassy. An officious young Marine said the embassy was closed. I said, “Did you get a call from the vice president’s office?” He sort of snapped to, looked at a list, and said, “Oh, you must be the Houses. Yes, sir. Just a moment, sir.”

  He made a phone call, and we were in. The whole security affair is quite similar to going backstage before a Tim McGraw concert. If you can mention the right name, you are welcomed inside with open arms.

  I fretted and worried the whole time. The day before, we’d spent hours slogging to one Russian government office after another, trying to get a visa to get out of Russia. It’s no wonder Russia was in such trouble. Nobody cared, nobody worked, and nobody helped. It was a lot like Music Row the month before Christmas, except there were actually bottles of vodka sitting on desks. Empty vodka bottles. I guess it helps to have a little Stoli to get you through a busy workday in the Soviet Union. Come to think of it, that’s also a lot like the Music Row offices.

  Olga stayed with us as we went through security with our new visas and the passports that had been handmade by a slightly disheveled embassy employee. He’d come to the office on a Saturday to help out some fellow citizens get the hell out of St. Petersburg. Allyson had said it best (as usual), “Everybody in that city was just deflated. They had no reason to want to do anything. They lived every day with no reason to smile.”

  We boarded the plane and landed a few hours later in Venice, Italy. As gray as St. Petersburg had been, Venice was as sunny and blue. I will never forget the exhilaration of riding in the back of a water taxi across the Laguna Veneta. It was a brilliant day and seventy-five degrees, and me and my girls were out of Russia and going to have Italian every night in a row. We laughed like schoolkids at how free we were. I don’t think I ever felt more American, either.

  American and free.

  We stood—Al, Autumn, and I—on Wangfujing Street. That’s the “main drag,” as my mother used to say, in Beijing, China. The clouds were managing to squeeze out a little misty rain on the shoppers and the few tourists on this busy thoroughfare. We’d just been gawking at a Chinese pharmacy across Wangfujing. Shelves filled with tiger paws and dragon lips and God-knows-what-else in hundreds of rows of tiny jars. The Chinese still practice “natural” medicine, and from the looks of the people, it works. We were in a strange land—the only non-Chinese in either direction.

  The rain began to pick up a bit. I noticed a small, elderly Chinese woman in traditional garb crossing the street. She was walking directly toward us. Uh-oh. Customs in other countries are strange, and I figured we’d probably done something to insult half the population. She approached, she bowed, and then she opened an umbrella and held it over our heads. Such a simple gesture, but it told me what people in China were like. They were like everybody else. Usually, folks are kind and helpful and ready to laugh. A smile is universal in its message. I’ve never smiled or received a friendly grin such that I didn’t know things were going to be all right.

  Sometimes I think Music Row has the Great Wall of China surrounding it. It’s tough to penetrate and to go around. Strangers from another land, like Arkansas, have to learn where the gates are and how to go under or over or through the barriers to get inside the Forbidden City.

  We were told by our Chinese guide to turn left when we got to the Great Wall. I had no idea how huge the Wall really is. It’s like a double-lane road on top. It has gates and entrances every few miles to walk along the upper Wall. “Turn left” was good advice from our guy. As we walked with a few other Americans along an empty section of the Wall, I looked back at the other side, and it was packed with Chinese. I don’t know if the custom is to go one way, but the populace obviously stayed the course. Our side was almost deserted.

  Just like Nashville, they buried a lot of people in the Wall when they constructed it. People just got covered up in the course of living their lives. It happens in Twang Town the same way. Nashville has a lot of rules, too. You go a certain way. You do things in a particular manner. Outsiders can sometimes get lost in the shuffle or get buried in the wall.

  Autumn loves to remind me that our guide for the whole Chinese trip was not named Dong. I, apparently by not listening, never learned his real name. I addressed the poor guy as Dong the entire trip. I yelled “Dong!” in crowds to get his attention. He spoke perfect English, and I spoke two words of Chinese. One of them was “Dong.” Our last day, as a big treat for Dong, we invited him to breakfast. The Great Wall Sheraton had a buffet to make Waffle House pea-green with envy. Sausage and bacon and eggs and pancakes in metal warming trays. I half-expected the Chinese guy manhandling the little fry griddle to ask me if I wanted things “smothered and scattered.” That’s Waffle House-ese for, “How do you like your hash browns?” We slid in a booth and I said, “Dong, have a good old-fashioned American breakfast on us.” I was certain he was about to have the meal of a lifetime.

  He was horrified. He carefully poked at the bacon and examined the waffles like they were nuclear waste. Dong looked at our food just as we’d treated the traditional Chinese meal. We had been good at pointing at words or signs on a menu and hoping to win the Menu Lottery at most authentic Chinese eateries. We never won once. I once managed to order sea slug and lemons. Autumn cheerfully pointed at some squiggles and received four or five chicken feet standing ankle-deep in brown dishwater. The Chinese have Chinese every day. And they never get tired of it. Chicken feet get old to me after a few days.

  Our last day in China, I tipped Dong fifty bucks. He told me he couldn’t accept it. I was stunned. A fifty isn’t all that much, especially for slogging around after Americans and having to look at pancakes. He carefully explained that would be his apartment rent for the next two years. It would throw things out of whack. He lived in government housing and would probably get noticed for having so much extra dough left over after his two dollar rent bill. I think China is a bit different now, but not much.

  I do know that if you want to thrill and amaze Chinese people from the “outer provinces” like Mongolia, where everybody has the same serious “Moe”-do haircut, or if you want folks to stop and stare and ask to have a picture taken with you, take two fabulous blonde beauties with you. In fact, if you are planning a trip to Mongolia anytime soon, give Allyson and Autumn a call. They’d probably go.

  Prior to visiting Spain, the two things that I’d had contact with that sounded Spanish were gazpacho and Freddy Fender. Freddy is, of course, neither Spanish nor gazpacho. Gazpacho is awful; Freddy is good.

  My Rascal Flatts pal, Jay DeMarcus, told me that when they played the White House for George W. Bush, they served gazpacho. He said “When we hit the stage, I said how thrilled the Flatts were to be there, but, ‘Mr. President, our soup was cold.’ It got a big laugh.”

  I knew Freddy Fender only through my producer friend Ray Baker. Freddy recorded two monster hits: “Before the Next Teardrop Falls” and “Wasted Days and Wasted
Nights” (the Music Row theme song). Freddy had quite a career and looked a lot like porn star Ron Jeremy. I’m not sure if that hurt Freddy or helped.

  Ray told me that one afternoon he and Freddy went into Baskin-Robbins. Freddy spied the chocolate and said, “I’d like two scoopses of brown.” Maybe he was more Spanish than I thought.

  The rumor was that the reason Freddy sang so high on “Teardrop” was because he was singing to a track made for Jeannie C. Riley. He hit the notes anyway, and it was a smash.

  But getting back to Spain (which I’d like to do), we went there to see the World Expo in Seville. The world expos were events held around the planet in various cities. It’s sort of like Epcot Center for real. They have pavilions built from all the countries. We visited the one in Hanover, Germany, and Lisbon, Portugal. The best, however, was in Seville.

  We first flew to Madrid and spent a few nights having roast pig and sangria. We did the sights and then hopped on the bullet train to Seville. These people are serious about being Spaniards. They have Spanish food every night for weeks at a time.

  They also have bullfights—one of the cruelest and also most exciting things I’ve ever attended. I bought seats right behind a matador, and it was amazing. The pageantry, the emotion, and the terror were all there in equal proportion. The crowd screaming, the music, and the bullfight itself were mesmerizing. I’m not sure I want to go to another, but I’m glad I went. I fully expected a great barbeque after the event, but that didn’t happen. Just like you never see pet shops in North Korea, you see a lot of steak houses in Spain. I think there’s a correlation there.

  I love music, and in Spain, you see and hear it everywhere. It’s like a Friday night in NashVegas. I still remember walking down a street and seeing six guys in black pants and white shirts sitting in hardback chairs at the end of a one-way alley. Surrounded by the old stone buildings and the cobblestone streets, these guys knew it was a natural amphitheater. They clapped and stomped, and two guitars flamenco’d into the night. In my town, they have The Bluebird Café. I don’t know the name of a club in Seville, but a nice alleyway was just as good.

  Autumn was twenty when we went to the World Expo in Seville. She was totally babe-i-fied. They had massive parties and dance clubs—discos, if you will—every night. We saw shows where Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were projected on giant water sprays and danced on the lakes. We saw fireworks. We heard bands and sampled food from all over the world. It was really as alive as you can get. We heard that chest-thumping bass from a mile away as we approached a massive covered dance arena. There, thousands of folks were ordering tequila and jumping into the lights and onto the throbbing floor. A gorgeous young Spaniard walked by and smiled at Autumn. She was gonna dance the night away. I told her that we were going back to the hotel but wanted her to get home pretty soon. She was a woman but still my little girl. I watched her jump into the flailing arms and happy dancing crowd and said, “Pedro.” His name, he had told us, was Pedro.

  Hours later, I was staring in the dark at the ceiling. It seemed like hours, anyway. I finally said out loud, “Are you awake?”

  “Yes,” Allyson answered. “She’s not back.”

  Frankly, I’m not sure it had been that long. We were a little disoriented and jet-lagged, as always. Then again in the darkness, Allyson asked, “Are you worried?”

  “Me? No, not at all. Let her have some fun. Why should we worry? We know she’s somewhere in Spain with a guy named Pedro.” That’s like being in Moultrie, Georgia, and asking strangers, “Have you seen my daughter? She’s with a guy named Bubba.” We now were immediately panic-stricken.

  I suddenly felt like I was the worst father who had ever lived. But then a key rattled in the lock, and Autumn sneaked into the room, where we had all bunked together. I didn’t say anything. Al said, “Hi, honey, we’re glad you’re home.” Autumn told me years later that they’d just danced and had struggled to talk because of the language barrier. I have the feeling he was a good kisser. She just said, “He was so sweet.” I still don’t trust anyone named Pedro.

  My favorite city in the world to visit is London. They speak English there. Not the kind of English they speak in Kentucky, but close. All Londoners think country music is cowboys and people shooting guns and sayin’, “Howdy, ma’am.” Of course, a lot of Hollywood types think the same thing. In reality, only about 50 percent of the Nashville population shoots guns and says, “Howdy, ma’am.”

  I also think the Brits are hilarious. My grandmother was born and raised in England during the early part of her life. She called me “Li’l Bit. Grandma and her second hubby owned a strawberry farm in Ohio. Carl had one arm. He’d blown the other one off in a hunting accident and had walked for miles with his arm inside his overalls. He made it; the arm didn’t. I remember him rolling a cigarette with a paper and tobacco pouch with one hand. I haven’t seen anyone else “roll” a cig except for some friends of mine from England. However, most of them have two hands.

  I still have friends “across the pond” and get pictures of their kids now. We’ve probably stayed in London as much as we’ve been anyplace except for our house. I was on the BBC for years with my friend Nick Barraclough. He’s a Beeb Two radio star, and I’d go to Reba’s studio once a week to talk to him about Nashville over a satellite connection. He even came to the States to broadcast the CMA Awards for Radio 2, and I cohosted with him. He loves country music and did everything he could to get the Brits to like it, too. The songs strike a chord deep inside him, as they do with people all over the world. I’d always say to him about a particularly great song, “Why didn’t I think of that?” Nick always replies, “Of course, you knew all those words. Just not in that order.”

  Please go to London. It will do you good. Take the morning Virgin flight, as we always do. You leave New York City at 8 A.M. and arrive in London at 8 P.M. You then got to bed and wake up without the jet lag. I’ve done the overnight flights to Europe and have spent most of the trip trying not to fall asleep in my mashed potatoes.

  For fifteen years, we stayed at a small hotel, the Capital, in Knightsbridge. It’s down the street from Harrods, and Graham is the concierge there. The last time I saw Graham, he said, “Welcome back, Mr. House. We just had your friend, Mr. Willie Nelson with us last week.”

  I inquired how Willie had handled himself during his London stay. Graham smiled that proper Brit smile and said, “Oh, he was quite lovely. I don’t know what he was smoking up there on the top floor, but the maids who went up to clean have yet to come down.”

  Who said, “And some days we’ll dress like pirates”?

  A) K.T. Oslin

  B) Pete Rose

  C) Keith Richards

  The Pirate Song

  YOU GUESSED IT: K.T. Oslin. If ever there was a showbiz chick, it’s Kay Toinette. Toinette is certainly the result of somebody losing a bet. If you’ve been within a few miles of Nashville, I’m certain you’ve heard K.T. laugh. I know you’ve heard her hit songs. She recorded in town for years and had big smashes like, “80s Ladies” and “I’ll Always Come Back.” Nobody sounded like K.T. and that’s because she is a total original. I just can’t tell you how much I love her. She’s one of the few people who say things that amaze me and catch me off guard. And she is always hilarious.

  K.T. was actually in the original Broadway production of Promises, Promises. I know she will be delighted when I mention it because the original production of that musical was in 1892. She was a chorus girl and, from what I understand, spent the rest of her time working as a secretary for Thomas Edison.

  Decades later, she moved to Nashville and wrote songs. She worked her way up the ranks and became such a wondrous star. Her career lasted quite awhile, and we had lunch together whenever things slowed down a bit.

  For some reason, I’ve been to 297 meetings at one time or another about starting a television show. I always go because you never know when the next meeting will pan out. This could be the one where we create the next
TV sensation. But we never did or do.

  Because K.T. and I hit it off so well, both on and off the air, her manager decided we should do a television show together. We met with some boob tube production people and tossed around ideas. I thought we might do a talk show and maybe even show the audience the upcoming topics on-screen. Maybe have a clock and when time was up, we’d move on to the next topic. (Much like the now-successful “Pardon the Interruption” on ESPN.) Nobody stole my idea or anything; I just came out of radio, where everything is presold and kept short. “The show must be fun and loose,” one of the producers said. “It ought to be you and K.T. just winging it and having fun,” another chimed in. I knew we were cooked right then because “winging” it hardly ever works. You can ad-lib, for sure, but “winging” isn’t good television. It just doesn’t happen.

  If you watch when Letterman or Jon Stewart get up to receive their Emmys, they don’t get up alone. Forty-five writers also get up onstage with them. All that “winging” came from hours of people thinking up the ad-libs and the instant humor for the shows.

  Jim Stafford recorded “Spiders & Snakes” and “Swamp Witch.” He is a first-class comedy writer and comedian. Years ago, he told me (off the air) that he’d sit around practicing “panel” for the Tonight Show with fellow writers. Before Jim went on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, he practically sketched out the whole couch conversation. They rehearsed it. They tweaked it. He’d go on, and it would be as smooth as silk. Johnny asked the questions, and Jim related the stories as if they had just come off the top of his head—the true mark of a real comedy guy. Rehearsed spontaneity. I think that’s pretty common knowledge now, but back then I was stunned to hear Johnny and his guests weren’t “winging” it. Ah, showbiz.

  Jim also hosted a show called Those Amazing Animals. When it got canceled, he said I missed a helluva barbeque.