Country Music Broke My Brain

by Gerry House

  I am perhaps the lone voice in the wilderness, which includes both the sticks and the woods, pointing out the dangers of country. I have been stalked, harassed, threatened, and, yes, even looked at funny by members of the CMA because of my stance. They also don’t like the mention of brain damage and country in the same sentence, either.

  They are a wonderful bunch of folks who work so hard to defend and browbeat or, should I say, gently persuade the world that country is good. This was the organization that, you may remember, created that wonderfully powerful slogan, “Country: Admit it. You love it.” Sure, that has a hint of reluctance. Yes, it does bring in the argument that there is a considerable group of humans who can’t stand it. It’s a bit defensive, to be honest. It always reminded me of when your mother wanted you to go out with a girl who had a face that would frighten a warthog. Mom thought she was cute, the girl’s mother was her friend at church, and Mom would say, “Come on. Admit it. Olga. You like her.” Everybody, except your mother, knew that wasn’t true, but you would smile and tell myopic Mom that you’d think about it. The CMA slogan had that kind of “feel” to it.

  The truth is, country is wildly popular all over the United States, in parts of Canada, and in small pockets around the world. I’ve received checks for country songs I’ve written that were played in Sweden, Ireland, and Denmark. I cashed those checks and went immediately to buy myself one Chili-Cheese Pup at Krystal.

  The CMA has managed to squash the brain damage thing for a long, long time now. I’m proud of them. Considering the success of the singers I know who play to 75,000 screaming cowboys and cowboy-ettes some nights, they must be doing something right.

  I have written hundreds of letters to the Country Music Association detailing my ideas and theories for improving the profile, acceptance, and promotion of this twangy genre:

  • If they could just work out a deal to get Ford to give everyone a truck. Imagine the excitement of a new F-150 owner being able to turn on a country station and immediately hear a song about the very vehicle he was driving.

  • I think if more country & Western lyrics were readily available to tattoo parlors, country would have more skin in the game. If people in New York City were on the subway, riding behind a woman with every word to “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” tattooed on her back, they would be hooked for life.

  • Why hasn’t the CMA done more to convince the Baptists to replace hymns with hits? There are a lot of Brad Paisley songs you can sing during Bible school. Why don’t these people think? It’s right there—free country promotion.

  • What if McDonald’s replaced Happy Meals with Hick-y Meals? You see how easy it can be? Simple move, and the CMA comes out looking like a hero.

  • If you took any person who expressed a dislike for the music and simply let them ride on Willie’s bus for an hour, they’d emerge as fans of country. They would also emerge much more cheerful and probably asking for a bag of Dorito’s.

  Advertising on Kenny Chesney’s head, more alarm clocks that play banjo music, get the First Lady in some Daisy Dukes, a few mud bogs in the middle of the Indianapolis Speedway, Beyoncé and Jay-Z hosting the CMA Awards—these are all fabulous ideas I’ve suggested. They’ve all fallen on deaf ears. Sad, isn’t it? A well-heeled, well-supported professional organization dedicated to promoting country music, and all I get are crickets.

  The only thing that saves them from my wrath is that perhaps they have all been brain-damaged so much, they can’t remember to call me.

  Does anybody know if there’s a Hard-core Elevator Music Society?

  The Mother of All Headaches

  IT BEGAN JUST LIKE every other day, with a gentle knock on the bedroom door. I stirred slightly and noticed golden shards of sunlight cracking through the brocade curtains. It was going to be a glorious one. Leopold came backing through the door, holding aloft the hammered pewter tray with my breakfast. He had been with us for years as chef, housekeeper, and general assistant. It was clear that he’d also had quite a snootful last night. I knew I would ask if he’d been drinking, and he’d say perhaps one glass of sherry. It was how he got the nickname “Leo the Lyin’” from my wife.

  The Mrs. was a vision of elegance, out like a light with her Bose noise-canceling earbuds and silk sleep mask. I noticed the “chaw” of Red Man had fallen from her mouth and would probably leave a nasty stain on that pink Halston peignoir. I slipped out of bed just as she began to snore like Larry the Cable Guy.

  Breakfast was the same: evenly toasted eleven-grain bread with two local (no more than five miles away) eggs, poached. This came with a glass of freshly squeezed pomegranate juice and one hand-chosen macadamia nut in a tiny silver serving cup. The coffee had to be made from civet beans and served steaming. Civet beans are coffee beans eaten, digested, and excreted by small Indonesian mammals and collected to make the best brew in the world. Leopold pulled out my chair and, with a flair, flipped the white cotton napkin into the air. There was just a whiff of Mennen aftershave coming from Leopold as I started to lift the Waterford cup to my lips.

  The room started to move a bit. A large bird flew by my head and out an open window. Leo turned slightly, and his profile distorted into a variant of Nosferatu. I could vaguely hear the tinkling melody of “Here Comes the Sun” somewhere in the background.

  I WOKE UP AND HIT the alarm clock: 3:40 A.M. The Beatles song stopped. I knew I had to bounce out of bed quickly or struggle with it later. It was pitch-black outside, and I walked like a newborn fawn toward the bathroom. I had a radio show to do and a studio waiting for me in an hour. I got ready and watched CNN by myself in a darkened kitchen with my usual bowl of Raisin Bran and a muffin smeared with Skippy. God, it was early. It was always early.

  It was August 15th, the day I became the luckiest man in the world. It was also the anniversary of my wedding day. I knew I would spend most of today’s show on one of my favorite topics: worst wedding songs you’ve actually witnessed. I had laughed loud and long at what some brides in virginal white had chosen to play as they walked down the aisle. “Wild Thing” by the Troggs was a perennial favorite, along with “She’s a Brick House” and “Who Let the Dogs Out?” Some people’s ideas of romance were hilariously different from mine.

  People always called with a song so off-the-wall that I knew they weren’t making it up. These were the days when I enjoyed doing radio immensely—me with the folks telling stories about their friends. It was always a joyful and funny time.

  The show went exactly as planned. I almost always left right after 10 A.M. to head home and begin writing the next day’s four-hour show. For me, it’s nerve-racking enough to be live on the air, but it’s paralyzing to show up unprepared. I always tried to write twenty-five jokes or bits every day to bring with me as a cushion. I was all pumped up from just finishing one show and used that “rush” to create some more stuff. This meant I could wrap up my workday about noon, have lunch, and then hit the golf course or meet a friend for a songwriting session.

  Golf was the chosen activity of the day. Drift up to the course, run into somebody, and take off on a leisurely ruined walk through the woods. It was around 2 P.M. or so, and my pal Tom Shapiro was walking off the practice tee. We were, as usual, discussing what was wrong with the music business when I suddenly felt very, very odd. I excused myself from the conversation with the caveat we’d connect the following week.

  It’s called the “mother of all headaches” for good reason. It is. When your brain starts leaking, which is what happened to me, you truly feel like your melon is about to explode. What happened to me next is scary, amazing, and lucky.

  Somehow I found my way to my house. It was one of those “no memory of driving” moments—you know, where you find yourself somewhere and don’t remember getting there. As I was lying on the floor, I called my wife. Allyson always has her cell phone on her. But she never answers it; the ringy-thingy doesn’t work or she doesn’t hear it. (I’ve set her phone on stun, and I get bupkis.) The
amazing part of the story is she actually answered her phone! Wonder of wonders. Here is the lucky part. The actual conversation went like this (read it and then tell me my wife and I haven’t been together forever):

  HER: “Hello?”

  ME: “Where are you?”

  HER: “Call 911.”

  I had only said, “Where are you?” and I guess from the pained tone in my voice that she immediately knew something was wrong. Either that or it was just the shock of answering her cell phone for the first time in modern history.

  I honestly don’t remember a lot of what happened that day. Allyson tells me it took forever for the 911 crew to arrive. Turns out they got lost on the way to our house, and the maps they had weren’t all that accurate. Good system, huh?

  When it was all over, I contacted the 911 Commission. The head guy told me that none of the emergency vehicles had GPS. I found that to be amazing information. I told the guy that even the Papa John’s deliveryman has GPS. It’s fifty bucks! Next time I need emergency service, I’m ordering a pizza. They’re quicker. Mr. Commissioner didn’t find any of this funny.

  Allyson also says I said stuff to the EMTs that probably threw them off a bit. I was joking around and having a brain attack at the same time. They asked me (again, I don’t remember any of this) if I had trouble breathing, trouble walking, or difficulty with drinking. She says I told them, “I fell asleep in a Dumpster last night. Does that sound like a drinking problem?”

  I vaguely remember checking into the hospital, lots of commotion, and then my friend Dr. Bob Singer appeared in front of me. It helps to have one of the most talented neurosurgeons in America as your pal. One Friday we’re at Bob’s for barbeque, the next Friday he’s leaning over you preparing to remove the side of your skull.

  From what I understand, I had a leaky artery. Bob says he “coiled” it, which involved cauterizing it and sealing it off, I think. The brain, especially one exposed to so much country music, is a little touchy. If your brain gets blood on it, or senses something is wrong, it does what we all do. It puffs up to protect itself. That’s a little simplistic, but generally it’s what happens. This is why an aneurysm is so dangerous. Your computer decides to get bigger inside a box (skull) that doesn’t stretch much.

  I had three craniotomies. Bob told me later he opened a place in the skin over my stomach and slid part of my skull into it. It sort of looked like a cell phone pocket on my right side. Unfortunately, it healed up or I would never have to worry about losing my iPhone. Docs do this to keep the brain alive and warm. I spent several days teetering on the edge of darkness. I also had one of the worst haircuts in history. Long and sleek on one side, totally shaved to the skin on the other. I looked like the lead singer of some punk rock band or Gary Oldman in The Fifth Element. I also had about thirty-five staples in my scalp. I kind of felt dangerous.

  I’ll leave out the real gory stuff and just say I am lucky to be missing putts today. Bobby Earl (my nickname for him) says I recovered better than anybody could hope for. He had a lot to do with that and hates it when I tell him that. He’s something, believe you me. Thirty days later, I returned to radio with a bald head and a new vision of what life was all about.

  All my country music friends showed up to welcome me back. Vince Gill told me I was one of the few people who looked vastly improved after life-threatening surgery. Apparently, I need a long sleep in the hospital hooked up to a morphine drip to look rested. After a trip in the Morphinemobile, I also have a newfound understanding of Keith Richards.

  I enjoyed every day and stayed on the air for years after my “adventure.” I had a lot of panicky bouts with headaches. A lot of “OH, NO! It’s happening again!” stuff because of a minor head tremor. It just takes time. Everybody goes through it, and it’s tough.

  One of the true delights of my career has been writing songs with Hal David. Hal, who passed away in August 2012, was a wonder. Hal was a force of music that is almost impossible to describe. Hal David wrote dozens of songs that form the musical fabric of American pop, even today. His words were just as important as cowriter Burt Bacharach’s melodies to make hits like “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head” and “What the World Needs Now” and literally a hundred other songs you know and love. I sent him melodies, and (as Allyson says) we watched like little kids as the fax machine slowly revealed Hal David’s words.

  Probably one of Hal’s most obscure songs was from the hit musical Promises, Promises. It’s called “Knowing When to Leave.” I’ve read the lyrics over and over. It’s actually about a relationship in the show, but it’s also a great message for everyday living.

  Knowing when to leave is one of the hardest things you’ll ever have to learn, like when we lost our friend Sue, when the radio landscape began to change under my feet, and when I realized I had time left, but other things began to call to me more than blathering in front of a microphone. When I realized it would be OK, when I thought about sleeping ’til five forty-five in the morning more than getting up at 3:40 A.M., and when I asked myself the question, “Who wouldn’t want to spend more time with Allyson House?” I knew the answer.

  I leave you with the wise words of Zen Master Twang Dung:

  Give up your dreams and go home.

  It will be quiet there.

  You are loved there.

  Your dreams weren’t all that hot anyway.

  Acknowledgments

  LEONA HELMSLEY was the Queen of Mean. I always thought she was a dead ringer for the Evil Queen in the Disney flick Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. In fact, when she’d been quoted by a witness at her trial for tax evasion as saying “Only the little people pay taxes,” I thought that proved it. Bashful, Doc, and Dopey paid taxes, but Leona didn’t. Leona went to the big hotel in the sky several years ago, but she was vindictive, to say the least. You don’t get to be the Queen of Mean unless you go out of your way to get even.

  I don’t want to get even like that. I only want to get even with people who are better than me. I want to get even by moving myself forward to their better place. I have met a lot of people I’ll never get even with. They are so much more than the average human that they pull us all along. Some people just make us all try harder. I’m just trying to catch up.

  Chet Atkins, Minnie Pearl, and Barbara Mandrell set the bar pretty high for a young guy learning about people and the music business. They were big, big stars and big personalities who took time with every single person they met along the way. I will never get even with them.

  Jim Ridings was an assistant professor at my university. He had actually worked at a radio station. His wasn’t the usual B.S. professorial “theory.” He was patient with an idiot who wanted to talk on the radio. Allyson and I spent our honeymoon at his house in Savannah. Two young birds trying to fly, and he let us nest there ’cause we were so broke.

  A guy named Randy Bongarten was the head of the radio company I worked for a long time ago. He took the time to fly me to meet him in Phoenix. He counseled me on the bad move I would make if I left Nashville for some job paying a thousand dollars more in some other city. Because the first time I ever held a golf club was with Randy, I blame him for all the pain that game has caused me over the years. I’ll never get even with him.

  I’ll never get even with Steve Hicks, the brilliant Texas businessman who ignored all the advice not to bring me back from California to work for his station in Nashville. Steve changed my life. Right now, I’m certain he’s rubbing his forehead and thinking up some new plan to change the world.

  I will never get even with Sue and John Cullen. We traveled the world together, Allyson and I, with these two angels. Sue worked with a company called What Color Is Your Parachute. She just glowed. My wife and John’s wife were like sisters—great friends and so much alike. Sue thought everyone’s dream would come true, and told them so. When we lost Sue, I changed. That’s how much she meant to me. I carried her casket to a field in Texas, and I thought if anyone had so much to give to life, it w
as her. John remains a confidant and a friend you run across the room to hug.

  There are hundreds of people I will never get even with. They made me laugh and prodded me along with humor. They were kind enough to point out I was screwing up. They believed in me. I should probably make paintings that say that and hand them out.

  Big thanks to Bob Sellers, who introduced me to the speaker’s guru, Duane Ward. Thanks to Duane for getting the fabulous agent Frank Breeden to work with me. Much big thanks to Tyler “Elvis” Ward. Couldn’t have done this without you. How can I possibly thank Jeffrey Green and Lauren (Three Degrees) Virshup enough for their amazing editing job? Tom Schurr, who endured my “headache” and was so kind to me. Clay Hunnicutt, who makes radio a good thing. Also, I love Beth Stein and Beverly Keel, who both encouraged/harangued me into embarking on this adventure. I’ll never be able to thank Glenn and the fabulous team at BenBella Books for all their help and belief.

  A very special love-filled shout-out to my radio compadres Mike Bohan, Al Voecks, and Duncan Stewart for all the years of laughter. Nobody better at six every morning.

  Props to Shane Tallant for joining our family and taking care of my girl. I give my heart to the most beautiful babies in the world in all of history, Holland and Willa. My apologies to all my golf pals who had to listen to me as I was writing this thing. But, most of all, for my darling Allyson.

  About the Author

  WHEN YOU WRITE A BOOK called Country Music Broke My Brain, you have to be qualified. There’s no one who exemplifies that attribute more than Gerry House.

  Gerry worked in the music industry’s famed Music Row district in Nashville for thirty years, the last twenty-two of which found him behind the microphone every weekday morning hosting “Gerry House & The House Foundation,” the top-rated morning radio show on WSIX-FM for over twenty years.